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Authors: Sophie Hannah
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murderer’s plan that neither Ida nor Harriet should
know about the presence of the other one. But if that’s
so, and if Richard Negus, meanwhile, knew that he
and both women would be guests at the Bloxham . . .”
My well of ideas ran dry at that point.
Poirot took over: “Our trains of thought proceed
along similar tracks, my friend. Was Richard Negus
an unwitting accomplice in his own murder? Perhaps
the killer persuaded him to entice the victims to the
Bloxham Hotel supposedly for another reason, when
all along he planned to murder all three of them. The
question is this: was it vital for some reason that Ida
and Harriet should each be ignorant of the presence
of the other in the hotel? And if so, was it important
to Richard Negus, to the murderer, or to both?”
“Perhaps Richard Negus had one plan, and the
murderer had another?”
“Quite so,” said Poirot. “The next thing is to find
out all that we can about Harriet Sippel, Richard
Negus and Ida Gransbury. Who were they when they
were alive? What were their hopes, their grievances,
their secrets? The village, Great Holling—this is
where we will look for our answers. Perhaps we will
also find Jennie there, and PIJ— le mystérieux !”
“There’s no guest here called Jennie, now or last
night. I checked.”
“No, I did not think that there would be. Fee
Spring, the waitress, told me that Jennie lives in a
house across town from Pleasant’s Coffee House.
That means in London—not Devon and not the Culver
Valley. Jennie has no need of a room at the Bloxham
Hotel when she lives only ‘across town.’ ”
“Speaking of which, Henry Negus, Richard’s
brother, is on his way here from Devon. Richard
Negus lived with Henry and his family. And I’ve got
some of my best men lined up to interview all the
hotel guests.”
“You have been very efficient, Catchpool.” Poirot
patted my arm.
I felt obliged to advise Poirot of my one failure.
“This business with the dinners in the rooms is
proving difficult to pin down,” I said. “I can’t find
anyone who was personally involved in taking the
orders or making the deliveries. There seems to be
some confusion.”
“Do not worry,” said Poirot. “I will do the
necessary pinning when we gather in the dining room.
In the meantime, let us take a walk around the hotel
gardens. Sometimes a gentle perambulation causes a
new idea to rise to the surface of one’s thoughts.”
AS SOON AS WE got outside, Poirot started to complain
about the weather, which did seem to have taken a
turn for the worse. “Shall we go back inside?” I
suggested.
“No, no. Not yet. The change of environment is
good for the little gray cells, and perhaps the trees
will afford some shelter from the wind. I do not mind
the cold, but there is the good kind and the bad kind,
and this, today, is the bad kind.”
We stopped as we came to the entrance to the
Bloxham’s gardens. Luca Lazzari had not exaggerated
their beauty, I thought, as I stared at rows of pleached
limes and, at the farthest end, the most artful topiary I
had ever seen in London. This was nature not merely
tamed but forced into stunning submission. Even in a
biting wind, it was exceptionally pleasing to the eye.
“Well?” I asked Poirot. “Are we going in or not?”
It would be satisfying, I thought, to stroll up and down
the green pathways between the trees, which were
Roman-road straight.
“I do not know.” Poirot frowned. “This weather
. . .” He shivered.
“. . . will extend, unavoidably, to the gardens,” I
completed his sentence somewhat impatiently. “There
are only two places we can be, Poirot: inside the
hotel or outside it. Which do you prefer?”
“I have a better idea!” he announced triumphantly.
“We will catch a bus!”
“A bus? To where?”
“To nowhere, or somewhere! It does not matter.
We will soon get off the bus and return on a different
one. It will give us the
know about the presence of the other one. But if that’s
so, and if Richard Negus, meanwhile, knew that he
and both women would be guests at the Bloxham . . .”
My well of ideas ran dry at that point.
Poirot took over: “Our trains of thought proceed
along similar tracks, my friend. Was Richard Negus
an unwitting accomplice in his own murder? Perhaps
the killer persuaded him to entice the victims to the
Bloxham Hotel supposedly for another reason, when
all along he planned to murder all three of them. The
question is this: was it vital for some reason that Ida
and Harriet should each be ignorant of the presence
of the other in the hotel? And if so, was it important
to Richard Negus, to the murderer, or to both?”
“Perhaps Richard Negus had one plan, and the
murderer had another?”
“Quite so,” said Poirot. “The next thing is to find
out all that we can about Harriet Sippel, Richard
Negus and Ida Gransbury. Who were they when they
were alive? What were their hopes, their grievances,
their secrets? The village, Great Holling—this is
where we will look for our answers. Perhaps we will
also find Jennie there, and PIJ— le mystérieux !”
“There’s no guest here called Jennie, now or last
night. I checked.”
“No, I did not think that there would be. Fee
Spring, the waitress, told me that Jennie lives in a
house across town from Pleasant’s Coffee House.
That means in London—not Devon and not the Culver
Valley. Jennie has no need of a room at the Bloxham
Hotel when she lives only ‘across town.’ ”
“Speaking of which, Henry Negus, Richard’s
brother, is on his way here from Devon. Richard
Negus lived with Henry and his family. And I’ve got
some of my best men lined up to interview all the
hotel guests.”
“You have been very efficient, Catchpool.” Poirot
patted my arm.
I felt obliged to advise Poirot of my one failure.
“This business with the dinners in the rooms is
proving difficult to pin down,” I said. “I can’t find
anyone who was personally involved in taking the
orders or making the deliveries. There seems to be
some confusion.”
“Do not worry,” said Poirot. “I will do the
necessary pinning when we gather in the dining room.
In the meantime, let us take a walk around the hotel
gardens. Sometimes a gentle perambulation causes a
new idea to rise to the surface of one’s thoughts.”
AS SOON AS WE got outside, Poirot started to complain
about the weather, which did seem to have taken a
turn for the worse. “Shall we go back inside?” I
suggested.
“No, no. Not yet. The change of environment is
good for the little gray cells, and perhaps the trees
will afford some shelter from the wind. I do not mind
the cold, but there is the good kind and the bad kind,
and this, today, is the bad kind.”
We stopped as we came to the entrance to the
Bloxham’s gardens. Luca Lazzari had not exaggerated
their beauty, I thought, as I stared at rows of pleached
limes and, at the farthest end, the most artful topiary I
had ever seen in London. This was nature not merely
tamed but forced into stunning submission. Even in a
biting wind, it was exceptionally pleasing to the eye.
“Well?” I asked Poirot. “Are we going in or not?”
It would be satisfying, I thought, to stroll up and down
the green pathways between the trees, which were
Roman-road straight.
“I do not know.” Poirot frowned. “This weather
. . .” He shivered.
“. . . will extend, unavoidably, to the gardens,” I
completed his sentence somewhat impatiently. “There
are only two places we can be, Poirot: inside the
hotel or outside it. Which do you prefer?”
“I have a better idea!” he announced triumphantly.
“We will catch a bus!”
“A bus? To where?”
“To nowhere, or somewhere! It does not matter.
We will soon get off the bus and return on a different
one. It will give us the
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