have not yet made it clear: Harriet Sippel, Ida
Gransbury and Richard Negus were all dead long
before a quarter past seven o’clock on the Thursday
in question.”
Luca Lazzari stepped forward. “Monsieur Poirot,
please forgive my intrusion, but I must tell you that
Rafal Bobak, my most loyal of waiters, would not lie.
He saw the three murder victims alive and well when
he delivered the food at a quarter past seven. Alive
and well! You must be mistaken in what you are
saying.”
“I am not mistaken. Though in one respect you are
correct: your waiter Rafal Bobak is indeed an
exemplary witness. He certainly saw three people in
Room 317 when he delivered the afternoon tea— but
those people were not Harriet Sippel, Ida Gransbury
and Richard Negus. ”
All over the room there were gasps of shock. I
gave one myself, wracking my brains to think who
else the three might have been. Not Jennie Hobbs, for
she would have been on her way to Pleasant’s Coffee
House at that time. Who, then?
“Poirot,” I said nervously. “Is it your contention
that three people impersonated the murder victims in
order to make it look as if they were still alive when
the food was delivered?”
“Not precisely, no. In fact, two people
impersonated two of the murder victims. The third
person, Ida Gransbury . . . she was not an
impersonation, I am sorry to say. No, she was
unfortunately the real Ida Gransbury. Mr. Bobak, do
you remember what you told me about what you
overheard and what you witnessed when you took the
afternoon tea to Room 317? I recall every word, since
you have given me your account twice. Would you
mind if I repeat it now for the benefit of us all?”
“No, sir, I would not.”
“Merci. You arrived to find the three murder
victims apparently alive and talking about people they
knew. You heard Harriet Sippel, or the woman later
referred to as ‘Harriet’ by the man in the room, say,
‘She had no choice, did she? She’s no longer the one
he confides in. He’d hardly be interested in her now
—she’s let herself go, and she’s old enough to be his
mother. No, if she wanted to find out what was going
on in his mind, she had no choice but to receive the
woman he does confide in, and talk to her.’ This was
when the man in the room broke off from attending to
you and to the food, and said, ‘Oh, Harriet, that’s
hardly fair. Ida’s easily shocked. Go easy on her.’
Have I been accurate so far, Mr. Bobak?”
“You have, sir.”
“You then told me that either Ida or Harriet said
something else that you could not remember, and then
the man you assumed was Richard Negus said, ‘His
mind? I’d argue he has no mind. And I dispute the
old-enough-to-be-his-mother claim. I dispute it
utterly.’ At which point the woman going by the name
of Harriet laughed and said, ‘Well, neither of us can
prove we’re right, so let’s agree to disagree!’
Correct?”
Rafal Bobak confirmed that, once again, Poirot had
got it right.
“Bon. May I suggest to you, Mr. Bobak, that the
remark made by either Ida or Harriet that you do not
remember was in fact made by Harriet? I am
convinced—absolutely convinced!—that you did not
hear Ida Gransbury speak one single word while you
were in that room, and that you did not see her face
because she was sitting with her back facing the
door.”
Bobak frowned, concentrating. Eventually he said,
“I think you are right, Mr. Poirot. No, I did not see the
face of Miss Ida Gransbury. And . . . I don’t think I
heard her speak at all, now that you bring it up.”
“You did not hear her speak, monsieur—for the
simple reason that Ida Gransbury, propped up in a
chair with her back facing the door, was already
murdered by a quarter past seven. The third person
in Room 317 when you took up the afternoon tea
was a dead woman! ”
The Blue Jug and Bowl
A FEW PEOPLE CRIED out in alarm. There is a strong
chance that I was one of them. It is strange: I have
seen many dead bodies, thanks to my work for
Scotland Yard, and have on occasion found the sight
of them disturbing—yet no regular corpse could be as
horrifying a prospect as a dead woman propped up as
if alive and partaking of a jolly afternoon tea with
friends.
Poor Rafal Bobak looked rather shivery and
wobbly lipped, no doubt reflecting that he had been
closer to the monstrosity than any sane person would
wish to be.
“This is why the food had to be delivered to Ida
Gransbury’s room,” Poirot went on. “Richard Negus’s
room, 238, would have been the most convenient
meeting point for the three victims, as it was on the
second floor between the other two rooms. The
afternoon tea would then have been added to Mr.
