Free The Monogram Murders by Sophie Hannah Page A

He looked to be around fifty and had the
    jowlish tendency and mournful eyes of a basset
    hound. “It was I, sir,” he said.
    “What is your name, monsieur?”
    “Rafal Bobak, sir.”
    “You served dinner to Harriet Sippel, Ida
    Gransbury and Richard Negus in Room 317 at fifteen
    minutes past seven yesterday evening?” Poirot asked
    him.
    “Not dinner, sir,” said Bobak. “Afternoon tea—
    that was what Mr. Negus ordered. Afternoon tea at
    dinner time. He asked if that was all right or if I was
    going to force them to have what he called ‘a dinner
    sort of dinner.’ Told me that he and his friends were of
    one mind as not being in the mood for one of those.
    Said they’d rather have afternoon tea. I told him he
    could have whatever he wanted, sir. He asked for
    sandwiches—ham, cheese, salmon and cucumber—
    and an assortment of cakes. And scones, sir, with jam
    and cream.”
    “And beverages?” Poirot asked.
    “Tea, sir. For all three of them.”
    “ D’accord. And the sherry for Richard Negus?”
    Rafal Bobak shook his head. “No, sir. No sherry.
    Mr. Negus didn’t ask me for a sherry. I didn’t take a
    glass of sherry up to Room 317.”
    “You are certain of this?”
    “Absolutely, sir.”
    Being on display in front of all those pairs of eyes
    was making me feel a touch awkward. I was painfully
    aware that I had not yet asked a question. Letting
    Poirot run the show was all very well, but if I didn’t
    participate at all, I would look feeble. I cleared my
    throat and addressed the room: “Did any of you take a
    cup of tea to Harriet Sippel’s room, number 121, at
    any point? Or a sherry to Richard Negus’s room?
    Either yesterday or Wednesday, the day before?”
    Heads began to shake. Unless someone was lying,
    it seemed that the only delivery to any of the three
    victims’ rooms was the one of afternoon-tea-for-
    dinner made by Rafal Bobak to Room 317 at 7:15
    P.M. on Thursday.
    I tried to sort it out in my mind: the teacup in
    Harriet Sippel’s room wasn’t a problem. That must
    have been one of the three brought by Bobak, since
    only two cups were found in Ida Gransbury’s room
    after the murders. But how did the sherry glass make
    its way to Richard Negus’s room unless transported
    there by a waiter?
    Did the killer arrive at the Bloxham with a glass of
    Harveys Bristol Cream in his hand, as well as a
    pocket full of mongrammed cufflinks and poison? It
    seemed far-fetched.
    Poirot appeared to have fixed on the same
    problem. “To be absolutely clear: not one of you gave
    a glass of sherry to Mr. Richard Negus, either in his
    room or anywhere else in the hotel?”
    There was more head-shaking.
    “Signor Lazzari, can you tell me please, was the
    glass found in Mr. Negus’s room one that belonged to
    the Bloxham Hotel?”
    “Yes, it was, Monsieur Poirot. This is all very
    perplexing. I would suggest that perhaps a waiter who
    is absent today gave the glass of sherry to Mr. Negus
    on Thursday or Wednesday, but everybody is here
    now who was here then.”
    “It is, as you say, perplexing,” Poirot agreed. “Mr.
    Bobak, perhaps you could tell us what happened
    when you took the evening-afternoon-tea to Ida
    Gransbury’s room.”
    “I set it out on the table and then I left them to it,
    sir.”
    “They were all three in the room? Mrs. Sippel,
    Miss Gransbury and Mr. Negus?”
    “They were, yes, sir.”
    “Describe to us the scene.”
    “The scene, sir?”
    Seeing that Rafal Bobak was at a loss, I chipped in
    with: “Which one of them opened the door?”
    “Mr. Negus opened the door, sir.”
    “And where were the two women?” I asked.
    “Oh, they were sitting in the two chairs over by the
    fireplace. Talking to each other. I had no dealings
    with them. I spoke only to Mr. Negus. Laid everything
    out on the table by the window, and then I left, sir.”
    “Can you recall what the two ladies talked about?”
    asked Poirot.
    Bobak lowered his eyes. “Well, sir . . .”
    “It