“It used to be in my house, and now it isn’t, and all
I can do is stare at a picture of it and wonder what
became of it! Oh, dear, what an upsetting day this has
turned out to be!”
BLANCHE UNSWORTH, AS WAS her custom, asked Poirot
the moment he returned to the lodging house if there
was anything she could get for him.
“Indeed there is,” he told her. “I should like a
piece of paper and some pencils to draw with.
Colored pencils.”
Blanche’s face fell. “I can bring you paper, but as
for colored pencils, I can’t say as I’ve got any, unless
you’re interested in the color of ordinary pencil
lead.”
“Ah! Gray: the best of all.”
“Are you having me on, Mr. Poirot? Gray?”
“Oui. ” Poirot tapped the side of his head. “The
color of the little gray cells.”
“Oh, no. Give me a nice soft pink or lilac any day
of the week.”
“Colors do not matter—a green dress, a blue jug
and bowl set, a white one.”
“I’m not following you, Mr. Poirot.”
“I do not ask you to follow me, Mrs. Unsworth—
only to bring me one of your ordinary pencils and a
piece of paper, quickly. And an envelope. I have been
talking at great length about art today. Hercule Poirot
will attempt now to compose his own work of art!”
Twenty minutes later, seated at one of the tables in
the dining room, Poirot called for Blanche Unsworth
again. When she appeared, he handed her the
envelope, which was sealed. “Please telephone to
Scotland Yard for me,” he said. “Ask them to send
somebody to collect this without delay and deliver it
to Constable Stanley Beer. I have written his name on
the envelope. Please explain that this is important. It
is in connection with the Bloxham Hotel murders.”
“I thought you were drawing a picture,” said
Blanche.
“My picture is sealed inside the envelope,
accompanied by a letter.”
“Oh. Well, then, I can’t see the picture, can I?”
Poirot smiled. “It is not necessary for you to see it,
madame, unless you work for Scotland Yard—which,
to my knowledge, you do not.”
“Oh.” Blanche Unsworth looked vexed. “Well. I
suppose I should make this call for you, then,” she
said.
“Merci, madame. ”
When she returned five minutes later, she had her
hand over her mouth and pink spots on her cheeks.
“Oh, dear, Mr. Poirot,” she said. “Oh, this is bad
news for all of us! I don’t know what’s wrong with
people, I really don’t.”
“What news?”
“I telephoned to Scotland Yard, like you asked—
they said they’ll send someone to collect your
envelope. Then the phone rang again, right after I’d
put it down. Oh, Mr. Poirot, it’s dreadful!”
“Calm yourself, madame. Tell me, please.”
“There’s been another murder at the Bloxham! I
don’t know what’s wrong with some of these fancy
hotels, I really don’t.”
The Mind in the Mirror
ON ARRIVING BACK IN London, I proceeded to
Pleasant’s, thinking I might find Poirot there, but the
only familiar face in the coffee house was that of the
waitress with what Poirot calls “the flyaway hair.” I
had always found her to be a tonic and enjoyed
Pleasant’s on account of her presence as much as
anything else. What was her name? Poirot had told
me. Oh yes: Fee Spring, short for Euphemia.
I liked her chiefly for her comforting habit of
saying the same two things every time she saw me.
She said them now. The first was about her long-
standing ambition to change the name of Pleasant’s
from “Coffee House” to “Tea Rooms,” to reflect the
relative merits of the two beverages, and the second
was: “How’s Scotland Yard treating you, then? I’d
like to work there—only if I could be in charge,
mind.”
“Oh, I’m sure you would be leading the troops in
no time,” I told her. “Just as I suspect that one day I
shall arrive here to find ‘Pleasant’s Tea Rooms’ on
the sign outside.”
“Not likely. It’s the only thing they won’t let me
change. Mr. Poirot wouldn’t like it, would he?”
“He would be aghast.”
“You’re not to tell him, or anyone.” Fee’s
proposed change of name for her place of work was
something she professed to have told nobody but me.
“I shan’t,” I assured her. “I tell you what: come
and work with me solving crimes and I’ll ask my boss
if we can change our name to Scotland Yard Tea
Rooms. We do drink tea there, so it wouldn’t be
altogether unsuitable.”
“Hmph.” Fee wasn’t impressed. “I’ve heard
women police aren’t allowed to stay on if they marry.
That’s all right; I’d rather solve crimes with you than
have a husband to look after.”
