《The Monogram Murders》作者：[英] Sophie Hannah 【完结】
Dedication
For Agatha Christie
Acknowledgments
I am enormously grateful to the following people: the
inimitable Peter Straus, who is to literary agenting
what Poirot is to mystery-solving; Mathew and James
Prichard, who have been so inspiring, kind, helpful
and supportive throughout this whole process; the
brilliant Hilary Strong, who is a joy both to work
with and to have fun with; the wonderful teams at
HarperCollins UK and US, especially Kate Elton and
Natasha Hughes (for enthusiastic and incisive
editorial input), David Brawn (for the same, and also
for many conversations about dogs, and for fielding
the odd cryptic, semi-hysterical phone call! As David
handles literary estates, it’s rare that an author who
isn’t dead gets to work with him, and all those not-
dead authors are missing a treat, let me tell you.)
Thanks to Louisa Joyner, who was so lovely and
enthusiastic about this book in advance and who
played a significant part in getting it off the ground.
Thank you to Lou Swannell, Kathy Turtle, Jennifer
Hart, Anne O’Brien, Heike Schüssler, Danielle
Bartlett, Damon Greeney, Margaux Weisman, Kaitlin
Harri, Josh Marwell, Charlie Redmayne, Virginia
Stanley, Laura Di Giuseppe, Liate Stehlik, Kathryn
Gordon, and all the other fantastic people who have
been involved—you have all made this an amazingly
wonderful experience. (There is no such thing as too
many adjectives on an Acknowledgments page.) And
thanks to Four Colman Getty, who did a brilliant job
of marketing the book.
A special bursting-into-song kind of thank you,
requiring its own paragraph, to the inspirational Dan
Mallory, who has reminded me of everything I love
about writing and books.
Thank you to Tamsen Harward for making a
crucial plot suggestion just in time.
Hodder
&
Stoughton,
who
publish
my
psychological thrillers, have been exceptionally jolly
and excited about my fleeting elopement with Poirot,
and asked only that I return to Hodder Towers without
a big swirly moustache. I am enormously grateful to
them.
Thank you to everybody who has been lovely
about this book on Twitter and in the real world—
Jamie Bernthal and Scott Wallace Baker spring to
mind particularly, and I am very grateful to both of
them for welcoming me into the world of Agatha
fandom.
Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgments
1. Runaway Jennie
2. Murder in Three Rooms
3. At the Bloxham Hotel
4. The Frame Widens
5. Ask a Hundred People
6. The Sherry Conundrum
7. Two Keys
8. Assembling Our Thoughts
9. A Visit to Great Holling
10. Slander’s Mark
11. Two Recollections
12. A Grievous Wound
13. Nancy Ducane
14. The Mind in the Mirror
15. The Fourth Cufflink
16. A Lie for a Lie
17. The Older Woman and the Younger Man
18. Knock and See Who Comes to the Door
19. The Truth at Last
20. How It All Went Wrong
21. All the Devils Are Here
22. The Monogram Murders
23. The Real Ida Gransbury
24. The Blue Jug and Bowl
25. If Murder Began with a D
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Sophie Hannah
Also by Agatha Christie
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Runaway Jennie
“ALL’S I’M SAYING IS, I don’t like her,” the waitress
with the flyaway hair whispered. It was a loud
whisper, easily overheard by the solitary customer in
Pleasant’s Coffee House. He wondered whether the
“her” under discussion on this occasion was another
waitress or a regular patron like himself.
“I don’t have to like her, do I? You want to think
different, you feel free.”
“I thought she was nice enough,” said the shorter
waitress with the round face, sounding less certain
than she had a few moments ago.
“That’s how she is when her pride’s taken a knock.
Soon as she perks up, her tongue’ll start dripping
poison again. It’s the wrong way round. I’ve known
plenty of her sort—never trust ’em.”
“What d’you mean it’s the wrong way round?”
asked the round-faced waitress.
Hercule Poirot, the only diner in the coffee house
at just after half past seven on this Thursday evening
in February, knew what the waitress with the flyaway
hair meant. He smiled to himself. It was not the first
time she had made an astute observation.
