Hobbs did not arrive to kill him as she was supposed
to. He took his own life and made it look like murder
by first locking his door and hiding the key behind a
loose tile in the fireplace, and then opening the
window. The police were supposed to think that the
murderer—Nancy Ducane—took the key with her and
escaped through the open window and down a tree.
But there was no murderer, according to Jennie
Hobbs—nobody who killed without permission of the
victim!”
Poirot looked around the room. “No murderer,” he
repeated. “However, even if this were true, there
would still be two criminals who are alive and
deserving of punishment: Jennie Hobbs and Samuel
Kidd, who conspired to frame Nancy Ducane.”
“I hope you’re going to lock them both up,
Monsieur Poirot!” called out Louisa Wallace.
“I do not lock or unlock the prison gate, madame.
That is the job of my friend Catchpool and his
associates. I unlock only the secrets and the truth. Mr.
Samuel Kidd, please stand.”
Kidd, looking uncomfortable, rose to his feet.
“Your part in the plan was to place a note on the
front desk of this hotel, was it not? ‘MAY THEY
NEVER REST IN PEACE. 121. 238. 317.’ ”
“Yes, sir. It was, like Jennie said.”
“You had been given the note by Jennie in good
time to do this?”
“Yes. She gave it to me earlier in the day. In the
morning.”
“And you were to put it on the desk when?”
“Shortly after eight o’clock in the evening, like
Jennie said. As soon as I could after eight, but first
making sure no one was close enough to see me put it
there.”
“You had this instruction from whom?” Poirot
asked.
“Jennie.”
“And also from Jennie you had the instruction to
plant the room keys in the pocket of Nancy Ducane?”
“That’s right,” said Kidd in a sullen voice. “I don’t
know why you’re asking me all this when she’s only
just now finished telling you.”
“I will explain. Bon. According to the original
plan, as we have all heard Jennie Hobbs say, the keys
to all three rooms—121, 238 and 317—would be
removed from Richard Negus’s room by Jennie after
she had killed him, and given to Samuel Kidd, who
would place them somewhere that would implicate
Nancy Ducane—her coat pocket, as it turned out. But
Jennie Hobbs did not go to the Bloxham Hotel at all
on the night of the murders, according to her story.
She was not brave enough. I therefore ask you, Mr.
Kidd: how did you get hold of the keys to rooms 121
and 317?”
“How did I . . . how did I get hold of the two
keys?”
“Yes. That is the question I asked you. Please
answer it.”
“I . . . well, if you must know, I got hold of those
keys thanks to my own wits. I had a word in the ear of
a member of the hotel staff and asked if they’d be
good enough to let me have a master key. And they
did. I then returned it to them, once I’d used it. All
discreet, like.”
I was standing close enough to Poirot to hear the
noise of disapproval that he made. “Which member of
staff, monsieur? They are all here in this room. Point
to the person who gave you this master key.”
“I can’t remember who it was. A man—that’s all I
can tell you. I’ve a pitiful memory for faces.” As he
said this, Kidd rubbed the red scratches on his own
face with his thumb and forefinger.
“So, with this master key you let yourself into all
three rooms?”
“No, only Room 238. That’s where all the keys
ought to have ended up, waiting for Jennie to take
them, but I could only find two. As you’ve said, one
was hidden behind a tile in the fireplace. I didn’t like
to stay and search the room for the third key, what
with Mr. Negus’s body being there and all.”
“You are lying,” Poirot told him. “It does not
matter. You will discover, in due course, that you
cannot lie your way out of this predicament. But let us
move on. No, do not sit down. I have another question
—for you and Jennie Hobbs. It was part of the plan,
was it not, that Jennie should bring her tale of mortal
fear to me at Pleasant’s Coffee House at just after half
past seven on the night of the murders?”
“Yes,” said Jennie, looking not at Poirot but at
Samuel Kidd.
“Forgive me, then, but I do not understand
something important. You were too afraid to go
through with the plan, you say, and so you did not
arrive at the hotel at six o’clock. Yet the plan went
ahead without you, it seems. The only deviation was
that Richard Negus killed himself, yes? He put the
poison into his own drink, rather than having it put in
his drink by you. Is everything that I have said so far
correct, mademoiselle?”
