The Monogram Murders (15 page)

mistaken conclusion? And we must forget about

Jennie for the same reason?”

“Well, no, I wouldn’t say that’s the right course of

action. I’m not suggesting we
forget
anything, only

that—”

“I will tell you the right action! You must go to

Great Holling. Harriet Sippel, Ida Gransbury and

Richard Negus, they are not simply three pieces of a

puzzle. They are not merely objects we move around

in an attempt to fit them into a pattern. Before their

deaths, they were people with lives and emotions: the

foolish predispositions, perhaps the moments of great

wisdom and insight. You must go to the village where

they all lived and find out who they
are,
Catchpool.”

“Me? You mean us?”

“
Non, mon ami.
Poirot, he will stay in London. I

need only to move my mind, not my body, in order to

make progress. No, you will go, and you will bring

back to me the fullest account of your travels. That

will be sufficient. Take with you two lists of names:

guests at the Bloxham Hotel on Wednesday and

Thursday nights, and employees of the Bloxham

Hotel. Find out if anyone in this cursed village

recognizes any of the names. Ask about Jennie and

PIJ. Make sure not to return until you have discovered

the story about this vicar and his wife and their tragic

deaths in 1913.”

“Poirot, you’ve got to come with me,” I said rather

desperately. “I’m out of my depth with this Bloxham

business. I am relying on you.”

“You may continue to do so,
mon ami.
We will go

to the house of Mrs. Blanche Unsworth and there we

will assemble our thoughts so that you do not arrive in

Great Holling unprepared.”

He always called it “the house of Mrs. Blanche

Unsworth.” Every time he did, it reminded me that I

too had once thought of it in those terms, before I

started to call it “home.”

“ASSEMBLING OUR THOUGHTS” TURNED out to mean

Poirot standing by the fire in the excessively

lavender-fringed drawing room and dictating to me,

while I sat in a chair nearby and wrote down every

word he said. I have never, before or since, heard

anyone speak in such a perfectly orderly way. I tried

to protest that he was making me write down many

things of which I was already fully aware, and I got

the benefit of his long and earnest disquisition on the

subject of “the importance of the method.” Apparently

my pincushion brain cannot be expected to remember

anything, so I need a written record to refer to.

After dictating a list of everything we knew, Poirot

followed the same procedure for everything we didn’t

know but were hoping to find out. (I considered

reproducing these two lists here, but I do not wish to

bore or infuriate others as I was bored and

infuriated.)

To be fair to Poirot, once I had scribbled it all

down and looked over what I had written, I did feel

that I had a clearer view of things: clear, and

inordinately discouraging. I put down my pen and said

with a sigh, “I’m not sure I want to carry around with

me an endless list of questions I can’t answer and

probably have no hope of ever answering.”

“You lack the confidence, Catchpool.”

“Yes. What does one do about that?”

“I do not know. It is not a problem that I suffer

from. I do not worry that I will meet a problem for

which I will be unable to find the solution.”

“Do you think you’ll be able to find the solution

for this one?”

Poirot smiled. “You wish me to encourage you to

have confidence in me, since you have none in

yourself?
Mon ami,
you know more than you are

aware of knowing. Do you remember you made a

joke, at the hotel, about all three victims arriving on

Wednesday, the day before the murders? You said,

‘It’s almost as if they had an invitation to present

themselves for slaughter, one that said, “Please come

to the day before, so that Thursday can be devoted

entirely to your getting murdered.’ ”

“Well, what about it?”

“Your joke relied on the idea that getting murdered

is more than enough activity for one day—to travel

across the country by train and get murdered
on the

same day,
that would be too much for anyone! And the

killer does not want his victims to have to exert

themselves unduly! This is funny!”

Poirot smoothed his mustache, as if he imagined

that laughing might have shaken it out of shape.

“Your words made me wonder, my friend: since

getting murdered is really no effort for the victim, and

since no killer is so considerate of those he intends to

poison,
why does he not kill the three victims on the

Wednesday night
?”

“He might have been busy on Wednesday night,” I

said.

“Then why not arrange for the three victims to

arrive at the hotel on Thursday morning and afternoon

instead of Wednesday morning and afternoon? The

killer would still have been able to kill them when he

did,
n’est-ce pas
? On Thursday evening, between a

quarter past seven and ten past eight?”

I did my best to look patient. “You’re

overcomplicating things, Poirot. If the victims all

knew each other, which we know they did, maybe

they had a reason for all being in London for two

nights, a reason that had nothing to do with the killer.

He chose to kill them on the second night because it

was more convenient for him. He didn’t invite them to

the Bloxham; he simply knew that they would be

there, and when. Also. . .” I stopped. “No, never

mind. It’s silly.”

