some, and some was better than none.
“Monsieur Brignell, did you have the impression
that Mr. Negus happened to see you and take his
opportunity, as Mr. Catchpool describes? He was not
looking for you? It was you who attended to him when
he arrived at the hotel on Wednesday, yes?
“That’s right, sir. No, he wasn’t looking for me.”
Brignell seemed happier about speaking while seated.
“He chanced upon me and thought, ‘Oh, there’s that
chap again,’ if you know what I mean, sir.”
“Indeed. Ladies and gentlemen,” Poirot raised his
voice. “After committing three murders in this hotel
yesterday evening, the killer, or somebody who
knows the identity of the killer and conspired with
him, left a note on the front desk: ‘MAY THEY
NEVER REST IN PEACE. 121. 238. 317.’ Did
anybody happen to observe the leaving of this note
that I show to you now?” Poirot produced the small
white card from his pocket and held it up in the air. “It
was found by the clerk, Mr. John Goode, at ten
minutes past eight. Did any of you, perhaps, notice a
person or persons near the desk who seemed to be
conducting themselves in an unusual way? Think hard!
Someone must have seen something!”
Stout Tessie had screwed her eyes shut and was
leaning against her friend. The room had filled with
whispers and gasps, but it was only the shock and
excitement of seeing the handwriting of a killer—a
souvenir that made the three deaths seem more vividly
real.
Nobody had anything more to tell us. It turned out
that if you asked a hundred people, you were likely to
be disappointed.
The Sherry Conundrum
HALF AN HOUR LATER, Poirot and I sat drinking coffee
in front of a roaring fire in what Lazzari had called
“our hidden lounge,” a room that was behind the
dining room and not accessible from any public
corridor. The walls were covered with portraits that I
tried to ignore. Give me a sunny landscape any day of
the week, or even a cloudy one. It’s the eyes that
bother me when people are depicted; it doesn’t seem
to matter who the artist is. I’ve yet to see a portrait
and not be convinced that its subject is regarding me
with searing scorn.
After his exuberant performance as master of
ceremonies in the dining room, Poirot had lapsed
once more into quiet gloom. “You’re fretting about
Jennie again, aren’t you?” I asked him.
He admitted that he was. “I do not want to hear that
she has been found with a cufflink in her mouth, with
the monogram PIJ. That is the news I dread.”
“Since there is nothing you can do about Jennie for
the time being, I suggest you think about something
else,” I advised.
“How practical you are, Catchpool. Very well. Let
us think about teacups.”
“Teacups?”
“Yes. What do you make of them?”
After some consideration, I said, “I believe I have
no opinions whatever on the subject of teacups.”
Poirot made an impatient noise. “Three teacups are
brought to Ida Gransbury’s room by the waiter Rafal
Bobak. Three teacups for three people, as one would
expect. But when the bodies of the three are found,
there are only two teacups in the room.”
“The other one is in Harriet Sippel’s room with
Harriet Sippel’s dead body,” I said.
“Exactement. And this is most curious, is it not?
Did Mrs. Sippel carry her teacup and saucer back to
her room before or after the poison was put into it? In
either scenario, who would carry a cup of tea along a
hotel corridor, and then take it into a lift or walk
down two flights of stairs with it in their hands?
Either it is full and there is a risk of spillage, or it is
half full or almost empty, and hardly worth
transporting. Usually one drinks a cup of tea in the
room in which one pours the cup of tea, n’est-ce
pas?”
“Usually, yes. This killer strikes me as being as far
from usual as it’s possible to be,” I said with some
vehemence.
“And his victims? Are they not ordinary people?
What about their behavior? Do you ask me to believe
that Harriet Sippel carries her tea down to her room,
sits in a chair to drink it, and then almost immediately
the murderer knocks on her door and finds an
opportunity to put cyanide in her drink? And Richard
Negus, remember, has also left Ida Gransbury’s room
for some unknown reason, but he arranges to be back
in his own room soon afterward, with a glass of
sherry that nobody at the hotel gave him.”
“I suppose when you put it like that . . .” I said.
Poirot carried on as if I had not just conceded the
point. “Ah, yes, Richard Negus too, he is sitting alone
with his drink when the killer pays him a visit. He too
says, ‘By all means, drop your poison into my sherry.’
