of our puzzle together? Poirot, he understands now
something that did not strike him before, but there are
still questions, still pieces that cannot be made to fit.”
“I have . . .” I cleared my throat. Speaking, for
some reason, was proving rather difficult. “I have just
seen a woman in the hotel gardens.” I could not, at
that moment, bring myself to say that she had been in
the arms of Thomas Brignell, or to describe the
strange way in which she had seemed to crumple, her
head falling to one side. It was simply too . . .
peculiar. The suspicion running through my mind was
one I would have felt embarrassed to utter aloud.
Thankfully, however, I did feel able to divulge one
important detail. “She was wearing a pale brown
coat,” I told Poirot.
A Lie for a Lie
I WAS ENGROSSED IN my crossword puzzle when Poirot
returned from the hotel to the lodging house several
hours later. “Catchpool,” he said severely. “Why do
you sit in almost total darkness? I do not believe you
can see to write.”
“The fire provides enough light. Besides, I’m not
writing at the moment—I’m thinking. Not that it’s
getting me very far. I don’t know how these chaps do
it, the ones who invent crosswords for the
newspapers. I’ve been working on this one for
months, and I still can’t get it to fit together. I say, you
might be able to help. Can you think of a word that
means death and has six letters?”
“Catchpool.” Now Poirot’s tone was even sterner.
“Hm?” I said.
“Do you take me to be the fool, or is it that you are
a fool yourself? A word for death that has six letters
is murder.”
“Yes, that one’s rather obvious. That was my first
thought.”
“I am relieved to hear it, mon ami.”
“That would be perfect, if murder began with a D.
Since it doesn’t, and since I’m stuck with this D from
another word . . .” I shook my head in consternation.
“Forget crossword puzzles. We have much to
discuss.”
“I don’t believe, and won’t believe, that Thomas
Brignell murdered Jennie Hobbs,” I said firmly.
“You feel sympathy for him,” said Poirot.
“I do, and I also would bet my last penny that he is
no murderer. Who’s to say that he doesn’t have a
girlfriend with a pale brown coat? Brown is a
popular color for coats!”
“He is the assistant clerk,” said Poirot. “Why
would he stand in the gardens beside a
wheelbarrow?”
“Perhaps the wheelbarrow was simply there!”
“And Mr. Brignell stands with his lady friend right
beside it?”
“Well, why not?” I said, exasperated. “Isn’t that
more plausible than the idea that Brignell took Jennie
Hobbs’s dead body out to the gardens with a plan to
wheel it off somewhere in a wheelbarrow, then
pretended to embrace her when he saw me looking
out of the window? One might just as well say . . .” I
stopped and inhaled sharply. “Oh, goodness,” I said.
“You are going to say it, aren’t you?”
“What, mon ami? What do you think Poirot will
say?”
“Rafal Bobak is a waiter, so why was he pushing a
laundry cart?”
“Exactement. And why does he push the laundry
through the elegant lobby in the direction of the front
doors? Is the laundry not washed inside the hotel?
Signor Lazzari, he would surely have noticed this if
he had not been so concerned about the missing fourth
murder victim. Of course, he would not be suspicious
of Mr. Bobak—all of his staff are beyond reproach in
his eyes.”
“Wait a second.” I finally laid down my crossword
on the table beside me. “That was what you meant
about the width of the doorway, wasn’t it? That
laundry cart could easily have been pushed into room
402, so why not wheel it all the way in? Why drag the
body instead, which would take more effort?”
Poirot nodded with satisfaction. “Indeed, mon ami.
These are the questions I hoped you might ask
yourself.”
“But . . . are you honestly saying that Rafal Bobak
might have murdered Jennie Hobbs, thrown her body
in with the laundry and pushed it out onto the street,
right past us? He stopped to talk to us, for pity’s
sake!”
“Indeed—even though he has nothing to say. What
is it? You think I am uncharitable, thinking the bad
thoughts about those who have been so helpful to us?”
“Well . . .”
“Giving everybody the benefit of the doubt is
laudable, my friend, but it is no way to apprehend a
murderer. While you are displeased with me, let me
put one more thought into your head: Mr. Henry
Negus. He had with him a very large suitcase, did he
not? Large enough to contain the body of a slender
woman.”
I covered my face with my hands. “I can’t bear
much more of this,” I said. “Henry Negus? No. I’m
sorry, but no. He was in Devon on the night of the
murders. He struck me as absolutely trustworthy.”
“You mean that both he and his wife say that he
was in Devon,” Poirot briskly corrected me. “To
return to the matter of the trail of blood, suggesting
that the body had been dragged to the door . . . Of
course, an empty suitcase can be carried into the
middle of a room, to where a dead body waits to be
placed inside it. So, again, we must wonder: why pull
Jennie Hobbs’s body in the direction of the door?”
“Please, Poirot. If we must have this conversation,
let us have it some other time. Not now.”
