The Monogram Murders (21 page)

did, as you know, Mr. Poirot, and forward I came.

But, like I said the other day, at first I couldn’t put a

name to a face. Well, now I can!”

“That is excellent news, Mr. Kidd. It will be more

excellent still if you can put that name into the next

sentence that you speak, so that I may hear it.”

“That’s where I’ve seen her, you see: her

photograph, in the newspaper. That’s why looking at a

newspaper made me think of her. She’s a famous lady,

sir. Her name’s Nancy Ducane.”

Poirot’s eyes widened. “Nancy Ducane the artist?”

“Yes, sir. She’s the one, and no other. I’d swear to

it. Paints portraits, she does. And got a face worth

painting of her own, which is probably why I

remembered it. I said to meself, ‘Sammy, that was

Nancy Ducane you saw running from the Bloxham

Hotel on the night of the murders.’ And now I’m here

saying it to you.”

A Grievous Wound

THE FOLLOWING DAY, IMMEDIATELY after breakfast, I set

out for Margaret Ernst’s cottage next to Holy Saints

churchyard in Great Holling. I found the front door

ajar and knocked as lightly as I could, taking care not

to push it open any farther.

There was no answer, so I knocked again, more

volubly. “Mrs. Ernst?” I called out. “Margaret?”

Silence.

I don’t know why, but I turned, sensing some kind

of movement behind me, but perhaps it was only the

wind in the trees.

I pushed the door gently and it swung open with a

creak. The first thing I saw was a scarf on the

kitchen’s flagstone floor: blue and green silk,

elaborately patterned. What was it doing there? I took

a deep breath and was steeling myself to enter when a

voice called out, “Come in, Mr. Catchpool.” I nearly

jumped out of my skin.

Margaret Ernst appeared in the kitchen. “Oh, I was

looking for that,” she said with a smile, bending to

retrieve the scarf. “I knew it would be you. I left the

door open. In fact, I expected you to arrive five

minutes ago, but I suppose nine o’clock on the dot

would have looked too eager, wouldn’t it?” She

ushered me inside, draping the scarf around her neck.

Something about her teasing—though I knew it was

not intended to offend—emboldened me to be more

direct than I might otherwise have been. “I am eager

to discover the truth, and I don’t mind looking it,” I

said. “Who might have wished to murder Harriet

Sippel, Ida Gransbury and Richard Negus? I believe

you have an idea about that, and I’d like to know it.”

“What are those papers?”

“What? Oh!” I had forgotten I was holding them.

“Lists. Guests at the Bloxham Hotel around the time

of the murders, and people employed by the Bloxham.

I was wondering if you might take a look and let me

know if you see a name you recognize—after you’ve

answered my question about who might have wanted

to murder—”

“Nancy Ducane,” said Margaret. She took the two

lists from my hand and studied them, frowning.

I said the very same words to her that Poirot had

said to Samuel Kidd the day before, though I did not

know then that he had said them. “Nancy Ducane the

artist?”

“Wait a moment.” We stood in silence while

Margaret read the two lists. “None of these names is

familiar to me, I’m afraid.”

“Are you saying that Nancy Ducane—the same

Nancy Ducane I’m thinking of, the society portrait

painter—had a motive for killing Harriet Sippel, Ida

Gransbury and Richard Negus?”

Margaret folded the two pieces of paper, handed

them back to me, then beckoned me to follow her into

the parlor. Once we were sitting comfortably in the

same chairs as on the previous day, she said, “Yes.

Nancy Ducane the famous artist. She is the only

person I can think of who would have had both the

desire to kill Harriet, Ida and Richard and the ability

to do it and get away with it. Don’t look so surprised,

Mr. Catchpool. Famous people aren’t exempt from

evil. Though I must say I can’t believe that Nancy

would do such a thing. She was a civilized woman

when I knew her, and no one ever changes all that

much
.
She was a
brave
woman.”

I said nothing. The trouble is, I thought, that some

killers
are
civilized for the most part, and only break

from their routine of civility once, to commit murder.

Margaret said, “I lay awake all of last night

wondering if Walter Stoakley might have done it, but,

no, it’s impossible. He can’t stand up without help, let

alone get himself to London. To commit three murders

would be quite beyond him.”

“Walter Stoakley?” I sat forward in my chair. “The

drunken old cove at the King’s Head that I spoke to

yesterday? Why should he want to murder Harriet

Sippel, Ida Gransbury and Richard Negus?”

“Because Frances Ive was his daughter,” said

Margaret. She turned to look out of the window at the

Ives’ gravestone, and once again the line from the

Shakespeare sonnet came into my mind:
For slander’s

mark was ever yet the fair.

“I would be glad if Walter had committed the

murders,” said Margaret. “Isn’t that dreadful of me? I

would be relieved that Nancy hadn’t done it. Walter’s

old, and there’s not much life left in him, I don’t think.

Oh, I don’t want it to be Nancy! I’ve read in the

papers about how well Nancy is doing as an artist.

