The Monogram Murders (14 page)

that he wished to banish it from the room. I must

confess that after that incident, I asked my wife

whether . . . well, whether we ought to ask him to find

a home elsewhere. It was rather disconcerting to have

him around. But Clara—that’s my wife—she wouldn’t

hear of it. ‘Family’s family,’ she said. ‘We’re all

Richard has. You don’t turn family out onto the street.’

She was quite right, of course.”

“You referred to your brother spending money

excessively?” I said.

“Yes. He and I were both left very comfortably

off.” Henry Negus shook his head. “The idea that my

responsible older brother Richard would tear through

his fortune with no care for the future . . . and yet

that’s what he did. He seemed intent on converting

what our father had left him into liquor and pouring it

down his throat. He was heading for penury and

serious illness, I feared. Some nights I lay awake

worrying about the terrible end that might lie in store

for him. Not murder, though. I never thought for a

moment that Richard would be murdered, though

perhaps I should have wondered.”

Poirot looked up, instantly alert. “Why would you

wonder such a thing, monsieur? Most of us assume

that our relations will not be murdered. It is a

reasonable assumption in almost all cases.”

Henry Negus thought for a while before answering.

Finally he said, “It would be fanciful to say that

Richard seemed to know that he would be murdered,

for who can know? But from the day that he moved

into my home, he had the morose, doom-laden

comportment of a man whose life had already ended.

That is the only way I can describe it.”

“You say, however, that he, ah,
perked up
in the

months preceding his death?”

“Yes. My wife noticed it too. She wanted me to

ask him about it—women always do, don’t they?—

but I knew Richard well enough to know he would not

welcome the intrusion.”

“He seemed happier?” Poirot asked.

“I wish I could say yes to that, Monsieur Poirot. If

I could believe that Richard was happier than he had

been for years on the day that he died, that would be a

significant consolation to me. But no, it wasn’t

happiness. It was more as if he was planning

something. He seemed to have a purpose again, after

years without one. That was my impression, though,

as I say, I know nothing of what that purpose might

have been.”

“Yet you are certain you did not imagine this

change?”

“Yes, I am. It manifested itself in several ways.

Richard got up and came down to breakfast more

often. He had more vim and energy about him. His

personal hygiene improved. Most noticeable of all

was that he stopped drinking. I cannot tell you how

grateful I was for that alone. My wife and I prayed

that he would succeed, whatever his venture—that

finally the curse of Great Holling would release its

grip on him and let him enjoy a fruitful life.”

“The curse, monsieur? You believe the village to

be cursed?”

Henry Negus’s face reddened. “Not really, no. Of

course, there’s no such thing, is there? It’s my wife’s

phrase. Deprived of a good yarn to get her teeth into,

she dreamed up the notion of a curse, based on

Richard’s fleeing the place, and his broken

engagement, and the only other fact she knows about

Great Holling.”

“What other fact?” I asked.

“Oh.” Henry Negus looked surprised. Then he

said, “No, I don’t suppose you would know about it.

Why should you? The terrible tragedy of the young

vicar of the parish and his wife. Richard wrote and

told us about it a few months before he left the

village,” said Henry. “They died within hours of one

another.”

“Did they indeed? What was the cause of their

deaths?” asked Poirot.

“I don’t know. Richard didn’t include that detail in

his letter, assuming he knew it. He wrote only that it

was a terrible tragedy. As a matter of fact, I asked him

about it later, but I’m afraid he rather growled at me,

which left me none the wiser. I think he was too

caught up in his own misfortunes to care to discuss

anybody else’s.”

Assembling Our Thoughts

“OR ELSE,” SAID POIROT as he and I walked briskly

from Pleasant’s in the direction of our lodging house

half an hour later, “all these unhappy events sixteen

years ago are connected: the tragic fate of the vicar

and his wife, Richard Negus’s suddenly ending his

engagement to Ida Gransbury, Richard Negus’s

deciding that he loathes Great Holling and must flee

to Devon—to become an idle spendthrift who drinks

himself to death in his brother’s house!”

“You think Richard Negus took to the bottle

because the vicar died?” I said. “Tempting as it is to

make everything tie up, isn’t it more likely that the one

has nothing to do with the other?”

“I would not say so, no.” Poirot threw me a sharp

look. “Ingest the fresh air of this fine winter’s day,

Catchpool. It will perhaps help to introduce oxygen to

your little gray cells. Take a deep breath, my friend.”

I humored him by doing as he asked. I was, of

course, breathing anyway, so it was rather silly.

“
Bon.
Now think of this: it is not merely that the

young vicar died tragically, it is that he died only

hours after his wife died. This is most unusual.

Richard Negus mentions the incident in a letter to his

brother Henry. Several months later, he is no longer

engaged to be married to Ida Gransbury. He makes his

escape to Devon, where he embarks upon a decline.