He looked put out by my discomfort. “Very well,”
he said brusquely. “Since you are in no mood to
debate the possibilities, let me tell you what occurred
here in London while you were in Great Holling.
Perhaps you will feel more comfortable with facts.”
“A great deal more comfortable, yes,” I said.
After making minor adjustments to his mustache,
Poirot lowered himself into an armchair and launched
into an account of the conversations he’d had with
Rafal Bobak, Samuel Kidd, Nancy Ducane and Louisa
Wallace while I was in Great Holling. My mind was
reeling by the time he had finished. I risked urging
him on to further loquacity by saying, “Haven’t you
left out some rather important things?”
“Such as what?”
“Well, this useless, clumsy maid at Louisa
Wallace’s house—Dorcas. You implied that while
you and she were standing together on the upstairs
landing, you realized something important, but you
didn’t say what it was that you realized.”
“That is true. I did not.”
“And this mysterious picture you drew and had
delivered to Scotland Yard—what’s that all about?
What was the picture of? And what is Stanley Beer
supposed to do with it?”
“That, also, I did not tell you.” Poirot had the
nerve to look apologetic, as if he had himself had no
choice in the matter.
Foolishly, I persisted. “And why did you want to
know how many times each and every Bloxham Hotel
employee saw Harriet Sippel, Ida Gransbury and
Richard Negus alive or dead? How is that pertinent to
anything? You didn’t explain that either.”
“Poirot, he leaves the gaps all over the place!”
“Not to forget your earlier omissions. What, for
instance, were the two most unusual features shared
by the Bloxham murders and Jennie Hobbs’s outburst
in Pleasant’s Coffee House? You said they had two
highly unusual things in common.”
“Indeed I did. Mon ami, I do not tell you these
things because I want to make of you a detective.”
“This case will make nothing of me but a
miserable wretch, of no use to anyone,” I said,
allowing my true feelings to have an outing for once
in my life. “It’s the most maddening thing.”
I heard a noise that might or might not have been a
knock at the drawing-room door. “Is somebody
there?” I called out.
“Yes,” came Blanche Unsworth’s apprehensive
voice from the hall. “I’m sorry to disturb you at this
time, gentlemen, but there’s a lady to see Mr. Poirot.
She says it can’t wait.”
“Show her in, madame.”
A few seconds later, I found myself face to face
with the artist Nancy Ducane. Most men, I knew,
would have thought her startlingly beautiful.
Poirot made the introductions with perfect
courtesy.
“Thank you for seeing me.” Nancy Ducane’s
swollen eyes suggested that she had done a fair
amount of crying. She was wearing a dark green coat
that looked expensive. “I feel dreadful, barging in on
you like this. Please pardon the intrusion. I tried to
persuade myself not to come, but . . . as you can see, I
failed.”
“Please sit down, Mrs. Ducane,” said Poirot.
“How did you find us?”
“With help from Scotland Yard, like a proper bona
fide detective.” Nancy attempted a smile.
“Ah! Poirot, he chooses a house where he thinks
no one will find him, and the police send the crowds
to his door! No matter, madame. I am delighted to see
you, if a little surprised.”
“I would like to tell you what happened in Great
Holling sixteen years ago,” said Nancy. “I should
have done so before, but you gave me such a shock
when you mentioned all those names I had hoped
never to hear again.”
She unbuttoned her coat and took it off. I gestured
toward an armchair.
She sat down. “It’s not a happy tale,” she said.
NANCY DUCANE SPOKE IN a quiet voice and with a
haunted look in her eyes. She told us the same story
that Margaret Ernst had told me in Great Holling,
about the cruel and slanderous treatment of Reverend
Patrick Ive. When she spoke of Jennie Hobbs, her
voice shook. “She was the worst of them. She was in
love with Patrick, you see. Oh, I can’t prove it, but I
shall always believe it. She did what she did to him
as someone who loved him: told an unforgivable lie
because she was jealous . He was in love with me,
and she wanted to wound him. To punish him. Then
when Harriet seized on the lie, and Jennie saw the
harm she had done and felt sick about it—and I do
believe she felt dreadfully ashamed, and must have
hated herself—she did nothing to remedy what she
had set in motion, nothing! She slunk off into the
shadows and hoped not to be noticed. However afraid
she was of Harriet, she should have forced herself to
stand up and say, “I told a terrible lie and I’m sorry
for it.”
“Pardon, madame. You say you cannot prove that
Jennie was in love with Patrick Ive. May I ask: how
do you know that she was? As you suggest, it is
unthinkable that one who loved him would start so
damaging a rumor.”
“There is no doubt in my mind that Jennie loved
Patrick,” said Nancy stubbornly. “She left behind a
sweetheart in Cambridge when she moved to Great
Holling with Patrick and Frances—did you know
that?”
We shook our heads.
“They were supposed to get married. The date was
set, I believe. Jennie couldn’t bear to let Patrick go,
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
