The Monogram Murders(96)
“More lies,” said Poirot.
“Yes, of course, more lies—but ones suggested to me by Nancy herself, and ones that did the trick! Richard agreed to die before me.”
“And he did not know that Samuel Kidd was involved, did he?” said Poirot.
“No. Nancy and I brought Sam into it. He was part of our plan. Neither of us wanted to climb out of that window and down the tree—we both feared we would fall and break our necks—and after locking the door from the inside and hiding the key behind the tile, that was the only way to leave Room 238. That’s why Sam was needed—that and the impersonation of Richard.”
“And the key had to be hidden behind the tile,” I muttered to myself, checking I had it all straight in my mind. “So that, when you came to tell us your story—the one we heard at Mr. Kidd’s house—it all appeared to fit: Richard Negus hid the key to make it look as if a murderer had taken it because he was involved in a plan to frame Nancy Ducane.”
“Which he was,” said Poirot. “Or rather, he thought he was. When Jennie handed him a glass of poisoned water, as agreed, he believed she would stay alive and do her best to ensure that Nancy was found guilty of the three Bloxham Hotel murders. He believed that she would speak to the police in such a way as to ensure that they suspected Nancy. He did not know that Nancy had arranged a cast-iron alibi with Lord and Lady Wallace! Or that, after his death, the cufflink would be pushed to the back of his mouth, the key hidden behind the tile, the window opened . . . He did not know that Jennie Hobbs, Nancy Ducane and Samuel Kidd would arrange it so that it appeared to the police that the killings must have taken place between a quarter past seven and ten minutes past eight!”
“No, Richard was not privy to those details,” Jennie agreed. “Now you can see why I described Nancy’s plan as brilliant, Monsieur Poirot.”
“She was a talented artist, mademoiselle. The best artists, they have the eye for detail and for structure: how all the components fit together.”
Jennie turned to me. “Neither Nancy nor I wanted any of this. You have to believe me, Mr. Catchpool. Richard would have killed me if I had resisted him.” She sighed. “We had it all worked out. Nancy was supposed to get off scot-free, and Sam and I were to be punished for trying to frame Nancy, but not by death. A short term of imprisonment would suffice, we hoped. After which we intended to marry.” Seeing our surprised faces, Jennie added, “Oh, I don’t love Sam as I loved Patrick, but I am very fond of him. He would have made a good companion if I had not ruined it all by stabbing Nancy.”
“It was already ruined, mademoiselle. I knew that you had murdered Harriet Sippel and Richard Negus.”
“I did not murder Richard, Monsieur Poirot. That’s one thing you’re wrong about. Richard wanted to die. I gave him the poison with his full consent.”
“Yes, but under false pretenses. Richard Negus agreed to die because you agreed to his plan that all four of you would die. Then it became five when you involved Nancy Ducane. But you did not really agree. You betrayed him and plotted behind his back. Who knows whether Richard Negus would have chosen to die at that moment and in that way if you had told him the truth of your secret pact with Nancy Ducane.”
Jennie’s expression hardened. “I did not murder Richard Negus. I killed him as an act of self-defense. He would have murdered me otherwise.”
“You said that he did not explicitly threaten this.”
“No—but I knew it. What do you think, Mr. Catchpool? Did I murder Richard Negus or not?”
“I don’t know,” I said, confused.
“Catchpool, mon ami, do not be absurd.”
“He is not being absurd,” said Jennie. “He is using his brain where you refuse to, Monsieur Poirot. Please think about it, I beg of you. Before I hang, I hope to hear you say that I did not murder Richard Negus.”
I stood up. “Let us leave now, Poirot.” I wanted to end the interview while the word “hope” still hung in the air.
Epilogue
FOUR DAYS LATER I was sitting in front of one of Blanche Unsworth’s roaring fires, sipping a glass of brandy and working on my crossword puzzle, when Poirot walked into the drawing room. He stood silently by my side for several minutes. I did not look up.
Eventually he cleared his throat. “Still, Catchpool,” he said. “Still you avoid the discussion of whether or not Richard Negus was murdered, was assisted in taking his own life, or was killed in self-defense.”
“I hardly see that it would be a profitable debate,” I said, as my stomach clenched. I did not want to talk about the Bloxham Murders ever again. What I wanted—needed—was to write about them, to set down on paper every detail of what had happened. It mystified me that I was so eager to do the latter and so reluctant to undertake the former. Why should writing about a thing be so different from speaking about it?
“Do not alarm yourself, mon ami,” said Poirot. “I will not raise the matter again. We will talk of other things. For example, I visited Pleasant’s Coffee House this morning. Fee Spring asked me to pass the message to you that she would like to speak to you at your earliest convenience. She is displeased.”
“With me?”
“Yes. One moment, she says, she is sitting in the Bloxham Hotel’s dining room hearing the explanation of everything, and the next it is all over. A murder takes place in front of all our eyes, and the story, for our audience, is left incomplete. Mademoiselle Fee wishes you to relate the tale to her in its fullest form.”