The Monogram Murders. Sophie Hannah

aloud. ‘So often, murder turns out to be about money. What are your thoughts, Catchpool, now that we know a little more?’

      ‘Well …’ I decided to throw myself into it, since he’d asked. Imagining what was possible was a good thing in Poirot’s book, so I would allow myself to concoct a theory, using the facts as a starting point. ‘Richard Negus must have known about all three arrivals, since he reserved and paid for the rooms, but perhaps Harriet Sippel didn’t know that Ida Gransbury was also coming to the Bloxham. And perhaps Ida didn’t know that Harriet was.’

      ‘Oui, c’est possible.’

      Encouraged, I went on: ‘Maybe it was essential to the murderer’s plan that neither Ida nor Harriet should know about the presence of the other one. But if that’s so, and if Richard Negus, meanwhile, knew that he and both women would be guests at the Bloxham …’ My well of ideas ran dry at that point.

      Poirot took over: ‘Our trains of thought proceed along similar tracks, my friend. Was Richard Negus an unwitting accomplice in his own murder? Perhaps the killer persuaded him to entice the victims to the Bloxham Hotel supposedly for another reason, when all along he planned to murder all three of them. The question is this: was it vital for some reason that Ida and Harriet should each be ignorant of the presence of the other in the hotel? And if so, was it important to Richard Negus, to the murderer, or to both?’

      ‘Perhaps Richard Negus had one plan, and the murderer had another?’

      ‘Quite so,’ said Poirot. ‘The next thing is to find out all that we can about Harriet Sippel, Richard Negus and Ida Gransbury. Who were they when they were alive? What were their hopes, their grievances, their secrets? The village, Great Holling—this is where we will look for our answers. Perhaps we will also find Jennie there, and PIJ—le mystérieux!’

      ‘There’s no guest here called Jennie, now or last night. I checked.’

      ‘No, I did not think that there would be. Fee Spring, the waitress, told me that Jennie lives in a house across town from Pleasant’s Coffee House. That means in London—not Devon and not the Culver Valley. Jennie has no need of a room at the Bloxham Hotel when she lives only “across town”.’

      ‘Speaking of which, Henry Negus, Richard’s brother, is on his way here from Devon. Richard Negus lived with Henry and his family. And I’ve got some of my best men lined up to interview all the hotel guests.’

      ‘You have been very efficient, Catchpool.’ Poirot patted my arm.

      I felt obliged to advise Poirot of my one failure. ‘This business with the dinners in the rooms is proving difficult to pin down,’ I said. ‘I can’t find anyone who was personally involved in taking the orders or making the deliveries. There seems to be some confusion.’

      ‘Do not worry,’ said Poirot. ‘I will do the necessary pinning when we gather in the dining room. In the meantime, let us take a walk around the hotel gardens. Sometimes a gentle perambulation causes a new idea to rise to the surface of one’s thoughts.’

      As soon as we got outside, Poirot started to complain about the weather, which did seem to have taken a turn for the worse. ‘Shall we go back inside?’ I suggested.

      ‘No, no. Not yet. The change of environment is good for the little grey cells, and perhaps the trees will afford some shelter from the wind. I do not mind the cold, but there is the good kind and the bad kind, and this, today, is the bad kind.’

      We stopped as we came to the entrance to the Bloxham’s gardens. Luca Lazzari had not exaggerated their beauty, I thought, as I stared at rows of pleached limes and, at the furthest end, the most artful topiary I had ever seen in London. This was nature not merely tamed but forced into stunning submission. Even in a biting wind, it was exceptionally pleasing to the eye.

      ‘Well?’ I asked Poirot. ‘Are we going in or not?’ It would be satisfying, I thought, to stroll up and down the green pathways between the trees, which were Roman-road straight.

      ‘I do not know.’ Poirot frowned. ‘This weather …’ He shivered.

      ‘… will extend, unavoidably, to the gardens,’ I completed his sentence somewhat impatiently. ‘There are only two places we can be, Poirot: inside the hotel or outside it. Which do you prefer?’

      ‘I have a better idea!’ he announced triumphantly. ‘We will catch a bus!’

      ‘A bus? To where?’

      ‘To nowhere, or somewhere! It does not matter. We will soon get off the bus and return on a different one. It will give us the change of scenery without the cold! Come. We will look out of the windows at the city. Who knows what we might observe?’ He set off determinedly.

      I followed, shaking my head. ‘You’re thinking of Jennie, aren’t you?’ I said. ‘It’s extremely unlikely that we will see her—’

      ‘It is more likely than if we stand here looking at twigs and grass!’ said Poirot fiercely.

      Ten minutes later we found ourselves trundling along on a bus with windows so fogged up that it was impossible to see anything through them. Wiping them with a handkerchief didn’t help.

      I tried to talk some sense into Poirot. ‘About Jennie …’ I began.

      ‘Oui?’

      ‘She might well be in danger, but, really, she’s nothing to do with this business at the Bloxham. There’s no evidence of a connection between the two. None at all.’

      ‘I disagree, my friend,’ said Poirot sorrowfully. ‘I am more than ever convinced of a connection.’

      ‘You are? Dash it all, Poirot—why?’

      ‘Because of the two most unusual features that the … situations have in common.’

      ‘And what are those?’

      ‘They will come to you, Catchpool. Really, they cannot fail to strike you if you open your mind and think about what you know.’

      In the seats behind us, an elderly mother and her middle-aged daughter were discussing what made the difference between pastry that was merely good and pastry that was excellent.

      ‘Do you hear that, Catchpool?’ whispered Poirot. ‘La différence! Let us focus not on similarities but on differences—this is what will point us towards our murderer.’

      ‘What sort of differences?’ I asked.

      ‘Between two of the murders at the hotel and the third. Why are the circumstantial details so different in the case of Richard Negus? Why did the killer lock the door from the inside of the room instead of from the outside? Why did he hide the key behind a loose tile in the fireplace instead of taking it with him? Why did he leave by the window, with the help of a tree, instead of by walking along the corridor in the normal way? At first I wondered if perhaps he heard voices in the corridor and did not want to risk being seen leaving Mr Negus’s room.’

      ‘That seems reasonable,’ I said.

      ‘Non. I do not, after all, think that was the reason.’

      ‘Oh. Why not?’

      ‘Because of the positioning of the cufflink in Richard Negus’s mouth, which was also different in this one case: fully inside the mouth, near the throat, instead of between the lips.’

      I groaned. ‘Not this again. I really don’t think—’

      ‘Ah! Wait, Catchpool. Let us see …’

      The bus had stopped. Poirot craned his neck to inspect the new passengers who boarded, and sighed when the last one—a slender man in a tweed suit with more hair growing from his ears than on his head—was in.

      ‘You’re disappointed because none of them is Jennie,’ I said. I needed to say it aloud in order to believe it, I think.

      ‘Non, mon