The Monogram Murders (31 page)

so she canceled her wedding and went with him.”

“Could it not have been Frances Ive to whom she

was so attached?” Poirot asked. “Or to both of the

Ives? It might have been loyalty and not romantic love

that she felt.”

“I don’t believe many women would put loyalty to

their employers above their own marriage prospects,

do you?” said Nancy.

“Assuredly not, madame. But what you tell me

does not quite fit. If Jennie were inclined toward

jealousy, why was she moved to tell this terrible lie

only when Patrick Ive fell in love with you? Why did

his marriage to Frances Ive, long before then, not

provoke her envy?”

“How do you know that it did not? Patrick lived in

Cambridge when he and Frances met and married.

Jennie Hobbs was his servant then too. Perhaps she

whispered something malicious about him in a

friend’s ear and that friend, not being Harriet Sippel,

chose to spread the malice no further.”

Poirot nodded. “You are right. It is a possibility.”

“Most people prefer not to spread ill will, and

thank goodness for that,” said Nancy. “Perhaps in

Cambridge there is nobody as malevolent as the

person Harriet Sippel turned into, and nobody as

eager as Ida Gransbury to lead a pious moral

crusade.”

“I notice you do not mention Richard Negus.”

Nancy looked troubled. “Richard was a good man.

He came to regret his contribution to the whole awful

business. Oh, he regretted it deeply once he

understood that Jennie had told a despicable lie, and

once he saw Ida for the pitiless creature she was. He

wrote to me a few years ago, from Devon, to say that

the matter had been preying on his mind. Patrick and I

were quite wrong to conduct ourselves as we did, he

said, and he would never change his mind about that

—marriage vows were marriage vows—but he had

come to believe that punishment was not always the

right path to follow, even when one knows that an

offense has taken place.”

“That is what he wrote to you?” Poirot raised his

eyebrows.

“Yes. I expect you disagree.”

“These affairs are complicated, madame.”

“What if, in punishing somebody for the sin of

falling in love with the wrong person, one only brings

greater sin into the world? And more evil: two deaths

—one, of a person who has committed
no
sin.”

“
Oui.
This is precisely the sort of dilemma that

creates the complication.”

“In his letter to me, Richard wrote that, Christian

as he was, he could not bring himself to believe that

God would wish him to persecute a sweet-natured

man like Patrick.”

“Punishment and persecution are two separate

things,” said Poirot. “There is also the question: has a

rule or law been broken? Falling in love . . .
enfin,

we cannot help how we feel, but we can choose

whether or not to act upon those feelings. If a crime

has been committed, one must ensure that the criminal

is dealt with by the law in an appropriate fashion, but

always without personal venom and spite—always

without the lust for vengeance, which contaminates

everything and is indeed evil.”

“Lust for vengeance,” Nancy Ducane repeated with

a shudder. “That was it exactly. Harriet Sippel was

filled with it. It was sickening.”

“And yet, in telling the story, you have not once

spoken angrily of Harriet Sippel,” I said. “You

describe her behavior as sickening, as if it saddens

you. You do not seem angry with her as you are with

Jennie Hobbs.”

“I suppose that’s true.” Nancy sighed. “I used to be

devoted to Harriet. When my husband William and I

moved to Great Holling, Harriet and George Sippel

were our dearest friends. Then George died, and

Harriet became a monster. But once you have been

very fond of a person, it’s difficult to condemn them,

don’t you find?”

“It is either impossible, or irresistible,” said

Poirot.

“Impossible, I should say. You imagine that their

worst behavior is a symptom of an ailment and not

their true self. I couldn’t forgive Harriet’s treatment of

Patrick. I couldn’t persuade myself to try. At the same

time, I felt that it must have been as horrible for her as

it was for anybody else—to have turned into
that
.”

“You saw her as a victim?”

“Of the tragedy of losing a beloved husband, yes—

and so young! One can be both victim and villain, I

think.”

“It was something that you and Harriet had in

common,” said Poirot. “The loss of a husband when

you were far too young.”

“This will sound heartless, but there is really no

comparison,” said Nancy. “George Sippel was

everything to Harriet, her whole world. I married

William because he was wise and safe, and I needed

to escape from my father’s home.”

“Ah, yes. Albinus Johnson,” said Poirot. “It came

back to me after I left your house that I do indeed

know the name. Your father was one of a circle of

English and Russian agitators in London at the end of

the last century. He spent a period of time in prison.”

“He was a dangerous man,” said Nancy. “I

couldn’t bear to speak to him about his . . . ideas, but I

know that he believed it was acceptable to murder

any number of people if those people were delaying

the cause of making the world a better place—better

only according to
his
definition! How in the name of

heaven can anything ever be made better by

bloodshed and mass slaughter? How can any

improvement be brought about by men who wish only

to smash and destroy, who cannot speak of their hopes

and dreams without their faces twisting in hatred and

anger?”

“I agree with you absolutely, madame. A

movement driven by fury and resentment will not

change any of our lives for the better.
Ce n’est pas

possible.
It is corrupt at the source.”

I nearly said that I too agreed, but I stopped

myself. Nobody was interested in my ideas.

