The Monogram Murders(88)
“I spotted her as soon as she walked in today, though—her and that Mr. Kidd chappy. I tried to tell you, sir, but you wouldn’t let me speak.”
“Yes, and so did Thomas Brignell try to tell me that he recognized Samuel Kidd,” said Poirot.
“Two of the three people I’d thought were murdered—alive and well and walking into the room!” From his voice, it was evident that Rafal Bobak had not yet recovered from the shock.
“What about Nancy Ducane’s alibi from Lord and Lady Wallace?” I asked Poirot.
“I’m afraid that wasn’t true,” said Nancy. “It is my fault. Please do not blame them. They are dear friends and were trying to help me. Neither St. John nor Louisa knew that I was at the Bloxham Hotel on the night of the murders. I swore to them that I had not been, and they trusted me. They are good, brave people who did not want to see me framed for three murders I did not commit. Monsieur Poirot, I believe you understand everything, so you must know that I have murdered nobody.”
“To lie to the police in a murder investigation is not brave, madame. It is inexcusable. By the time I left your house, Lady Wallace, I knew you to be a liar!”
“How dare you speak to my wife like that?” said St. John Wallace.
“I am sorry if the truth is not to your taste, Lord Wallace.”
“How did you know, Monsieur Poirot?” his wife asked.
“You had a new servant girl: Dorcas. She is here with you today only because I asked you to bring her. She is important to this story. You told me that Dorcas had been with you for just a few days, and I saw for myself that she is a little clumsy. She brought me a cup of coffee and spilled most of it. Luckily not all was spilled, and so I was able to drink some. I immediately recognized it as the coffee made by Pleasant’s Coffee House. Their coffee is unmistakeable; there is no other like it, anywhere.”
“Blimey!” said Fee Spring.
“Indeed, mademoiselle. The effect upon my mind was profound: at once, I put together several things like pieces of a jigsaw that fit perfectly. The strong coffee, it is very good for the brain.” Poirot looked pointedly at Fee as he said this. She pursed her lips in disapproval.
“This not very capable maid—pardon me, Mademoiselle Dorcas, I am sure you will improve, given time—she was new! I put this fact together with the coffee from Pleasant’s, and it gave me an idea: what if Jennie Hobbs was Louisa Wallace’s maid, before Dorcas? I knew from the waitresses at Pleasant’s that Jennie used to go there often to collect things for her employer, who was a posh society lady. Jennie spoke of her as ‘Her Ladyship.’ It would be interesting, would it not, if Jennie, until a few days ago, worked for the woman providing Nancy Ducane’s alibi? An extraordinary coincidence—or not a coincidence at all! At first, my thoughts on this matter proceeded along an incorrect track. I thought, ‘Nancy Ducane and Louisa Wallace are friends who have conspired to kill la pauvre Jennie.’ ”
“What a suggestion!” said Louisa Wallace indignantly.
“A shocking lie!” her husband St. John agreed.
“Not a lie, pas du tout. A mistake. Jennie, as we see, is not dead. However, I was not mistaken to believe that she was a servant in the home of St. John and Louisa Wallace, replaced very recently by Mademoiselle Dorcas. After speaking to me at Pleasant’s on the night of the murders, Jennie had to leave the Wallaces’ house, and quickly. She knew that I would soon arrive there to ask for confirmation of Nancy Ducane’s alibi. If I had found her there, working for the woman providing that alibi, I would instantly have been suspicious. Catchpool, tell me—tell us all—what exactly would I have suspected?”
I took a deep breath, praying I hadn’t got this all wrong, and said, “You would have suspected that Jennie Hobbs and Nancy Ducane were colluding to deceive us.”
“Quite correct, mon ami.” Poirot beamed at me. To our audience, he said, “Shortly before I tasted the coffee and made the connection with Pleasant’s, I had been looking at a picture by St. John Wallace that was his wedding anniversary present to his wife. It was a picture of blue bindweed. It was dated—the fourth of August last year—and Lady Wallace remarked upon this. It was then that Poirot, he realized something: Nancy Ducane’s portrait of Louisa Wallace, which he had seen a few minutes earlier, was not dated. As an appreciator of art, I have attended countless exhibition premieres in London. I have seen the work of Mrs. Ducane before, many times. Her pictures always have the date in the bottom right-hand corner, as well as her initials: NAED.”
“You pay more attention than most who attend the exhibitions,” Nancy said.
“Hercule Poirot always pays attention—to everything. I believe, madame, that your portrait of Louisa Wallace was dated, until you painted out the date. Why? Because it was not a recent one. You needed me to believe that you had delivered the portrait to Lady Wallace on the night of the murders, and that, therefore, it was a newly completed portrait. I asked myself why you did not paint on a new, false date, and the answer was obvious: if your work survives for hundreds of years, and if art historians take an interest in it, as they surely will, you do not wish actively to mislead them, these people who care about your work. No, the only people you wish to mislead are Hercule Poirot and the police!”
Nancy Ducane tilted her head to one side. In a thoughtful voice, she said, “How perceptive you are, Monsieur Poirot. You really do understand, don’t you?”