The Monogram Murders: The New Hercule Poirot Mystery (Hercule Poirot Mysteries) by Sophie Hannah & Agatha Christie

Author:Sophie Hannah & Agatha Christie
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9780062297235
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2014-09-08T16:00:00+00:00

All the color drained from Nancy’s face. “Yes,”

she whispered. “Patrick James Ive. He was the

vicar.”

“Ah! This vicar, he died tragically, did he not? His

wife too?”

“Yes.”

“What happened to them?”

“I won’t talk about it. I won’t!”

“It is of the utmost importance. I must implore you

to tell me.”

“I shan’t!” cried Nancy. “I couldn’t if I tried. You

don’t understand. I haven’t spoken of it for so long, I

. . .” Her mouth opened and closed for a few seconds,

while no words came out. Then her face twisted in

pain. “What happened to Harriet, Ida and Richard?”

she asked. “How were they killed?”

“With poison.”

“Oh, how awful! But fitting.”

“How so, madame? Did Patrick Ive and his wife

die as a result of poisoning?”

“I won’t talk about them, I tell you!”

“Did you also know a Jennie in Great Holling?”

Nancy gasped and put her hand to her throat.

“Jennie Hobbs. I have nothing to say about her,

nothing whatsoever. Do not ask me another question!”

She blinked away tears. “Why do people have to be

so cruel, Monsieur Poirot? Do you understand it? No,

don’t answer! Let us talk about something else,

something uplifting. We must talk about art since we

both love it.” Nancy stood and walked over to a large

portrait that hung to the left of the window. It was of a

man with unruly black hair, a wide mouth and a cleft

chin. He was smiling. There was a suggestion of

laughter.

“My father,” said Nancy. “Albinus Johnson. You

might know the name.”

“It is familiar, though I cannot immediately place

it,” said Poirot.

“He died two years ago. I last saw him when I was

nineteen. I am now forty-two.”

“Please accept my condolences.”

“I didn’t paint it. I don’t know who did, or when. It

isn’t signed or dated, so I don’t think much of the

artist, whoever he is—an amateur—but . . . it’s my

father smiling, and that’s why it’s up on the wall. If he

had smiled more in real life . . .” Nancy broke off and

turned to face Poirot. “You see?” she said. “St. John

Wallace is wrong! It is the job of art to replace

unhappy true stories with happier inventions.”

There was a loud knock at the door, followed by

the reappearance of Constable Stanley Beer. Poirot

knew what was coming from the way that Beer looked

only at him and avoided Nancy’s eye. “I’ve found

something, sir.”

“What is it?”

“Two keys. They were in a coat pocket, a dark

blue coat with fur cuffs. The maid tells me it belongs

to Mrs. Ducane.”

“Which two keys?” asked Nancy. “Let me see

them. I don’t keep keys in coat pockets, ever. I have a

drawer for them.”

Beer still didn’t look at her. Instead, he

approached Poirot’s chair. When he was standing

beside him, he opened his closed fist.

“What has he got there?” said Nancy impatiently.

“Two keys with room numbers engraved upon

them, belonging to the Bloxham Hotel,” said Poirot in

a solemn voice. “Room 121 and Room 317.”

“Should those numbers mean something to me?”

Nancy asked.

“Two of the three murders were committed in

those rooms, madame: 121 and 317. The witness who

saw you run from the Bloxham Hotel on the night of

the murders, he said that the two keys he saw you

drop had numbers on them: one hundred and

something, and three hundred and something.

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