The Monogram Murders (35 page)

in the way that I was to Patrick. I ought to be grateful

to him for that. He asked me again to marry him but I

couldn’t, though I regard him as a very dear friend.

A new chapter of my life opened with my move to

London. I was unable to enjoy it and thought every

single day of Patrick, of the agony of never seeing him

again. Then last September I received a letter from

Richard Negus. Fifteen years had gone by, but I did

not feel as if the past had caught up with me—because

I never left it behind!

Richard had been given my London address by the

only person in Great Holling who knew it: Dr.

Ambrose Flowerday. I don’t know why, but I wanted

someone from there to know where I had gone. I

remember thinking at the time that I did not wish to

disappear absolutely without trace. I felt that . . .

No, I will not say that. It is not true that I had a

vision of the future in which Richard Negus sought me

out once again and asked for my help to right an old

wrong. I will say instead that I had a powerful

premonition, though not one I could have described in

words. I knew that the village of Great Holling was

not finished with me forever, nor I with it. That is why

I made sure to send my London address to Dr.

Flowerday.

Richard’s letter said that he needed to see me, and

it did not occur to me to refuse him. He came to

London the following week. Without preamble, he

asked if I would help him to make amends for the

unforgivable thing we had done all those years ago.

I told him that I did not believe amends could be

made. Patrick was dead. There was no undoing that.

Richard said, “Yes. Patrick and Frances are dead, and

you and I can never again know happiness. But what

if we were to make a corresponding sacrifice?”

I did not understand. I asked him what he meant.

He said: “If we killed Patrick and Frances Ive, and

I believe that we did, is it not fitting that we should

pay with our own lives? Do we not find ourselves

unable to benefit from the joy that life offers to other

people? Why is that? Why does time not heal our

wound as it is meant to heal? Could it be because we

do not deserve to live while poor Patrick and Frances

lie in the ground?” Richard’s eyes darkened as he

spoke, turning from their usual brown to almost black.

“The law of the land punishes with death those who

take the lives of the innocent,” he said. “We have

cheated that law.”

I could have told him that neither he nor I took up a

weapon and murdered Patrick and Frances, for that

would have been the factual truth of the matter.

However, his words resonated so powerfully that I

knew he was right, although many would have said he

was wrong. As he spoke, my heart filled with

something akin to hope for the first time in fifteen

years. I could not bring Patrick back, but I could make

certain that I did not escape justice for what I had

done to him.

“Are you proposing that I take my own life?” I

asked Richard, because he had not said so explicitly.

“No. Nor that I take mine. What I have in mind is

not suicide, but execution—for which we will

volunteer. Or at least I shall. I have no wish to force

your hand in this.”

“You and I are not the only guilty parties,” I

reminded him.

“No, we are not,” he agreed. What he said next

nearly caused my heart to stop. “Would it surprise you

greatly, Jennie, to learn that Harriet Sippel and Ida

Gransbury have come round to my way of thinking?”

I told him that I could not believe it. Harriet and

Ida would never admit to having done something cruel

and unforgivable, I thought. Richard said that at one

time he too had taken this for granted. He said, “I

persuaded them. People listen to me, Jennie. They

always have. I worked on Harriet and Ida, not with

harsh condemnation but by expressing, ceaselessly,

my own deep regret, and my wish that I could

compensate for the harm I had done. It took years—as

many as have passed since last you and I spoke—but

gradually Harriet and Ida came to see things as I do.

They are both profoundly unhappy women, you see:

Harriet ever since her husband died, and Ida since I

informed her that I no longer wished to marry her.”

I opened my mouth to voice my disbelief, but

Richard continued to speak. He assured me that both

Harriet and Ida had accepted their responsibility for

the deaths of Patrick and Frances Ive and wanted to

correct the wrong they had done. “The psychology of

the matter is fascinating,” he said. “Harriet is content

as long as there is someone she can seek to punish.

Presently, that person is herself. Do not forget that she

is eager to be reunited with her husband in heaven.

She cannot allow the possibility that she might end up

in a different place.”

I was speechless with shock. I said that I would

never believe it. Richard told me that I would as soon

as I spoke to Harriet and Ida and they confirmed it. I

must meet them, he said, so that I could see for myself

how changed they were.

I could not imagine Harriet or Ida changed, and I

feared that I would commit murder if I were to find

myself in a room with either one of them.

Richard said, “You must try to understand, Jennie.

I offered them a way out of their suffering—and be

assured, they
were
suffering. One cannot do such harm

to another and not wound one’s own soul in the

process. For years Harriet and Ida believed that all

they had to cling to was their conviction that they had

been right about Patrick, but over time they came to

see that I was offering them something better: God’s

true forgiveness. The sinful soul aches for

redemption, Jennie. The more we deny it the chance

of finding that redemption, the stronger the ache

grows. Thanks to my determined efforts, Harriet and

Ida came to see that the revulsion that every day grew

harder inside them was disgust at their own behavior,

at the wickedness they tried so hard to drape in a

cloak of virtue, and nothing to do with Patrick Ive’s

imagined sins.”