“There you are, then!”
“So don’t go proposing to me.”
“No fear!”
“Charming, aren’t you?”
To dig myself out of the hole, I said, “I shan’t be
proposing to anybody, but if my parents ever put a gun
to my head, I shall ask you before any other girl—
how’s that?”
“Better me than some dreamer with notions of
romance in her head. She’d be disappointed, all
right.”
I did not want to discuss romance. I said, “As far
as our crime-solving partnership goes . . . I don’t
suppose you’re expecting Poirot, are you? I hoped he
might be here waiting for Jennie Hobbs to reappear.”
“Jennie Hobbs, is it? So you’ve found a family
name for her. Mr. Poirot’ll be pleased to know who
he’s been fretting over all this time. Maybe now he’ll
stop pestering me. Every time I turn around, there he
is under my feet, asking me all the same questions
about Jennie that he’s already asked me. I never ask
him where you are—never!”
I was rather stumped by this last statement. “Why
would you?” I said.
“I wouldn’t and I don’t. You’ve got to be careful
what questions you ask the question-asking sort. Did
you find out anything else about Jennie?”
“Nothing I can tell you, I’m afraid.”
“Then why don’t I tell you something instead? Mr.
Poirot’ll want to know.” Fee propelled me toward an
unoccupied table. We sat down. She said, “That night
Jennie came in, when she was all sixes and sevens—
last Thursday. I told Mr. Poirot I noticed something,
and then it escaped me. Well, I’ve remembered what
it was. It was dark, and I hadn’t pulled the curtains
across. I never do. Might as well light up the alley, I
always think. And folk who can see in are more likely
to come in.”
“Especially if they catch sight of you in the
window,” I teased her.
Her eyes widened. “That’s just it,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“After I made her shut the door, Jennie darted over
to the window and stared out. She was acting as if
someone out there was after her. She stared and stared
out of the window, but all she would have seen was
herself, this room, and me—my reflection, I mean.
And I saw her. That’s how I knew who she was. You
ask Mr. Poirot, he’ll tell you. I said, ‘Oh, it’s you, is
it?’ before she’d turned round. The window was like
a mirror, see, with it being all lit up in here and dark
outside. Now, you might say that maybe she was
trying to see outside even if she wasn’t having much
luck, but that’s not true.”
“What do you mean?”
“She wasn’t looking out for anyone following her.
She was watching me, like I was watching her. My
eyes could see hers reflected, and hers could see mine
—like with a mirror, if you know how that is?”
I nodded. “Whenever you can see someone in a
mirror, they can always see you too.”
“Right enough. And Jennie was watching me, I
swear: waiting to see what I’d say or do about her
coming in all of a pet. This’ll sound funny, Mr.
Catchpool, but it was like I could see more than her
eyes. I could see her mind, if that don’t sound too
fanciful. I’d swear she was waiting for me to take
charge.”
“Anyone sensible would wait for you to take
charge.” I smiled.
“Tschk.” Fee made a noise that suggested
irritation. “I don’t know how I forgot it, if you must
know. I want to grab hold of me and give me a good
shaking for not remembering before now. I swear I
didn’t imagine it. Her reflection was staring mine
right in the eyes, as if . . .” Fee frowned. “As if I was
the danger and not nobody outside on the street. But
why would she look at me that way? Can you make
sense of it? I can’t.”
AFTER LOOKING IN ON things at Scotland Yard, I
returned to the lodging house to find Poirot
endeavoring to leave it. He was standing by the open
front door in his hat and coat, with high color in his
face and an unsettled air about him, as if he was
having trouble keeping still. This was a problem that
did not normally afflict him. Unusually for her,
Blanche Unsworth showed no interest in my arrival,
and was instead fussing about a car that was late. She
too was pink-faced.
“We must leave at once for the Bloxham Hotel,
Catchpool,” said Poirot, adjusting his mustache with
gloved fingers. “As soon as the car arrives.”
“It should have been here ten minutes ago,” said
Blanche. “I suppose the boon of it being late is you
can take Mr. Catchpool with you.”
“What is the emergency?” I asked.
“There has been another murder,” said Poirot. “At
the Bloxham Hotel.”
“Oh, dear.” For several seconds, abject panic
coursed through my veins. On it went: the laying out
of the dead. One, two, three, four . . .
Eight lifeless hands, palms facing down . . .