“Tell me the thing that is silly,” Poirot ordered.

“Well, it’s possible that if the murderer is a

meticulous planner by nature, he would not plan the

murders for the same day that he knew his victims

would be traveling to London, in case their trains

were delayed.”

“Perhaps the killer also had to travel to London,

from Great Holling or somewhere else. It is possible

that he—or she, for it might be a woman—did not

want to make a long, tiring journey and commit three

murders on the same day.”

“Even if that’s so, the victims could still have

arrived on the Thursday, couldn’t they?”

“They did not,” said Poirot simply. “We know that

they arrived the day before, on Wednesday. So, I

begin to wonder: did something need to happen that

involved the murderer and all three victims
before the

murders could be committed
? If so, then perhaps the

murderer did not travel from far to come here, but

lives here in London.”

“Could be,” I said. “All of which is a long-winded

way of saying that we have not the faintest idea of

what happened or why. I seem to remember that being

my original assessment of the situation. Oh, and

Poirot . . . ?”

“Yes,
mon ami
?”

“I haven’t had the heart to tell you before now, and

I know you’re not going to like it. The monogrammed

cufflinks . . .”

“
Oui
?”

“You asked Henry Negus about PIJ. I don’t think

those are the chap’s initials, whoever he is—the

owner of the cufflinks. I think his initials are PJI.

Look.” I reproduced the monogram on the back of one

of my pieces of paper. As closely as I could from

memory, I replicated the way the letters appeared on

the cufflinks. “Do you see that the ‘I’ is larger and the

‘P’ and the ‘J’ on either side are considerably

smaller? That’s a popular style of monogram. The

larger initial signifies the surname and is in the

middle.”

Poirot was frowning and shaking his head. “The

initials in the monogram are in
the wrong order,

deliberately? I have never heard of this. Who would

have such an idea? It is nonsensical!”

“Common practice, I’m afraid. Trust me on this

one. Chaps at work have monogrammed cufflinks of

this sort.”

“
Incroyable.
The English have no sense of the

proper order of things.”

“Yes, well, be that as it may . . . It’s PJI we’ll need

to be asking about when we go to Great Holling, not

PIJ.”

It was a feeble effort, and one that Poirot saw

through straight away. “
You
, my friend, will go to

Great Holling,” he said. “Poirot will stay in London.”

A Visit to Great Holling

THE FOLLOWING MONDAY MORNING, I set off to Great

Holling as instructed. My impression upon arrival

was that it was similar to many other English villages

I had visited, and that there was not much more to say

about it than that. There is, I think, more difference

between cities than between villages, as well as more

to say about cities. I could certainly talk at length

about the intricacies of London. Perhaps it is simply

that I am not as finely attuned to places such as Great

Holling. They make me feel out of my element—if I

have an element, that is. I’m not convinced that I do.

I had been told that I could not fail to spot the

King’s Head Inn, where I would be staying, but fail I

did. Luckily, a bespectacled young man with a

boomerang-shaped scattering of freckles across the

bridge of his nose and a newspaper tucked under his

arm was on hand to help me. He appeared at first

behind me, startling me. “Lost, are you?” he said.

“I believe I am, yes. I’m looking for the King’s

Head.”

“Ah!” He grinned. “Thought so, with your case and

all. You’re not a native, then? King’s Head looks like

a house from the street, so you’d not notice it, not

unless you went along the lane there—see? Go down

there, turn right and you’ll see the sign and the way

in.”

I thanked him and was about to follow his advice

when he called me back with, “So where are you

from, then?”

I told him, and he said, “I’ve never been to

London. What brings you to our neck of the woods,

then?”

“Work,” I said. “Listen, I hope this doesn’t sound

rude, and I’d be glad to talk to you later, but I’d like

to get myself settled in first.”

“Well, don’t let me keep you, then,” he said. “What

kind of work is it you do? Oh—there I go again,

asking another question. Maybe I’ll ask you later.” He

waved and set off down the street.

I tried again to proceed to the King’s Head and he

shouted after me, “Down the lane and turn right!”

More jovial waving followed.

He was trying to be friendly and helpful, and I

should have been grateful. Normally I would have

been, except . . .

Well, I’ll admit it: I don’t like villages. I didn’t say

so to Poirot before I left, but I said it to myself many

times during the train journey, and then again when I

got off at the pretty little station. I didn’t like this

charming narrow street in which I stood, which

curved in the exact shape of a letter S and had tiny

cottages on both sides that looked more suitable for

whiskery woodland creatures than for human beings.

I didn’t like being asked presumptuous questions

by complete strangers on the street, though I was fully

aware of my own hypocrisy since I was here in Great

Holling to interrogate strangers myself.