Nancy said, “When I met William Ducane, I did

not fall in love with him, but I liked him. I respected

him. He was calm and courteous; he never behaved or

spoke intemperately. If he failed to return a book to

the library when it was due to be returned, he would

suffer agonies of remorse.”

“A man with a conscience.”

“Yes, and a sense of proportion, and humility. If

something stood in his way, he would consider

moving himself before he would consider moving the

obstacle. I knew that he would not fill our home with

men intent on making the world uglier with their

violent acts. William appreciated art and beautiful

things. He was like me in that respect.”

“I understand, madame. But you did not love

William Ducane passionately, in the way that Harriet

Sippel loved her husband?”

“No. The man I loved passionately was Patrick

Ive. From the first moment I saw him, my heart

belonged to him alone. I would have laid down my

life for him. When I lost him, I finally understood how

Harriet had felt when she had lost George. One thinks

one can imagine, but one can’t. I remember thinking

Harriet morbid when she begged me, after George’s

funeral, to pray for her death so that she might be

quickly reunited with him. I refused to do as she

asked. The passing of time would ease her pain, I told

her, and one day she would find something else to live

for.”

Nancy stopped to compose herself before

continuing. “Regrettably, she did. She found a delight

in the suffering of others. Harriet the widow was a

joyless harridan.
That
was the woman who was

killed at the Bloxham Hotel in London recently. The

Harriet I knew and loved died with her husband

George.” She looked at me suddenly. “You observed

that I am angry with Jennie. I have no right to be. I am

as guilty as she is of letting Patrick down.” Nancy

started to cry and covered her face with her hands.

“Come, come, madame. Here.” Poirot passed her a

handkerchief. “How did you let down Patrick Ive?

You have told us that you would have sacrificed your

life for him.”

“I am as bad as Jennie: a disgusting coward! When

I stood up in the King’s Head Inn and confessed that

Patrick and I were in love and had been meeting in

secret, I did not tell the truth. Oh, the secret meetings

were real enough, and Patrick and I were desperately

in love—that was true too. But . . .” Nancy appeared

too distressed to continue. Her shoulders shook as she

wept into the handkerchief.

“I think I comprehend, madame. That day at the

King’s Head Inn, you told the villagers that your

relations with Patrick Ive had been chaste. That was

your lie. Poirot, he guesses correctly?”

Nancy let out a wail of despair. “I couldn’t bear

the rumors,” she cried. “All those whispered macabre

tales of encounters with the souls of the dead in

exchange for money; little children hissing in the

street about blasphemy . . . I was appalled! You

cannot imagine the horror of so many voices of

accusation and condemnation, all rounding on one

man, a
good
man!”

I could imagine. I could imagine it so vividly that I

wished she would stop talking about it.

“I had to
do
something, Monsieur Poirot. So I

thought, “I shall fight these lies with something pure

and good: the truth.” The truth was my love for

Patrick and his for me, but I was afraid, and I

tarnished our truth with lies! That was my mistake. In

my frenzy, I could not think clearly. I sullied the

beauty of my love for Patrick with faint-hearted

dishonesty. Relations between us were not chaste, but

I said that they were. I imagined that I had no choice

but to lie. That was craven of me. Despicable!”

“You are hard on yourself,” said Poirot.

“Unnecessarily so.”

Nancy dabbed at her eyes. “How I wish I could

believe you,” she said. “
Why
did I not tell the whole

truth? My defense of Patrick against those horrible

accusations should have been a noble thing, and I

ruined it. For that, I curse myself every day of my life.

Those braying, spittle-flecked sin-hunters at the

King’s Head, they all disapproved of me anyway—

thought I was a fallen woman, and Patrick the very

devil. What would it have mattered if they had

disapproved a little more? In point of fact, I’m not

sure there was a higher peak of opprobrium for them

to ascend to.”

“Why, then, did you not tell the truth?” Poirot

asked.

“I hoped to make the ordeal more bearable for

Frances, I suppose. To avoid a bigger scandal. But

then Frances and Patrick took their own lives, and all

hope of ever making anything better was lost. I know

they killed themselves, whatever anybody says,”

Nancy added as an apparent afterthought.

“Is this a fact that has been disputed?” asked

Poirot.

“According to the doctor and all official records,

their deaths were accidental, but nobody in Great

Holling believed that. Suicide is a sin in the eyes of

the Church. The village doctor wanted to protect

Patrick and Frances’s reputations from greater

damage, I think. He liked them very much and stood

up for them when no one else would. He’s a good egg,

Dr. Flowerday—one of very few in Great Holling. He

knew a wicked lie when he heard one.” Nancy

laughed through her tears. “A lie for a lie and a tooth

for a tooth.”

“Or a truth for a truth?” Poirot suggested.

“Oh. Yes, indeed.” Nancy looked surprised. “Oh,

dear, I’ve quite ruined your handkerchief.”

“It is not important. I have others. There is one

more question I should like to ask you, madame: is the

name Samuel Kidd familiar to you?”

“No. Should it be?”

“He did not live in Great Holling when you lived

there?”

“No, he did not. Lucky old him, whoever he is,”

said Nancy bitterly.