“Hold his hand, Edward . . .”
“Is it Jennie Hobbs?” I asked Poirot, as the blood
pounded in my ears.
I should have listened to him about the danger.
Why didn’t I take him seriously?
“I do not know. Ah! So you too know her name.
Signor Lazzari sent a summons by telephone, since
when I have been unable to contact him. Bon, here at
last is the car.”
As I moved toward it, I felt myself pulled back.
Blanche Unsworth was tugging at my coat sleeve. “Be
careful at that hotel, won’t you, Mr. Catchpool. I
couldn’t bear it if you were to come to any harm.”
“I shall, of course.”
Her face set in a ferocious grimace. “You
shouldn’t have to go there, if you ask me. What was
this fellow doing there anyway, the one that got
himself killed this time? Three people have been
murdered already at the Bloxham, and only last week!
Why didn’t he go and stay somewhere else if he
didn’t want the same to happen to him? It’s not right,
him ignoring the danger signs and putting you to all
this bother.”
“I shall say so to his corpse in no uncertain terms.”
I reasoned to myself that if I smiled and said all the
right words, I might soon feel more settled.
“Say something to the other guests while you’re
about it,” Blanche advised. “Tell them I’ve two spare
rooms here. It might not be as grand as the Bloxham,
but everybody’s still alive when they wake up in the
morning.”
“Catchpool, please hurry,” Poirot called from the
car.
Hurriedly, I handed my cases to Blanche and did
as I was told.
Once we were on our way, Poirot said, “I hoped
very much to prevent a fourth murder, mon ami. I have
failed.”
“I wouldn’t look at it that way,” I said.
“Non? ”
“You did all you could. Just because the killer
succeeded, it does not mean you failed.”
Poirot’s face was a mask of contempt. “If that is
your opinion, then you must be every murderer’s
favorite policeman. Of course I have failed!” He
raised his hand to stop me from speaking. “Please,
say no more absurd things. Tell me about your stay in
Great Holling. What did you discover, apart from the
surname of Jennie?”
I told him all about my trip, feeling gradually more
like my normal self as I went on, making sure to leave
out no detail that a thorough chap like Poirot might
consider relevant. As I spoke, I noticed the strangest
thing: his eyes were growing greener. It was as if
someone were shining small torches on them from
inside his head, to make them glow brighter.
When I had finished, he said, “So, Jennie was a
bed-maker for Patrick Ive at the University of
Cambridge’s Saviour College. That is most
interesting.”
“Why?”
No answer was forthcoming, only another
question.
“You did not lie in wait for Margaret Ernst and
follow her, after your first visit to her cottage?”
“Follow her? No. I had no reason to think that she
would go anywhere. She seems to spend all her time
staring out of her window at the Ives’ gravestone.”
“You had every reason to think she would go
somewhere, or that someone would come to her,” said
Poirot severely. “Think, Catchpool. She would not
tell you about Patrick and Frances Ive on the first day
that you spoke to her, n’est-ce pas? ‘Come back
tomorrow,’ she said. When you did, she told you the
whole story. Did it not strike you that the reason for
this postponement might have been her desire to
consult with another person?”
“No. As a matter of fact, it didn’t. She struck me as
a woman who would want to think carefully and not
rush an important decision. Also as a woman
determined to make up her own mind, not one who
would rush to a friend for advice. Hence, I suspected
nothing.”
“I, on the other hand, suspect,” said Poirot. “I
suspect that Margaret Ernst wished to discuss with
Dr. Ambrose Flowerday what she ought to say.”
“Well, it would likely be him if it were anyone,” I
conceded. “She certainly brought his name into the
conversation plenty of times. She clearly admires
him.”
“Yet you did not go in search of Dr. Flowerday.”
Poirot made a small snorting sound. “You were too
honorable to do so, having made your vow of silence.
And is it your English sense of decorum that causes
you to substitute the word ‘admire’ for the word
‘love?’ Margaret Ernst loves Ambrose Flowerday—
this is clear from what you have told me! She is filled
with passionate emotion when discussing this vicar
and his wife that she never once met? No, her
passion is for Dr. Flowerday—she feels his feelings
about the tragically deceased Reverend Ive and his
wife—they were his dear friends. Do you see,
Catchpool?”
I gave a noncommittal grunt. Margaret Ernst had
seemed to me to be passionate about the principles at
stake as much as anything else—about the idea of the