She left here and really made a name for herself. That

was a source of comfort to me. I was happy to think of

her prospering in London.”

“Left here?” I said. “So Nancy Ducane also lived

in Great Holling at one time?”

Margaret Ernst was still staring out of the window.

“Yes. Until 1913.”

“The same year that Patrick and Frances Ive died.

The same year that Richard Negus also left the

village.”

“Yes.”

“Margaret . . .” I leaned forward in an attempt to

draw her attention away from the Ives’ gravestone.

“I’m hoping for all I’m worth that you have decided to

tell me the story of Patrick and Frances Ive. I’m

certain that once I have heard it, I will understand

many things that are a mystery to me at present.”

She turned her serious eyes toward me. “I
have

decided to tell you the story, on one condition. You

must promise not to repeat it to anybody in the

village. What I say to you in this room must go no

further until you arrive in London. There, you may tell

whomever you wish.”

“No need to worry on that score,” I said. “My

opportunities for conversation in Great Holling are

limited. Everyone takes off as soon as they see me

coming.” It had happened twice on the way to

Margaret Ernst’s cottage that morning. One of the

gaspers was a boy of no more than ten years old: a

child, and yet he knew who I was and that he should

avert his eyes and hurry past me to safety. He would, I

felt sure, have known my Christian name, my surname,

and the nature of my business in Great Holling. Small

villages have at least one talent that London lacks:

they know how to ignore a chap in a way that makes

him feel terribly important.

“I am asking for a solemn promise, Mr. Catchpool

—not an evasion.”

“Why is there a need for secrecy? Don’t all the

villagers know about the Ives and whatever it was

that happened to them?”

What Margaret said next revealed that her concern

was for one villager in particular. “Once you have

heard what I have to say, you will doubtless want to

speak to Dr. Ambrose Flowerday.”

“The man you urge me to forget, yet remind me of

time and time again?”

She blushed. “You must promise not to seek him

out and, if you do happen to encounter him, not to

raise the subject of Patrick and Frances Ive. Unless

you can give me such an undertaking, I shan’t be able

to tell you anything.”

“I’m not sure I can. What would I tell my boss at

Scotland Yard? He sent me here to ask questions.”

“Well, then. We’re in a bind.” Margaret Ernst

folded her arms.

“Supposing I find this Dr. Flowerday and ask him

to tell me the story instead? He knew the Ives, didn’t

he? Yesterday you said that, unlike you, he lived in

Great Holling while they were still alive.”

“No!” The fear in her eyes was unmistakable.

“Please don’t speak to Ambrose! You don’t

understand. You
can’t
understand.”

“What are you so afraid of, Margaret? You seem to

me to be a woman of integrity, but . . . well, I can’t

help wondering if you intend to give me only a partial

account.”

“Oh, my account will be thorough. It will lack

nothing.”

For some reason, I believed her. “Then, if you’re

not intending to withhold a portion of the truth, why

must I not talk to anybody else about Patrick and

Frances Ive?”

Margaret rose to her feet, walked over to the

window and stood with her forehead touching the

glass and her body blocking my view of the Ives’

gravestone. “What happened here in 1913 inflicted a

grievous wound upon this village,” she said quietly.

“No one living here escaped it. Nancy Ducane moved

to London afterward, and Richard Negus to Devon,

but neither of them escaped. They carried the wound

with them. It wasn’t visible on their skin or on any

part of their bodies, but it was there. The wounds you

can’t see are the worst. And those who stayed, like

Ambrose Flowerday—well, it was terrible for them

too. I don’t know if Great Holling can recover. I know

that it hasn’t yet.”

She turned to face me. “The tragedy is never

spoken of, Mr. Catchpool. Not by anybody here, never

directly. Sometimes silence is the only way. Silence

and forgetting, if only one
could
forget.” She clasped

and unclasped her hands.

“Are you worried about the effect my question

might have upon Dr. Flowerday? Is he trying to

forget?”

“As I said: forgetting is impossible.”

“Nevertheless . . . it would be a distressing subject

for him to discuss?”

“Yes. Very.”

“Is he a good friend of yours?”

“This has nothing to do with
me,
” came her sharp

retort. “Ambrose is a good man, and I don’t want him

bothered. Why can you not agree to what I’m asking?”

“All right, you have my word,” I said reluctantly.

“I will discuss what you tell me with no one in the

village.” Having made this pledge, I found myself

hoping that the residents of Great Holling would

continue to ignore me as assiduously as they had thus

far and not put temptation in my way. It would be just

my luck to leave Margaret Ernst’s cottage and run into

a garrulous Dr. Flowerday, keen to have a good old

chinwag.

From his three portraits on the wall, the late

Charles Ernst bestowed three warning glances upon

me: “Break your promise to my wife and you will

regret it, you scoundrel,” his eyes seemed to say.

“What about your own peace of mind?” I asked.

“You don’t want me to talk to Dr. Flowerday in case

it upsets him, but I’m worried I might upset you. I

don’t want to cause you any distress.”

“Good.” Margaret sighed with relief. “The truth is,