He refuses to admit a Bible to his room, and will not

attend church even to placate the lady of the house.
”

“Why do you say that as though it has special

significance?” I asked.

“Ah! The oxygen, it takes much time to make its

way to the gray cells! Never mind: it will arrive

eventually where it is most needed, in that pincushion

of a brain of yours. Church, Catchpool! A vicar and

his wife die tragically in Great Holling. Shortly

afterward, Richard Negus develops an aversion to the

village, to church and to the Bible.”

“Oh, I see what you’re driving at.”

“
Bon. Alors,
Richard Negus then takes himself to

Devon where for many years he pursues the decline,

during which time his brother does not make any

unwelcome intrusion that might save him from the

devastation he wreaks upon himself—”

“You think Henry Negus was negligent in that

respect?”

“It is not his fault,” said Poirot with a wave of his

hand. “He is English. You English would sit by in

polite silence while every species of avoidable

disaster takes place in front of your eyes rather than

make the social lapse of being seen to interfere!”

“I’m not sure that’s quite fair.” I raised my voice to

make myself heard against the bluster of the wind and

the voices of other people on the busy London street.

Poirot ignored my complaint. “For many years,

Henry Negus worries in silence about his brother. He

hopes, and no doubt also he prays, and when he has

almost given up hope, it appears that his prayers are

answered: Richard Negus has the visible
upward

perking
a few months ago. He seems to be planning

something. Perhaps the plan involved booking three

rooms at the Bloxham Hotel in London for himself

and two women he knew from his days in Great

Holling, since we know that this is what he did. And

then last night he is found dead at the Bloxham Hotel

with a mongrammed cufflink in his mouth, in close

proximity to his former fiancée, Ida Gransbury, and to

Harriet Sippel, another villager who was once his

neighbor. Both women have been murdered in the

same way.”

Poirot came to a standstill. He had been walking

too fast and was out of breath. “Catchpool,” he

gasped, mopping his brow with a neatly folded

handkerchief that he had pulled from his vest pocket.

“Ask yourself what is the first event in this chain of

events that I have presented to you. Is it not the tragic

deaths of the vicar and his wife?”

“Well, yes, but only if we allow that they’re part of

the same story as the three Bloxham murders. There’s

no evidence of that, Poirot. I still contend that this

poor vicar chap might be neither here nor there.”

“Just as
la pauvre
Jennie may be neither there nor

here?”

“Exactly.”

We continued along the street.

“Have you ever tried to do a crossword puzzle,

Poirot? Because . . . well, you know I’m trying to

knock one together at the moment, one of my own?”

“It would be impossible to reside in such

proximity to you as I do and not know,
mon ami.
”

“Yes. Right. Well, I’ve noticed something that

happens when you’re trying to puzzle out a crossword

clue. It’s interesting. Let’s say you have the clue

‘Kitchen utensil, three letters,’ and you have the letter

‘P’ as the first letter. It’s very easy to think, ‘Well, it

has to be “pot” because that has three letters and

begins with “P,” and a pot is a kitchen utensil.’ So you

tell yourself it must be true, when all the while the

right answer is ‘pan’—also three letters, also a

kitchen utensil beginning with P. Do you see?”

“That example does not serve you well,

Catchpool. In the situation you describe, I would think

of both ‘pot’ and ‘pan’ as being equally likely to be

correct. Only a fool would consider one and not the

other when both fit perfectly.”

“All right, if you want something equally likely to

be correct, how about this theory: Richard Negus

refused to go to church or have a Bible in his room

because whatever misfortune had afflicted him in

Great Holling had dented his faith a little? Doesn’t

that sound as if it could also be a perfect fit? And it

might have nothing to do with the deaths of the vicar

and his wife. Richard Negus wouldn’t be the first to

find himself in sore straits and wonder if God loved

him quite as much as he seems to love everyone

else!” That came out more vehemently than I had

intended.

“Have you wondered this yourself, Catchpool?”

Poirot laid his hand on my sleeve to stop me marching

along. I sometimes forget that my legs are much longer

than his.

“As a matter of fact, I have. It didn’t stop me going

to church, but I can see how it would with some

people.” For instance, those who would object rather

than silently concur if told their brains were

pincushions, I thought. To Poirot I said, “I suppose it

all depends whether you hold yourself or God

responsible for your problems.”

“Did your predicament involve a woman?”

“Several fine specimens, all of whom my parents

fervently hoped I would marry. I stood firm and

inflicted myself upon none of them.” I started to walk

again, briskly.

Poirot hurried to catch me up. “So according to

your wisdom, we must forget about the tragically

deceased vicar and his wife? We must pretend we do

not know about this event in case we are led by it to a