The Monogram Murders(95)
“Nobody has ever deserved to be murdered more than Harriet Sippel did,” said Jennie. “I have many regrets. Killing Harriet is not one of them.”
“WHAT ABOUT IDA GRANSBURY?” I asked. “Why did she go to the Bloxham Hotel?”
“Ah!” said Poirot, who never tired of sharing the endless knowledge that he alone seemed to possess. “Ida also accepted an irresistible invitation, from Richard Negus. Not to be put in communication with a dead loved one, but to meet, after sixteen years apart, her former fiancé. It is not hard to imagine what the lure would have been. Richard Negus abandoned Ida and, no doubt, broke her heart. She never married. I expect he alluded in a letter to the possibility of a reconciliation, maybe matrimony. A happy ending. Ida agreed—which lonely individual would not choose to give a second chance to true love?—and Richard told her that he would come to her room at the Bloxham Hotel at half past three or perhaps four o’clock on the Thursday. Do you remember your remark, Catchpool, about arriving at the hotel on Wednesday, so that the whole of Thursday could be devoted to getting murdered? That makes more sense now, yes?”
I nodded. “Negus knew that on the Thursday he would have to commit murder, and also to be killed himself. It is only natural that he would wish to arrive a day early to prepare himself mentally for a double ordeal of that sort.”
“Also to avoid the delayed train or something similar that might have interfered with his plans,” said Poirot.
“So Jennie Hobbs murdered Harriet Sippel, and Richard Negus murdered Ida Gransbury?” I said.
“Oui, mon ami.” Poirot looked at Jennie, who nodded. “At around the same time of day, in rooms 121 and 317 respectively. In both rooms, the same method was used, I imagine, to induce Harriet and Ida to drink the poison. Jennie said to Harriet, and Richard Negus to Ida, ‘You will need a glass of water before you hear what I have to say. Here, let me fetch one for you. You sit down.’ While fetching the water, using the glass next to the basin, Jennie and Negus slipped in the poison. The glasses were then handed to the two victims to drink. Death would have followed shortly thereafter.”
“What about Richard Negus’s death?” I asked.
“Jennie killed him, according to the plan the two of them made.”
“Much of what I told you at Sam’s house was true,” said Jennie. “Richard did write to me after years of silence. He was torn apart by guilt for what he had done to Patrick and Frances, and he saw no way out—no possibility of justice or peace of mind—unless we all paid with our own lives, all four of us who were responsible.”
“He asked you . . . to help him kill Harriet and Ida?” I said, working it out as I spoke.
“Yes. Them, and him, and myself as well. It had to be all of us, he insisted, or else it was meaningless. He did not want to be a murderer but an executioner—he used that word a lot—and that meant that he and I could not avoid punishment. I agreed with him that Harriet and Ida deserved to die. They were evil. But . . . I didn’t want to die, nor did I want Richard dead. It was enough for me that he was truly sorry for his part in Patrick’s death. I . . . I knew it would have been enough for Patrick too, and for any higher authority that might or might not exist. But there was no way to persuade Richard of this. I saw at once that there was no point trying. He was as intelligent as he always had been, but something in his mind had slipped and turned him peculiar, given him weird ideas. All those years of brooding on it, the guilt . . . He had become a strange species of zealot. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he would murder me too if I did not go along with what he was proposing. He didn’t say so explicitly. He didn’t want to threaten me, you see. He was kind to me. What he wanted and needed was an ally. Someone of like mind. He honestly believed I would agree to his scheme because, unlike Harriet and Ida, I was reasonable. He was so certain he was right—that his solution was the only way for all of us. I thought perhaps he was right, but I was afraid. I’m not any more. I don’t know what has changed me. Maybe then, even in my unhappiness, I still entertained the notion that my life might improve. Sadness is different from despair.”
“You knew that you would have to pretend in order to save your life,” said Poirot. “To lie convincingly to Richard Negus—it was your only possible escape from death. You did not know what to do, so you went to Nancy Ducane for help.”
“Yes, I did. And she solved my problem, or so I thought. Her plan was brilliant. Following her advice, I suggested to Richard only one deviation from his proposed plan. His idea was that once Harriet and Ida were dead, he would kill me and then himself. Naturally, as an authoritative man accustomed to being in charge of whatever mattered to him, he wanted to be the one in control until the end.
“Nancy told me I had to persuade Richard that I should kill him rather than have him kill me. ‘Impossible!’ I said. ‘He will never agree.’ But Nancy said that he would if I approached him in the right way. I had to pretend to be more committed to our goal than he was. She was right. It worked. I went to Richard and said that it was not enough for the four of us to die: me, him, Harriet and Ida. Nancy had to be punished too. I pretended that I would be happy to die only once she was dead. She was more evil than Harriet, I said. I related an elaborate tale of how Nancy had callously plotted to seduce Patrick away from his wife, and would not take no for an answer. I told Richard she had confessed to me that her true motive for speaking up at the King’s Head was not to help Patrick but to hurt Frances. She hoped that Frances would take her own life, or abandon Patrick at the very least and return to her father in Cambridge, leaving the way clear for Nancy.”