The Older Woman and the Younger Man
“SO,” SAID POIROT ONCE our visitor had left us and we were alone. “Nancy Ducane agrees with Margaret Ernst that the Ives committed suicide, but the official record is of two accidental deaths. Ambrose Flowerday told this lie in order to protect the reputations of Patrick and Frances Ive from further damage.”
“How extraordinary,” I said. “Margaret Ernst said nothing about that.”
“I wonder, then, if we have found the reason why she made you promise not to speak to the doctor. What if Ambrose Flowerday is proud of the lie he told—proud enough, maybe, to confess if asked. If Margaret Ernst wished to protect him . . .”
“Yes,” I agreed. “That could have been the reason she wanted to steer me away from him.”
“The desire to protect—this I understand only too well!” Poirot’s voice was fierce with emotion.
“You mustn’t blame yourself about Jennie, Poirot. You could not have protected her.”
“There you have the wisdom, Catchpool. Protecting Jennie would have been impossible for anyone, even Hercule Poirot. It was too late to save her even before I met her—this I now understand. Much, much too late.” He sighed. “It is interesting, is it not, that this time there is blood, when before there was poison and no blood?”
“What I keep wondering is: where is Jennie’s body? The Bloxham has been searched from top to bottom, and nothing!”
“Do not ask yourself where, Catchpool. Where does not matter. Ask yourself why. Whether the body was removed from the hotel by laundry cart, suitcase or wheelbarrow, why was it removed? Why was it not left in the hotel room, as the other three were?”
“Well? What’s the answer? You know what it is, so tell me.”
“Indeed,” said Poirot. “All of this can be explained, but I am afraid it is not a happy explanation.”
“Happy or not, I’d like to hear it.”
“In the fullness of time you will hear everything. For now I will tell you this: no employee of the Bloxham Hotel saw either Harriet Sippel, Ida Gransbury or Richard Negus more than once, apart from one man: Thomas Brignell. He saw Richard Negus twice: once when Negus arrived at the hotel on the Wednesday and Brignell attended to him, and again on Thursday evening when he bumped into Mr. Negus in the corridor and Mr. Negus asked him for a sherry.” Poirot gave a self-satisfied little chuckle. “Reflect upon that, Catchpool. Do you start to see what is suggested by that fact?”
“No.”
“Ah!”
“For pity’s sake, Poirot!” Never had one syllable—Ah!—been enunciated in such an infuriating fashion.
“I have told you, my friend: do not expect always to be given the answer.”
“I’m well and truly stumped! From several angles, it looks as if Nancy Ducane must be our killer, but she has an alibi from Lady Louisa Wallace. So. Who else might want to kill Harriet Sippel, Ida Gransbury, Richard Negus and now Jennie Hobbs too?” I stamped up and down the drawing room, angry with myself because I couldn’t see a way out of the bind. “And—though I still think you’re crazy to suspect them—if the murderer is Henry Negus, or Rafal Bobak, or Thomas Brignell, what could the motive have been? What connection do any of those people have to the tragic events in Great Holling sixteen years ago?”
“Henry Negus has the oldest and most common motive in the world: money. He told us, did he not, that his brother Richard had been squandering his wealth? He told us, also, that his wife would on no account banish Richard from her home. If Richard Negus dies, Henry Negus does not have to pay for his upkeep. If Richard does not die, he might end up costing his brother a small fortune.”
“And Harriet Sippel and Ida Gransbury? Jennie Hobbs? Why would Henry Negus kill them too?”
“I do not know, though I could speculate,” said Poirot. “As for Rafal Bobak and Thomas Brignell—I can think of no possible motive for either man, unless one of them is not who he purports to be.”
“I suppose we could do a bit of digging around,” I said.
“While we are compiling a list of possible suspects, what about Margaret Ernst and Dr. Ambrose Flowerday?” Poirot suggested. “They were not in love with Patrick Ive, but they might nevertheless have been motivated by the desire to avenge him. Margaret Ernst was, by her own account, sitting in her house alone on the night of the murders. And we do not know where Dr. Flowerday was because you promised you would not seek him out and—alas!—you kept your promise. Poirot will have to go to Great Holling himself.”
“I did say that you ought to come with me,” I reminded him. “But I suppose if you had, you wouldn’t have been able to talk to Nancy Ducane and Rafal Bobak and the others. Incidentally, this younger man and older woman that Bobak overheard Harriet, Ida and Richard Negus talking about, assuming we believe his account—I’ve been pondering, and I’ve even made a list of all the romantically linked couples I can think of.” I produced the list from my pocket. (I will admit that I was hoping to impress Poirot, but either he wasn’t impressed or else he hid it well.)
“George and Harriet Sippel,” I read aloud. “Patrick and Frances Ive. Patrick Ive and Nancy Ducane. William Ducane and Nancy Ducane. Charles and Margaret Ernst. Richard Negus and Ida Gransbury. In none of these pairings is the woman older than the man, certainly not by enough to be described as ‘old enough to be his mother.’ ”
“Tsk,” said Poirot impatiently. “You do not think, my friend. How do you know that this couple exists, with the older woman and the younger man?”
I stared at him, wondering if he had lost his reason. “Well, Walter Stoakley talked about them at the King’s Head, and Rafal Bobak overheard—”
“Non, non,” Poirot interrupted gracelessly. “You do not pay attention to the details: in the King’s Head Inn, Walter Stoakley spoke of the woman putting an end to her romantic involvement with the man, did he not? Whereas the conversation that Rafal Bobak overheard between the three murder victims was about a man no longer romantically interested in a woman who still craved his love. How can these be the same people, the same couple? The very opposite must be true: they cannot possibly be the same people!”
“You’re right,” I said, dejected. “I didn’t think of that.”
“You were too delighted with your pattern—that is why. A much older woman and much younger man over here, and a much older woman and much younger man over there. Voilà, you assume they must be the same!”
“Yes, I did. Perhaps I’m in the wrong job.”
“Non. You are perceptive, Catchpool. Not always, but sometimes. You have helped to steer me through the tunnel of confusion. Do you remember when you said that whatever Thomas Brignell was withholding, he was doing so for reasons of personal embarrassment? That was a remark that proved very helpful to me—very helpful indeed!”
“Well, I’m afraid I’m still in the tunnel and can’t see a flicker of light at either end.”
“I will make you a promise,” said Poirot. “Tomorrow, immediately after breakfast, we will pay a little visit, you and I. After that, you will comprehend more than you do now. I hope that I will also.”
“I don’t suppose I am permitted to ask whom we will be visiting?”
“You may ask, mon ami.” Poirot smiled. “I telephoned to Scotland Yard for the address. It is one you would recognize, I think, if I told it to you.”
Which, needless to say, he had no intention of doing.