And Ida Gransbury, she is all the while waiting
patiently in Room 317, alone, for the murderer to
come calling? She sips her tea very slowly. It would
be inconsiderate of her to finish it before the killer
arrives, of course—how then would he poison her?
Where would he put his cyanide?”
“Damn it, Poirot—what do you want me to say? I
don’t understand it any more than you do! Look, it
seems to me that the three murder victims must have
had some kind of altercation. Why else would they
plan to dine together and then all go their separate
ways?”
“I do not think a woman leaving a room in anger
would take a half-finished cup of tea with her,” said
Poirot. “Would it not in any case be cold by the time it
reached Room 121?”
“I often drink tea cold,” I said. “I quite like it.”
Poirot raised his eyebrows. “If I did not know you
to be an honest man, I should not believe it possible.
Cold tea! Dégueulasse! ”
“Well, I should say I’ve grown to like it,” I added
in my defense. “There’s no hurry, with cold tea. You
can drink it at a time to suit you, and nothing bad’s
going to happen to it if you take a while. There’s no
time constraint and no pressure. That counts for a lot,
in my book.”
There was a knock at the door. “That will be
Lazzari, coming to check that no one has disturbed us
during our important conversation,” I said.
“Enter, please,” Poirot called out.
It was not Luca Lazzari but Thomas Brignell, the
junior clerk who had spoken up about having seen
Richard Negus by the lift at half past seven. “Ah,
Monsieur Brignell,” said Poirot. “Do join us. Your
account of yesterday evening was most helpful. Mr.
Catchpool and I are grateful.”
“Yes, very much so,” I said heartily. I’d have said
almost anything to make it easier for Brignell to cough
up whatever was bothering him. It was obvious that
something was. The poor chap looked no more
confident now than he had in the dining room. He
rubbed the palms of his hands together, sliding them
up and down. I could see sweat on his forehead, and
he looked paler than he had before.
“I’ve let you down,” he said. “I’ve let Mr. Lazzari
down, and he’s been so good to me, he has. I didn’t
. . . in the dining room before, I didn’t . . .” He broke
off and rubbed his palms together some more.
“You did not tell us the truth?” Poirot suggested.
“Every word I spoke was the truth, sir!” said
Thomas Brignell indignantly. “I’d be no better than
the murderer myself if I lied to the police on a matter
as important as this.”
“I do not think that you would be quite as guilty as
him, monsieur.”
“There were two things I neglected to mention. I
can’t tell you how sorry I am, sir. You see, speaking
in front of a room full of people isn’t something as
comes easy to me. I’ve always been that way. And
what made it harder in there, before”—he nodded in
the direction of the dining room—“was that I’d have
been reluctant to say the other thing Mr. Negus said to
me because he paid me a compliment.
“What compliment?”
“It wasn’t one I’d done anything to deserve, sir,
I’m sure. I’m just an ordinary man. There’s nothing
notable about me at all. I do my job, as I’m paid to,
and I try to do my best, but there’s no reason for
anyone to single me out for special praise.”
“And Mr. Negus did this?” asked Poirot. “He
singled you out for praise?”
Brignell winced. “Yes, sir. Like I said: I didn’t ask
for it and I’m sure I’d done nothing to earn it. But
when I saw him and he saw me, he said, ‘Ah, Mr.
Brignell, you seem a most efficient fellow. I know I
can trust you with this.’ Then he proceeded to discuss
the matter I mentioned before, sir—about the bill, and
him wanting to pay it.”
“And you did not want to repeat the compliment
you had received in front of everybody else, is that
right?” I said. “You feared it might sound boastful?”
“Yes, I did, sir. I did indeed. There’s something
else, too. Once we’d agreed the matter of the bill, Mr.
Negus asked me to fetch him a sherry. I was the
person that did that. I offered to take it up to his room,
but he said he was happy to wait. I brought it to him,
and then up he went with it, in the lift.”
Poirot sat forward in his chair. “Yet you said
nothing when I asked if anyone in the room had given
Richard Negus a glass of sherry?”
Brignell looked confused and frustrated—as if the
right answer was on the tip of his tongue, but still,
somehow, eluded him. “I ought to have done, sir. I
ought to have offered a full account of the incident as
soon as you asked. I deeply regret that I failed in my
duty to you and to the three deceased guests, God rest
their souls. I can only hope that by coming to you now
I’ve made a small amends.”