Negus’s bill without his having to make a point of
requesting this. But of course Room 238 could not be
the room in which our three murder victims were seen
alive by Rafal Bobak at a quarter past seven! That
would have involved carrying Ida Gransbury’s dead
body from her room, 317, in which she had been
killed some hours earlier, through the corridors of the
hotel to Richard Negus’s room. It would have been
too great a risk. Someone would almost certainly
have seen.”
The shocked faces of the bewildered crowd were
something to behold. I wondered if Luca Lazzari
would soon be seeking new staff. I definitely had no
intention of returning to the Bloxham once this
unpleasant business was concluded, and I imagined
that many in the room felt the same way.
Poirot proceeded with his explanations. “Reflect,
ladies and gentlemen, upon the munificence, the
largesse, of Mr. Richard Negus. Ah, how generous he
was, insisting on paying for the food and the tea, also
paying for Harriet and Ida each to travel alone to the
hotel in a car. Why would they not come by train
together and share a car to the hotel? And why should
Richard Negus care so passionately about making
sure that the bill for the food and beverages was sent
to him, when he knew that he, Harriet Sippel and Ida
Gransbury were all about to die?”
It was a very good question. All the points that
Poirot was making were pertinent, and, moreover,
were things I should have thought of myself.
Somehow, I had failed to notice that so many aspects
of Jennie Hobbs’s story did not fit with the facts of the
case. How could I have missed such glaring
inconsistencies?
Poirot said, “The man who impersonated Richard
Negus at fifteen minutes past seven for the benefit of
Rafal Bobak, and again at half past for the benefit of
Mr. Thomas Brignell, did not care about any bill! He
knew that neither he nor his accomplices would have
to pay it. He had been outside to dispose of the food.
How did he transport it? In a suitcase! Catchpool—do
you remember the tramp you saw near the hotel, when
we took our trip on a bus? A tramp eating food from a
suitcase, non? You described him as ‘the tramp that
got the cream.’ Tell me, did you see him eating cream
specifically?”
“Oh, my goodness. Yes, I did! He was eating a . . .
a cake, with cream in it.”
Poirot nodded. “From the suitcase he found
discarded near the Bloxham Hotel, pleasingly full of
afternoon tea for three! Now, here is another test for
your memory, mon ami: do you remember telling me,
on my first visit to the Bloxham, that Ida Gransbury
had brought enough clothes with her to fill an entire
wardrobe? And yet she had only one suitcase in her
room—the same number as Richard Negus and
Harriet Sippel, who had brought considerably fewer
clothes with them. This afternoon, I asked you to pack
Miss Gransbury’s garments into her case, and what
did you find?”
“They wouldn’t fit,” I said, feeling like a prize
chump. It seemed that I was doomed to feel idiotic in
relation to Ida Gransbury’s suitcase, but now for a
different reason from before.
“You blamed yourself,” said Poirot. “It is your
preference to do so always, but in fact it was
impossible for all the clothes to fit in, because they
had been brought to the Bloxham in two suitcases.
Even Hercule Poirot, he could not have made them
fit!”
To the assembled hotel staff, he said, “It was on
his way back from disposing of the suitcase full of
food that this man met the Bloxham’s assistant clerk,
Thomas Brignell, near the door to this room in which
we are gathered. Why did he engage Brignell in
discussion about the bill? For one reason only: to
impress upon Brignell that Richard Negus was still
alive at half past seven. Playing the role of Mr.
Negus, he said something inaccurate: that Negus could
afford to pay, whereas Harriet Sippel and Ida
Gransbury could not. This was not true! Henry Negus,
Richard’s brother, can confirm that Richard had no
income and very little family money left. But the man
impersonating Richard Negus did not know this. He
assumed that since Richard Negus was a gentleman,
once a lawyer by profession, he was bound to have
plenty of money.
“When Henry Negus first spoke to Catchpool and
myself, he told us that since moving to Devon, his
brother Richard had been morose and doom laden. He
was a recluse with no appetite for life—correct, Mr.
Negus?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” said Henry Negus.