Listening to Richard, I started to understand that

even the most intransigent person—even a Harriet

Sippel—might be persuaded by him. He had a way of

putting things that made you see the world differently.

He asked for my permission to bring Harriet and

Ida to our next meeting and, with doubt and fear in my

heart, I granted it.

Although I believed everything Richard had told

me by the time he left me, I nevertheless reeled in

shock when, two days later, I found myself in a room

with Harriet Sippel and Ida Gransbury, and saw with

my own eyes that they were as changed as Richard

had reported them to be. Or rather, they were the same

as always, except that now they strove to apply their

compassionless rigidity to themselves. I was filled

anew with passionate hatred for them when they

spoke of “poor, kind Patrick” and “poor, innocent

Frances.” They had no right to utter those words.

The four of us agreed that we had to do something

to put right the wrong. We were murderers, not

according to the law but according to the truth, and

murderers must pay with their own lives. Only after

our deaths would God forgive us.

“We four are judge, jury and executioner,” said

Richard. “We will execute one another.”

“How will we do it?” Ida asked, gazing adoringly

at him.

“I have thought of a way,” he said. “I shall take

care of the details.”

Thus, without noise or complaint, we signed our

own death warrants. I felt nothing but immense relief.

I remember thinking that I would not be afraid to kill

as long as my victim was not afraid to die. Victim is

the wrong word. I don’t know what the right one is.

Then Harriet said, “Wait. What about Nancy

Ducane?”

I KNEW WHAT SHE meant before she explained. “Oh,

yes,” I thought to myself, “this is the same old Harriet

Sippel.” Four deaths for a good cause were not

enough for her; she craved a fifth.

Richard and Ida asked her what she meant.

“Nancy Ducane must die too,” said Harriet, her

eyes as hard as flint. “She led poor Patrick into

temptation, announced their shame to the village and

broke poor Frances’s heart.”

“Oh, no,” I said, alarmed. “Nancy would never

agree to give up her own life. And . . . Patrick loved

her!”

“She’s every bit as guilty as we are,” Harriet

insisted. “She must die. We
all
must, all the guilty, or

else it will be for nothing. If we are going to do this,

we must do it properly. It was Nancy’s revelation,

remember, that prompted Frances Ive to take her own

life. And besides, I know something that you don’t

know.”

Richard demanded that we all be told at once.

With a sly glint in her eye, Harriet said, “Nancy

wanted Frances to know that Patrick’s heart belonged

to her. She said what she said out of jealousy and

spite. She admitted it to me. She’s just as guilty as we

are—more so, if you want to know my true opinion.

And if she won’t agree to die . . . well, then!”

Richard sat with his head in his hands for a long

time. Harriet, Ida and I waited in silence. I realized

then that Richard was our leader. Whatever he said

when he finally spoke, we would abide by it.

I prayed for Nancy. I did not blame her for

Patrick’s death, never had and never would.

“All right,” said Richard, though he did not look

happy. “It saddens me to admit it, but yes. Nancy

Ducane should not have consorted with another

woman’s husband. She should not have announced her

liaison with Patrick to the village in the way that she

did. We do not know that Frances Ive would have

taken her own life if that had not happened.

Regrettably, Nancy Ducane must also die.”

“No!” I cried out. All I could think of was how

Patrick would have felt if he had heard those words.

“I’m sorry, Jennie, but Harriet is right,” said

Richard. “It is a bold and difficult thing that we intend

to do. We cannot ask ourselves to make so great a

sacrifice and leave alive one person who shares the

blame for what occurred. We cannot exonerate

Nancy.”

I wanted to scream and run from the room, but I

forced myself to stay in my chair. I was certain that

Harriet had lied about Nancy’s reason for speaking up

at the King’s Head; I did not believe that Nancy had

admitted to being driven by jealousy and a wish to

hurt Frances Ive, but, in front of Harriet, I was too

afraid to say so, and besides, I had no proof. Richard

said that he would need to think for a while about

how we would put our plan into action.

Two weeks later, he came to see me again, alone.

He had decided what must happen, he said. He and I

would be the only ones to know the whole truth—and

Sammy, of course. I tell him everything.

We would tell Harriet and Ida, said Richard, that

the plan was for us to kill one another, as agreed, and

frame Nancy Ducane for our murders. Since Nancy

lives in London, this would need to happen in London

—in a hotel, Richard suggested. He said that he

would pay for everything.

Once at the hotel, it was simple: Ida would kill

Harriet, Richard would kill Ida, and I would kill

Richard. Each killer, when his or her turn came,

would place a cufflink bearing Patrick Ive’s initials in

the victim’s mouth and set up the crime scene to look

identical to the other two, so that the police would

take for granted that the same killer had committed all

three . . . deaths. I was about to say murders, but they

weren’t. They were executions. You see, it occurred

to us that after people are executed there must be a

procedure, mustn’t there? The prison staff must do the

same thing with every body of an executed criminal,

we thought. It was Richard’s idea that the bodies