The Monogram Murders: The New Hercule Poirot Mystery. Sophie Hannah

where they’re sat.’

      ‘Mr and Mrs Ossessil? That is an unusual name.’

      Fee laughed at him, then whispered again. ‘“Oh, Cecil”—that’s what she says all day long, the wife. The husband, poor soul, he can’t get as much as two words out of his mouth without her setting him straight. He says he’d like scrambled eggs and toast? Right away she pipes up, “Oh, Cecil, not eggs and toast!” And don’t think he has to speak to set her off! He sits down at the first table he comes to and she says, “Oh, Cecil, not this table!” ’Course, he ought to say he wants what he don’t want, and don’t want what he wants. That’s what I’d do. I keep waiting for him to tumble to it but he’s a useless old lump, truth be told. Brain like a mouldy cabbage. I expect that’s what started her Oh-Cecil-ing.’

      ‘If he does not leave soon I shall say “Oh, Cecil” to him myself,’ said Poirot, whose legs were already aching from a combination of standing and the thwarted desire to be seated.

      ‘They’ll be gone before your coffee’s ready,’ Fee said. ‘She’s finished her meal, see. She’ll Oh-Cecil him out of here in no time. What you doing here lunchtime anyway? Wait, I know what you’re up to! Looking for Jennie, aren’t you? I heard you were in first thing this morning too.’

      ‘How did you hear it?’ Poirot asked. ‘You have only just arrived, n’est-ce pas?’

      ‘I’m never far away,’ said Fee enigmatically. ‘No one’s seen hide nor hair of Jennie, but d’you know, Mr Poirot, I’ve got her stuck in my mind same as she’s stuck in yours.’