“Yes, it is.”
“In that case, if the only altered detail was Richard
Negus killing himself instead of being killed, we can
assume that the deaths took place as planned: after the
ordering of the sandwiches and scones, between a
quarter past seven and eight o’clock. Yes, Miss
Hobbs?”
“That is right,” said Jennie. She did not sound
quite as certain as she had a moment ago.
“Then how, might I ask, can it ever have been part
of the plan for you to kill Richard Negus? You have
told us that you intended to find me at Pleasant’s
Coffee House shortly after half past seven on that
same night, knowing I would be there for my regular
Thursday evening dinner. It is impossible to get from
the Bloxham Hotel to Pleasant’s Coffee House in less
than half an hour. It cannot be done, no matter how
one travels. So, even if Ida Gransbury had killed
Harriet Sippel and Richard Negus had killed Ida
Gransbury as soon as was possible after a quarter
past seven, there would not have been time for you to
kill Richard Negus in Room 238 after that time, and
still arrive at Pleasant’s when you did. Are we
supposed to believe that, in all the meticulous
planning that you undertook, none of you thought of
this practical impossibility?”
Jennie’s face had turned white. I expect mine had
too, though I could not see it myself.
It was such an obvious flaw in her account that
Poirot had pointed out, and yet I had failed to spot it.
It simply had not occurred to me.
The Real Ida Gransbury
SAMUEL KIDD CHUCKLED, TURNING round so that more
people could see him. He said, “Mr. Poirot, for a man
who takes pride in his powers of detection, you’re not
the sharpest of instruments, are you? I’ve heard Jennie
talk about this more often than you have, I think I can
safely say. The plan was not for the killings to take
place after a quarter past seven. I don’t know where
you’ve caught hold of that idea. The plan was for
them to happen just after six o’clock. The ordering of
food at a quarter past seven wasn’t part of it either.”
“That’s right,” said Jennie. Offered a way out of
the trap by her quick-thinking former fiancé, she
appeared to have recovered her composure. “I can
only conclude that my failure to arrive at six as
agreed caused a delay. The others would have wanted
to discuss my failure to present myself. I should have,
in their place. The discussion about what to do might
have taken some time.”
“Ah, bien sûr. You did not correct me a few
moments ago, however, when I asserted that the
deaths took place as planned: between a quarter past
seven and eight o’clock. Neither did you say that the
ordering of the very late afternoon tea was not part of
the plan.”
“I’m sorry. I should have corrected you,” said
Jennie. “I’m . . . I mean, this is all rather
overwhelming.”
“You now say that the plan was for the three
killings to take place at six o’clock?”
“Yes, and all be done by fifteen minutes before
seven so that I could get to Pleasant’s by half past.”
“In that case, I have a different question for you,
mademoiselle. Why did the plan require Mr. Kidd to
wait a full hour once Harriet, Ida and Richard were
all dead, and once you had left the hotel, before
placing the note on the front desk? Why was it not
agreed that Mr. Kidd should do this at, for example, a
quarter past seven, or even half past seven? Why eight
o’clock?”
Jennie recoiled as if from a blow. “Why not eight
o’clock?” she said defiantly. “What was the harm in
waiting a while?
“You ask some daft questions, Mr. Poirot,” said
Sam Kidd.
“No harm whatever in waiting, mademoiselle—I
agree entirely. Therefore we must ask ourselves: why
leave a note at all? Why not wait for the hotel maids
to find the three bodies the following morning?
Jennie? Do not look at Samuel Kidd. Look at Hercule
Poirot! Answer the question.”
“I . . . I don’t know! I think maybe Richard . . .”
“No! Not maybe Richard!” Poirot spoke over her.
“If you will not answer my question, allow me to do
so. You told Mr. Kidd to leave the note on the desk
just after eight because it was always part of the plan
for the murders to appear to have been committed
between a quarter past seven and eight o’clock!”
Poirot turned once again to the silent, wide-eyed
crowd. “Let us think about the afternoon tea for three
that was ordered, and delivered to Room 317—Ida
Gransbury’s room. Let us imagine that our three
voluntary victims, puzzled by the absence of Jennie
Hobbs, were unsure what to do, and so went to Ida
Gransbury’s room to discuss the matter. Catchpool, if
you were about to allow yourself to be executed for a
past sin, would you order scones and cakes
immediately beforehand?”
