The Monogram Murders(48)
I knew Poirot would disapprove, and I decided not to care. If Margaret Ernst could disagree with God, then it was perfectly all right for me to disagree with Hercule Poirot occasionally. If he wished to interview Dr. Flowerday, he could go to Great Holling and speak to the man himself.
I hoped that it would not be necessary. Nancy Ducane was the person we needed to concentrate on. That and saving the life of Jennie, assuming we were not too late. I was full of remorse on account of having dismissed the possible danger to her. If we did manage to save her, the credit would be all Poirot’s. If we solved the three Bloxham Hotel murders satisfactorily, that would be down to Poirot too. Officially, at Scotland Yard, it would be noted as one of my successes, but everyone would know that it was Poirot’s triumph and not mine. Indeed, it was thanks to my bosses’ knowledge of Poirot’s involvement in the case that they were content to leave me to my own—or rather, to my Belgian friend’s—devices. It was the famous Hercule Poirot they trusted to do as he wished, not me.
I started to wonder if I might not prefer to fail alone and entirely under my own steam than succeed only thanks to Poirot’s involvement, and I fell asleep before I had reached a conclusion.
I had a dream—my first on a train—about being condemned by everybody I knew for something I hadn’t done. In it, I saw my own gravestone clearly, with my name instead of Patrick and Frances Ives’ carved on it, and the “slander’s mark” sonnet beneath. In the earth beside the grave, there was a glint of metal, and I knew somehow that it was a cufflink bearing my initials that was partially buried there. I woke as the train pulled into London, bathed in sweat, my heart beating fit to burst from my chest.
Nancy Ducane
I DIDN’T KNOW, OF course, that Poirot was already aware of the probable involvement of Nancy Ducane in our three murders. As I made my escape from Great Holling by train, Poirot was busy making arrangements, with the help of Scotland Yard, to visit Mrs. Ducane in her London home.
This he managed to do later that same day, with Constable Stanley Beer as his escort. A young maid in a starched apron answered the door of the large white stucco townhouse in Belgravia. Poirot was expecting to be shown to a tasteful drawing room where he would wait to be seen, and he was surprised to find Nancy Ducane herself standing in the hall at the foot of the stairs.
“Monsieur Poirot? Welcome. I see you have brought a policeman with you. This all seems rather unusual, I must say.”
Stanley Beer made a strange noise in his throat and turned beet red. Nancy Ducane was an unusually beautiful woman with a peaches-and-cream complexion, lustrous dark hair and deep blue eyes with long lashes. She looked to be somewhere in the region of forty and was stylishly dressed in peacock blues and deep greens. For once in his life, Poirot was not the most elegantly attired person present.
“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Madame Ducane.” He bowed. “I am in awe of your artistic abilities. I have been fortunate enough to see one or two of your paintings in exhibitions in recent years. You have a talent most rare.”
“Thank you. That is kind of you. Now, if you will give your overcoats and hats to Tabitha here, we can find somewhere comfortable to sit and talk. Would you care for some tea or coffee?”
“Non, merci.”
“Very well. Follow me.”
They proceeded to a small sitting room that I was pleased only to hear about later and not to have to sit in myself, since Poirot reported it as being full of portraits. All those watchful eyes hanging on the wall . . .
Poirot asked if all of the paintings were by Nancy Ducane.
“Oh, no,” she said. “Very few of these are mine. I buy as many as I sell, which is as it should be, I think. Art is my passion.”
“It is one of mine also,” Poirot told her.
“Looking at nothing but one’s own pictures would be unbearably lonely. I always think when I hang a painting by another artist that it’s like having a good friend on my wall.”
“D’accord. You put it succinctly, madame.”
Once they were all seated, Nancy said, “May I get straight to the point and ask what has brought you here? You said on the telephone that you would like to search my house. You are welcome to do so, but why is there a need?”
“You might have read in the newspapers, madame, that three guests of the Bloxham Hotel were murdered last Thursday night.”
“At the Bloxham?” Nancy laughed. Then her face fell. “Oh, heavens—you’re serious, aren’t you? Three? Are you sure? The Bloxham’s a super place, I’ve always thought. I can’t imagine murders happening there.”
“So you know the hotel?”
“Oh yes. I’m often there for afternoon tea. Lazzari, the manager—he’s a darling. They’re famous for their scones, you know—the best in London. I’m sorry . . .” She broke off. “I don’t mean to babble about scones if three people have really been murdered. That’s terrible. I don’t see what it has to do with me, though.”
“Then you have not read about these deaths in the newspapers?” Poirot asked.
“No.” Nancy Ducane’s mouth set in a line. “I don’t read newspapers and I won’t have them in the house. They are full of misery. I avoid misery if I can.”
“So you do not know the names of the three murder victims?”