“A recluse! I ask you, does this sound like a man
who would indulge himself in sherry and cake, and
gossip in a cavalier fashion with two women in a
fancy London hotel? No! The man who received the
afternoon tea from Rafal Bobak, and for whom
Thomas Brignell fetched the sherry, was not Richard
Negus. This man, he complimented Mr. Brignell on
his efficiency and said something approximating the
following: ‘I know I can rely on you to sort this out,
since you are so efficient—bill the food and
beverages to me, Richard Negus, Room 238.’ His
words were calculated to make Thomas Brignell
believe that this man, this Richard Negus, was
familiar with his level of efficiency, and that
therefore they must have encountered one another
before. Mr. Brignell might feel a little guilty, perhaps,
because he does not remember his previous dealings
with Mr. Negus—and he will resolve not to forget
him again. He will remember from now on this man
whom he has met twice. Naturally, working in a large
London hotel, he meets people all the time, hundreds
every day! It often happens, I am sure, that guests
know his name and face while he has forgotten theirs
—after all, they are simply, en masse, ‘the guests’!”
“Excuse me, Monsieur Poirot, I beg your pardon.”
Luca Lazzari hurried forward. “Broadly speaking, you
are quite right, but not, as chance would have it, in the
case of Thomas Brignell. He has an exceptional
memory for faces and names. Exceptional!”
Poirot smiled appreciatively. “Is that so? Bon.
Then I am right.”
“About what?” I asked.
“Be patient and listen, Catchpool. I will explain
the sequence of events. The man impersonating
Richard Negus was in the lobby of the hotel when Mr.
Negus checked in on Wednesday, the day before the
murders. Probably he wanted to survey the territory in
preparation for the role he was to play later. In any
case, he saw Richard Negus arrive. How did he know
it was Richard Negus? I will come back to that point.
Suffice to say, he knew. He saw Thomas Brignell
undertake the necessary paperwork and then hand Mr.
Negus the key to his room. The following evening,
after posing as Mr. Negus to receive the afternoon tea
and then going outside to dispose of it, this man is on
his way back to Room 317 and he passes Thomas
Brignell. He is a quick-thinking individual, and he
sees a superb opportunity to consolidate the
misleading of the police. He approaches Brignell and
addresses him as if he, this impostor, were Richard
Negus. He reminds Brignell of his name and alludes
to a previous meeting.
“In fact, Thomas Brignell has never met this man
before, but he remembers the name from when he
gave the real Richard Negus his room key. Here,
suddenly, is a man speaking to him in a confident,
friendly and knowledgeable fashion and calling
himself by that same name. Thomas Brignell assumes
that he must be Richard Negus. He does not recall
his face, but he blames only himself for this lapse.”
Thomas Brignell’s face had turned as red as claret.
Poirot went on, “The man impersonating Richard
Negus asked for a glass of sherry. Why? To extend his
encounter with Brignell a little, thereby imprinting it
more strongly on the clerk’s memory? To soothe
agitated nerves with some liquor? Maybe for both of
these reasons.
“Now, if you will permit me a small digression: in
the remains of this glass of sherry, the poison cyanide
was found, as it was in Harriet Sippel’s and Ida
Gransbury’s cups of tea. But it was not the tea or the
sherry that killed the three murder victims. It cannot
have been. These beverages arrived too late to kill,
long after the murders had been committed. The
sherry glass and the two teacups on the occasional
tables next to the three bodies—they were essential
for the staging of the crime scenes, to give the false
impression that the killings must have occurred after
a quarter past seven. In fact, the cyanide that killed
Harriet Sippel, Ida Gransbury and Richard Negus
was given to them much earlier and by another means.
There is a water glass by the basin in each room of
the hotel, is there not, Signor Lazzari?”
“Si, Monsieur Poirot. Yes, there is.”
“Then I expect that is how the poison was
consumed: in water. The glass, in each case, was then
carefully washed and replaced by the basin. Mr.
Brignell,” Poirot addressed him unexpectedly,
causing the assistant clerk to duck in his seat as if
someone had taken a shot at him. “You do not like to
speak in public, but you plucked up the courage to do
so the first time we all gathered in this room. You told
us of your encounter with Mr. Negus in the corridor,
but you did not mention the sherry, even though I
had specifically asked about it. Later, you sought me