“No. I would be too nervous to eat or drink
anything.”
“Perhaps our trio of executioners thought it
important to keep up their strength for the important
task ahead,” Poirot speculated. “Then, when the food
arrived, they could not bring themselves to eat it. But
to where did all this food disappear?”
“Are you asking me?” said Jennie. “I’m afraid I
don’t know, since I wasn’t there.”
“To return to the timing of these killings,” said
Poirot. “The police doctor’s view was that death
occurred in all three cases between four and half past
eight. Circumstantial evidence later narrowed this
down to between a quarter past seven and ten past
eight. Eh bien, let us examine that circumstantial
evidence. The waiter Rafal Bobak saw all three
victims alive at a quarter past seven when he made
his delivery to Room 317, and Thomas Brignell saw
Richard Negus alive at half past seven in the hotel
lobby, when Negus complimented Brignell on his
efficiency, asked him to make sure the tea and cakes
were put on his bill, and requested a sherry. So it
seems that none of the killings can have happened
before fifteen minutes past seven, and that the murder
of Richard Negus cannot have happened before half
past.
“However, there are a handful of details that do
not fit to make the neat picture. First, there is the
disappearing food that we know was not eaten by
Harriet Sippel, Ida Gransbury and Richard Negus. I
do not believe that anyone about to kill for the first
time would imagine he might first want to eat a scone.
So why order food that one has no intention of eating
unless to establish in the eyes of a witness that you
are alive at a quarter past seven? And why should it
be necessary for our three victims to be seen alive at
that specific time? I can think of just one possible
explanation that is consistent with Jennie Hobbs’s
story: if our conspirators knew, somehow, that Nancy
Ducane had no credible alibi for the hour between a
quarter past seven and a quarter past eight, they might
have wished to make it look as if that was when the
killings took place. But Nancy Ducane has a very
solid alibi for that hour, does she not, Lady Wallace?”
Louisa Wallace rose to her feet. “Yes, she does.
She was with me and my husband until around ten
o’clock that evening, dining in our home.”
“Merci beaucoup, madame. Alors, I can think of
only one reason why it should be of such vital
importance to create the appearance of the three
deaths having taken place between a quarter past
seven and ten past eight: between those times, Jennie
Hobbs has an unshakeable alibi. I, Hercule Poirot,
know perfectly well that she cannot have been at the
Bloxham Hotel then. She was with me at Pleasant’s
Coffee House between thirty-five and fifty minutes
past seven, and I have already spoken about the
traveling times involved.
“I put all this together with my conviction that the
three deaths did not occur between a quarter past
seven and ten minutes past eight, and I begin to
wonder: why go to such trouble to make it look as if
Jennie Hobbs could not have committed these
murders, unless in fact she did commit them?”
Jennie leapt up out of her chair. “I didn’t kill
anybody! I swear I didn’t! Of course they died
between quarter past seven and eight o’clock—it’s
clear to everybody but you!”
“Sit down and remain silent, Miss Hobbs, unless I
ask you a direct question,” said Poirot coldly.
Samuel Kidd’s face was contorted with rage.
“You’re making all this up, Mr. Poirot! How do you
know they didn’t order that food because they were
ravenous hungry? Just because you wouldn’t be or I
wouldn’t be, doesn’t mean they weren’t.”
“Then why did they not eat the food, Mr. Kidd?” I
asked. “Where did all those sandwiches and cakes
vanish to?”
“The finest afternoon tea in all of London!”
murmured Luca Lazzari.
“I will tell you where it went, Catchpool,” said
Poirot. “Our murderer made a mistake relating to the
afternoon tea—one of many. If the food had been left
on the plates in Room 317 for the police to find, there
would have been no mystery. It would have been
assumed that the killer arrived and interrupted the
happy occasion before the feast could begin. But the
killer thinks it will arouse suspicion, all that uneaten
food. He does not want anyone to ask the question,
“Why order food and then not eat it?”
“Then what became of the food?” I asked. “Where
did it disappear to?”
“The conspirators removed it from the scene. Oh,
yes, ladies and gentlemen, there was most assuredly a
conspiracy to commit these three murders! In case I