“Indeed, indeed. But, monsieur, I am curious about
why you did not speak up in the dining room. When I
asked, ‘Who here took Richard Negus a glass of
sherry?,’ what was it that caused you to remain
silent?”
The poor clerk had started to tremble. “I swear on
my dear late mother’s grave, Mr. Poirot, I’ve now
told you every particular of my encounter with Mr.
Negus yesterday evening. Every last particular. You
couldn’t have a more complete knowledge of what
transpired—of that you may rest assured.”
Poirot opened his mouth to ask another question,
but I leaped in before him and said, “Thank you very
much, Mr. Brignell. Please don’t worry about not
having told us sooner. I understand how hard it is to
stand up and speak in front of a crowd. I don’t much
like it myself.”
Once dismissed, Brignell hurried to the door like a
fox fleeing from hounds.
“I believe him,” I said when he had gone. “He’s
told us everything he knows.”
“About his meeting with Richard Negus beside the
hotel lift, yes. The detail he conceals relates to
himself. Why did he not speak up in the dining room
about the sherry? I asked him that question twice, and
still he did not answer. Instead, he elaborated upon
his remorse, which was sincere. He would not lie, but
he cannot bring himself to speak the truth. Ah, how he
withholds! It is a form of lying—a very effective one,
for there is no spoken lie to be contested.”
Poirot chuckled suddenly. “And, you, Catchpool,
you seek to protect him from Hercule Poirot, who
would press him again and again, eh, for the
information?”
“He looked as if he had reached his limit. And,
frankly, if he is keeping quiet about anything, it’s
something that he thinks is of no consequence to us
and yet it’s a cause of great embarrassment to him.
He’s a fretful, conscientious sort. His sense of duty
would oblige him to tell us if he thought it mattered.”
“And because you sent him away, I did not have
the chance to explain to him that the information he
withholds might be vital.” Having raised his voice,
Poirot glared at me, to make sure I noted his
annoyance. “Even I, Hercule Poirot, do not yet know
what matters and what is irrelevant. This is why I
must know everything.” He stood up. “And now, I
will return to Pleasant’s,” he said abruptly. “The
coffee there is far better than Signor Lazzari’s.”
“But Richard Negus’s brother Henry is on his
way,” I protested. “I thought you would want to speak
to him.”
“I need a change of scenery, Catchpool. I must
revitalize my little gray cells. They will begin to
stagnate if I do not take them elsewhere.”
“Poppycock! You’re hoping to bump into Jennie,
or hear news of her,” I said. “Poirot, I do think you’re
on a desperate goose chase with this Jennie business.
You know it too, or else you would admit you’re
going to Pleasant’s in the hope of finding her.”
“Maybe so. But if there is a goose killer at large,
what else is one to do? Bring Mr. Henry Negus to
Pleasant’s. I will talk to him there.”
“What? He’s coming all the way from Devon. He’s
not going to want to arrive and then leave at once for
—”
“But does he want the dead goose?” Poirot
demanded. “Ask him that!”
I resolved to ask Henry Negus no such thing, for
fear he might turn on his heel and go straight back
whence he came, having decided that Scotland Yard
had been taken over by madmen.
Two Keys
POIROT ARRIVED AT THE coffee house to find it very
busy and smelling of a mixture of smoke and
something sweet like pancake syrup. “I need a table,
but they are all taken,” he complained to Fee Spring,
who had only just arrived herself and was standing by
the wooden coat stand with her coat draped over her
arm. When she pulled off her hat, her flyaway hair
crackled and hung in the air for a few seconds before
succumbing to gravity. The effect was rather comical,
thought Poirot.
“Your need’s in trouble, then, isn’t it?” she said
cheerfully. “I can’t shoo paying patrons out onto the
street, not even for a famous detective.” She lowered
her voice to a whisper. “Mr. and Mrs. Ossessil will
be on their way before too long. You can sit where
they’re sitting.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Ossessil? That is an unusual name.”
Fee laughed at him, then whispered again. “ ‘Oh,
Cecil’—that’s what she says all day long, the wife.
The husband, poor soul, he can’t get as much as two
words out of his mouth without her setting him
straight. He says he’d like scrambled eggs and toast?
Right away she pipes up, ‘Oh, Cecil, not eggs and
