The Monogram Murders(83)
“You ask some daft questions, Mr. Poirot,” said Sam Kidd.
“No harm whatever in waiting, mademoiselle—I agree entirely. Therefore we must ask ourselves: why leave a note at all? Why not wait for the hotel maids to find the three bodies the following morning? Jennie? Do not look at Samuel Kidd. Look at Hercule Poirot! Answer the question.”
“I . . . I don’t know! I think maybe Richard . . .”
“No! Not maybe Richard!” Poirot spoke over her. “If you will not answer my question, allow me to do so. You told Mr. Kidd to leave the note on the desk just after eight because it was always part of the plan for the murders to appear to have been committed between a quarter past seven and eight o’clock!”
Poirot turned once again to the silent, wide-eyed crowd. “Let us think about the afternoon tea for three that was ordered, and delivered to Room 317—Ida Gransbury’s room. Let us imagine that our three voluntary victims, puzzled by the absence of Jennie Hobbs, were unsure what to do, and so went to Ida Gransbury’s room to discuss the matter. Catchpool, if you were about to allow yourself to be executed for a past sin, would you order scones and cakes immediately beforehand?”
“No. I would be too nervous to eat or drink anything.”
“Perhaps our trio of executioners thought it important to keep up their strength for the important task ahead,” Poirot speculated. “Then, when the food arrived, they could not bring themselves to eat it. But to where did all this food disappear?”
“Are you asking me?” said Jennie. “I’m afraid I don’t know, since I wasn’t there.”
“To return to the timing of these killings,” said Poirot. “The police doctor’s view was that death occurred in all three cases between four and half past eight. Circumstantial evidence later narrowed this down to between a quarter past seven and ten past eight. Eh bien, let us examine that circumstantial evidence. The waiter Rafal Bobak saw all three victims alive at a quarter past seven when he made his delivery to Room 317, and Thomas Brignell saw Richard Negus alive at half past seven in the hotel lobby, when Negus complimented Brignell on his efficiency, asked him to make sure the tea and cakes were put on his bill, and requested a sherry. So it seems that none of the killings can have happened before fifteen minutes past seven, and that the murder of Richard Negus cannot have happened before half past.
“However, there are a handful of details that do not fit to make the neat picture. First, there is the disappearing food that we know was not eaten by Harriet Sippel, Ida Gransbury and Richard Negus. I do not believe that anyone about to kill for the first time would imagine he might first want to eat a scone. So why order food that one has no intention of eating unless to establish in the eyes of a witness that you are alive at a quarter past seven? And why should it be necessary for our three victims to be seen alive at that specific time? I can think of just one possible explanation that is consistent with Jennie Hobbs’s story: if our conspirators knew, somehow, that Nancy Ducane had no credible alibi for the hour between a quarter past seven and a quarter past eight, they might have wished to make it look as if that was when the killings took place. But Nancy Ducane has a very solid alibi for that hour, does she not, Lady Wallace?”
Louisa Wallace rose to her feet. “Yes, she does. She was with me and my husband until around ten o’clock that evening, dining in our home.”
“Merci beaucoup, madame. Alors, I can think of only one reason why it should be of such vital importance to create the appearance of the three deaths having taken place between a quarter past seven and ten past eight: between those times, Jennie Hobbs has an unshakeable alibi. I, Hercule Poirot, know perfectly well that she cannot have been at the Bloxham Hotel then. She was with me at Pleasant’s Coffee House between thirty-five and fifty minutes past seven, and I have already spoken about the traveling times involved.
“I put all this together with my conviction that the three deaths did not occur between a quarter past seven and ten minutes past eight, and I begin to wonder: why go to such trouble to make it look as if Jennie Hobbs could not have committed these murders, unless in fact she did commit them?”
Jennie leapt up out of her chair. “I didn’t kill anybody! I swear I didn’t! Of course they died between quarter past seven and eight o’clock—it’s clear to everybody but you!”
“Sit down and remain silent, Miss Hobbs, unless I ask you a direct question,” said Poirot coldly.
Samuel Kidd’s face was contorted with rage. “You’re making all this up, Mr. Poirot! How do you know they didn’t order that food because they were ravenous hungry? Just because you wouldn’t be or I wouldn’t be, doesn’t mean they weren’t.”
“Then why did they not eat the food, Mr. Kidd?” I asked. “Where did all those sandwiches and cakes vanish to?”
“The finest afternoon tea in all of London!” murmured Luca Lazzari.
“I will tell you where it went, Catchpool,” said Poirot. “Our murderer made a mistake relating to the afternoon tea—one of many. If the food had been left on the plates in Room 317 for the police to find, there would have been no mystery. It would have been assumed that the killer arrived and interrupted the happy occasion before the feast could begin. But the killer thinks it will arouse suspicion, all that uneaten food. He does not want anyone to ask the question, “Why order food and then not eat it?”