“Anyone can be forgiven for saying a sharp word
when they’re up against it—I’ve done it myself, I
don’t mind admitting. And when I’m happy, I want
other folks to be happy. That’s the way it should be.
But then there’s those like her who treat you worst
when things are going their way. Them’s the ones you
want to watch out for.”
Bien vu, thought Hercule Poirot. De la vraie
sagesse populaire.
The door of the coffee house flew open and banged
against the wall. A woman wearing a pale brown coat
and a darker brown hat stood in the doorway. She had
fair hair. Poirot could not see her face. Her head was
turned to look over her shoulder, as if she was
waiting for someone to catch up with her.
A few seconds of the door standing open was long
enough for the cold night air to drive out all the
warmth from the small room. Normally this would
have infuriated Poirot, but he was interested in the
new arrival who had entered so dramatically and did
not appear to care what impression she made.
He placed his hand flat over the top of his coffee
cup in the hope of preserving the warmth of his drink.
This tiny crooked-walled establishment in St.
Gregory’s Alley, in a part of London that was far from
being the most salubrious, made the best coffee Poirot
had tasted anywhere in the world. He would not
usually drink a cup before his dinner as well as after
it—indeed, such a prospect would horrify him in
ordinary circumstances—but every Thursday, when
he came to Pleasant’s at 7:30 P.M. precisely, he made
an exception to his rule. By now, he regarded this
weekly exception as a little tradition.
Other traditions of the coffee house he enjoyed
rather less: positioning the cutlery, napkin and water
glass correctly on his table, having arrived to find
everything all askew. The waitresses evidently
believed it was sufficient for the items to be
somewhere—anywhere—on
the
table.
Poirot
disagreed and made a point of imposing order as soon
as he arrived.
“ ’Scuse me, miss, would you mind shutting the
door if you’re coming in?” Flyaway Hair called out to
the woman in the brown hat and coat who was
gripping the door frame with one hand, still facing the
street. “Or even if you’re not coming in. Those of us
in here don’t want to freeze.”
The woman stepped inside. She closed the door
but did not apologize for having left it open so long.
Her jagged breathing could be heard across the room.
She seemed not to notice that there were other people
present. Poirot greeted her with a quiet “Good
evening.” She half turned toward him but made no
response. Her eyes were wide with alarm of an
uncommon kind—powerful enough to take hold of a
stranger, like a physical grip.
Poirot no longer felt calm and contented as he had
when he’d arrived. His peaceful mood was shattered.
The woman hurried over to the window and
peered out. She will not see whatever she looks for,
Poirot thought to himself. Staring into the blackness of
night from a well-lit room, it is impossible to see
very much at all when the glass reflects only an image
of the room you are in. Yet she continued to stare out
for some time, seemingly determined to watch the
street.
“Oh, it’s you, ” said Flyaway Hair a touch
impatiently. “What’s the matter? Has something
happened?”
The woman in the brown coat and hat turned
around. “No, I . . .” The words came out as a sob.
Then she managed to get herself under control. “No.
May I take the table in the corner?” She pointed to the
one farthest from the door to the street.
“You’re welcome to any table except the one
where the gentleman’s sitting. They’re all laid.”
Having reminded herself of Poirot, Flyaway Hair said
to him, “Your dinner’s cooking nicely, sir.” Poirot
was delighted to hear it. The food at Pleasant’s was
almost as good as the coffee. Indeed, when he
considered the two together, Poirot found it hard to
believe what he knew to be the case: that everybody
who worked in the kitchen here was English.
Incroyable.
Flyaway Hair turned back to the distressed
woman. “You sure there’s nothing wrong, Jennie? You
look as if you’ve come face to face with the devil.”
“I’m all right, thank you. A cup of strong, hot tea is
all I need. My usual, please.” Jennie hurried over to a
table in the far corner, passing Poirot without looking
at him. He turned his chair slightly so that he could
observe her. Most assuredly something was the matter
with her; it was something she did not wish to discuss
with the coffee house waitresses, evidently.
