Free The Monogram Murders by Sophie Hannah

that
    eventually I would be able to leave, close the door
    behind me and stop counting.
    When he died, I felt as if I had been released from
    prison and could be fully alive again. He would be
    taken away, and there would be no more death in the
    house. And then my mother told me that I must go and
    see Grandfather one last time, in his room. She would
    come with me, she said. It would be all right.
    The doctor had laid him out. My mother explained
    to me about the laying out of the dead. I counted the
    seconds in silence. More seconds than usual. A
    hundred and thirty at least, standing by my mother’s
    side, looking at Grandpa’s still, shrunken body. “Hold
    his hand, Edward,” my mother said. When I said I
    didn’t want to, she started to weep as if she would
    never stop.
    So I held Grandpa’s dead, bony hand. I wanted
    more than anything to drop it and run away, but I clung
    to it until my mother stopped crying and said we
    could go back downstairs.
    “Hold his hand, Edward. Hold his hand.”

    Ask a Hundred People
    I BARELY NOTICED THE large crowd gathered in the
    Bloxham Hotel’s dining room as Poirot and I walked
    in. The room itself was so striking that I couldn’t help
    but be diverted by its grandeur. I stopped in the
    doorway and stared up at the high, lavishly
    ornamented ceiling with its many emblems and
    carvings. It was strange to think of people eating
    ordinary things like toast and marmalade at the tables
    below a work of art such as this—not even looking
    up, perhaps, as they sliced the tops off their boiled
    eggs.
    I was trying to make sense of the complete design,
    and how the different parts of the ceiling related to
    one another, when a disconsolate Luca Lazzari rushed
    toward me, interrupting my admiration of the artistic
    symmetry above my head with his loud lament. “Mr.
    Catchpool, Monsieur Poirot, I must apologize to you
    most profusely! I have hurried to assist you in your
    important work, and, in doing so, I have put forward a
    falsehood! It was simply, you see, that I heard many
    accounts, and my first attempt to collate them was not
    successful. My own foolishness was responsible! No
    one else was at fault. Ah—”
    Lazzari broke off and looked over his shoulder at
    the hundred or so men and women in the room. Then
    he moved to his left, so that he was standing directly
    in front of Poirot, and stuck out his chest in a funny
    sort of way. He put his hands on his hips. I think he
    was hoping to hide his entire staff from Poirot’s
    disapproving eye, on the principle that if they couldn’t
    be seen, they couldn’t be blamed for anything.
    “What was your mistake, Signor Lazzari?” Poirot
    asked.
    “It was a grave error! You observed that it was
    surely not possible, and you were right. But I want
    you to understand that my excellent staff, whom you
    see here before you, told me the truth of what took
    place, and it was I who twisted that truth to mislead—
    but I did not do it deliberately!”
    “ Je comprends. Now, to correct the mistake . . . ?”
    said Poirot hopefully.
    The “excellent” staff, meanwhile, sat silently at
    large round tables, listening carefully to every word.
    The mood was somber. I made a quick survey of the
    faces and saw not a single smile.
    “I told you that the three deceased guests asked to
    have dinner served in their rooms at a quarter past
    seven yesterday evening—each separately,” Lazzari
    said. “This is not true! The three were together! They
    dined as a group! All in one room, Ida Gransbury’s
    room, number 317. One waiter, not three, saw them
    alive and well at a quarter past seven. Do you see,
    Monsieur Poirot? It is not the great coincidence that I
    conveyed to you, but, instead, a commonplace
    occurrence: three guests taking dinner together in the
    room of one!”
    “ Bon. ” Poirot sounded satisfied. “That makes
    sense of that. And who was this one waiter?”
    A stout, bald man seated at one of the tables rose
    to his feet.