Without taking off her hat or coat, she sat down in
a chair that faced away from the door to the street, but
no sooner had she done so than she turned again and
looked over her shoulder. Having the opportunity to
examine her face in more detail, Poirot guessed that
she was around forty years of age. Her large blue
eyes were wide and unblinking. They looked, Poirot
reflected, as if there was a shocking sight before them
—“Face to face with the devil,” as Flyaway Hair had
remarked. Yet as far as Poirot could see, there was no
such sight for Jennie to behold, only the square room
with its tables, chairs, wooden hat and coat stand in
the corner, and its crooked shelves bearing the weight
of many teapots of different colors, patterns and sizes.
Those shelves, they were enough to make a person
shudder! Poirot saw no reason why a warped shelf
could not easily be replaced with a straight one, in the
same way that he could not comprehend why anybody
would place a fork on a square table and not ensure
that it lay parallel to the straight line of the table’s
edge. However, not everyone had the ideas of
Hercule Poirot; he had long ago accepted this—both
the advantages and the disadvantages it brought him.
Twisted in her seat, the woman—Jennie—stared
wildly at the door, as if expecting somebody to burst
through it at any moment. She was trembling, perhaps
partly from the cold.
No—Poirot changed his mind—not at all from the
cold. It was warm once again in the coffee house.
And, since Jennie was intent upon watching the door
and yet had sat with her back to it and as far as
possible from it, there was only one sensible
conclusion to draw.
Picking up his coffee cup, Poirot left his table and
made his way over to where she sat. She wore no
wedding ring on her finger, he noticed. “Will you
permit me to join you for a short while,
mademoiselle?” He would have liked to arrange her
cutlery, napkin and water glass as he had his own, but
he restrained himself.
“Pardon? Yes, I suppose so.” Her tone revealed
how little she cared. She was concerned only with the
coffee house door. She was still watching it avidly,
still twisted in her chair.
“I am pleased to introduce myself to you . My name
is . . . ah . . .” Poirot broke off. If he told her his name,
Flyaway Hair and the other waitress would hear it,
and he would no longer be their anonymous “foreign
gent,” the retired policeman from the Continent. The
name Hercule Poirot had a powerful effect upon some
people. Over the past few weeks, since he had
entered into a most enjoyable state of hibernation,
Poirot had experienced for the first time in an age the
relief of being nobody in particular.
It could not have been more apparent that Jennie
was not interested in his name or his presence. A tear
had escaped from the corner of her eye and was
making its way down her cheek.
“Mademoiselle Jennie,” Poirot said, hoping that by
using her Christian name he might have more luck in
getting her attention. “I used to be a policeman. I am
retired now, but before I retired, in my work I
encountered many people in states of agitation similar
to the one that you are in now. I do not mean those
who were unhappy, though they are abundant in every
country. No, I am talking about people who believed
themselves to be in danger.”
At last, he had made an impression. Jennie fixed
her wide, frightened eyes on him. “A . . . a
policeman?”
“Oui. I retired many years ago, but—”
“So in London you can’t do anything? You can’t
. . . I mean, you have no power here? To arrest
criminals, or anything like that?”
“That is correct.” Poirot smiled at her. “In London,
I am an elderly gentleman, enjoying his retirement.”
She had not looked at the door in nearly ten
seconds.
“Am I right, mademoiselle? Do you believe
yourself to be in danger? Do you look over your
shoulder because you suspect that the person you are
afraid of has followed you here and will walk through
the door at any moment?”
“Oh, I’m in danger, all right!” She seemed to want
to say more. “Are you sure you’re no longer any sort
of policeman at all?”
“No sort whatsoever,” Poirot assured her. Not
wishing her to believe he was entirely without
influence, he added, “I have a friend who is a
detective with Scotland Yard if you need the help of
the police. He is very young—not much more than
thirty—but he will go far in the police, I think. He
would be happy to speak to you, I am sure. For my
own part, I can offer . . .” Poirot stopped as the
round-faced waitress approached with a cup of tea.
Having delivered it to Jennie, she retreated to the
kitchen. Flyaway Hair had also withdrawn to the
same place. Knowing how she liked to expound upon
the behavior of her regular patrons, Poirot guessed
that she was presently trying to stir up a lively
discussion about the Foreign Gent and his unexpected
visit to Jennie’s table. Poirot did not usually speak for
any longer than necessary with any of the other
