The Monogram Murders(49)

“No. Nor do I wish to.” Nancy shuddered.

“I am afraid I must tell you whether you wish it or not. Their names were Harriet Sippel, Ida Gransbury and Richard Negus.”

“Oh, no, no. Oh, Monsieur Poirot!” Nancy pressed her hand against her mouth. She was unable to speak for almost a full minute. Eventually she said, “This is not some sort of joke, is it? Please say that it is.”

“It is not a joke. I am very sorry, madame. I have distressed you.”

“Hearing those names has distressed me. Whether they’re dead or alive, it doesn’t matter to me, as long as I don’t have to think about them. You see, one tries to avoid upsetting things, but one doesn’t always succeed, and . . . I am more averse to unhappiness than most people.”

“You have suffered very much in your life?”

“I do not wish to discuss my private affairs.” Nancy turned away.

It would not have done Poirot any good whatever to state that his wishes were the precise opposite of hers in this respect. Nothing fascinated him more than the private passions of strangers he would probably never meet again.

Instead he said, “Then let us return to the business of the police investigation that brings me here. You are familiar with the names of the three murder victims?”

Nancy nodded. “I used to live in a village called Great Holling, in the Culver Valley. You won’t know it. Nobody does. Harriet, Ida and Richard were neighbors of mine. I haven’t seen or heard tell of them for years. Not since 1913, when I moved to London. Have they really been murdered?”

“Oui, madame.”

“At the Bloxham Hotel? But what were they doing there? Why had they come to London?”

“That is one of the many questions for which I do not yet have an answer,” Poirot told her.

“It makes no sense, them getting killed.” Nancy sprang up from her chair and started to walk back and forth between the door and the far wall. “The only person who would do it didn’t do it!”

“Who is that person?”

“Oh, pay no attention to me.” Nancy returned to her chair and sat down again. “I’m sorry. Your news has shocked me, as you see. I can’t help you. And . . . I don’t mean to be rude, but I think I should like you to leave now.”

“Were you referring to yourself, madame, as the only person who would commit these three murders? And yet you did not?”

“I did not . . .” Nancy said slowly, her eyes flitting around the room. “Ah, but now I see what you’re about. You’ve heard some story or other and you think I killed them. And that is why you wish to search my house. Well, I didn’t murder anybody. Search to your heart’s content, Monsieur Poirot. Ask Tabitha to take you through every room—there are so many, you’ll miss one if you don’t have her as a guide.”

“Thank you, madame.”

“You will find nothing incriminating because there’s nothing to find. I wish you would leave! I can’t tell you how you have upset me.”

Stanley Beer rose to his feet. “I’ll make a start,” he said. “Thank you for your cooperation, Mrs. Ducane.” He left the room, closing the door behind him.

“You’re clever, aren’t you?” Nancy Ducane said to Poirot as if this counted as a point against him. “As clever as people say you are. I can tell by your eyes.”

“I am thought to have a superior mind, oui.”

“How proud you sound. In my opinion, a superior mind counts for nothing unless accompanied by a superior heart.”

“Naturellement. As lovers of great art, we must believe this. Art speaks to the heart and soul more than to the mind.”

“I agree,” said Nancy quietly. “You know, Monsieur Poirot, your eyes . . . they are more than clever. They’re wise. They go back a long way. Oh, you won’t know what I mean by that, but it’s true. They would be wonderful in a painting, though I can never paint you, not now that you have brought those three dreaded names into my home.”

“That is unfortunate.”

“I blame you,” Nancy said bluntly. She clasped her hands together. “Oh, I suppose I might as well tell you: I was talking about myself before. I am the person who would murder Harriet, Ida and Richard if anyone did, but, as you heard me say, I did not. So I don’t understand what can have happened.”

“You disliked them?”

“Loathed them. Wished them dead many a time. Oh, my!” Nancy clapped her hands to her cheeks suddenly. “Are they really dead? I suppose I should feel thrilled, or relieved. I want to be happy about it, but I can’t be happy while thinking about Harriet, Richard and Ida. Isn’t that a fine irony?”

“Why did you dislike them so?”

“I would rather not discuss it.”

“Madame, I would not ask if I did not judge it necessary.”

“Nevertheless, I am unwilling to answer.”

Poirot sighed. “Where were you on Thursday evening of last week, between a quarter past seven and eight o’clock?”

Nancy frowned. “I haven’t the faintest idea. I have enough trouble remembering what I need to do this week. Oh, wait. Thursday, of course. I was across the road, at my friend Louisa’s house. Louisa Wallace. I had finished my portrait of her, so I took it round there and stayed for dinner. I think I was there from about six until nearly ten. I might have even stayed longer if Louisa’s husband St. John had not been there too. He’s an appalling snob. Louisa is such a darling, she’s incapable of recognizing fault in anyone—you must know the type. She likes to believe that St. John and I are desperately fond of one another because we’re both artists, but I can’t abide him. He’s certain that his sort of art is superior to mine, and he takes every opportunity to tell me so. Plants and fish—that’s what he paints. Dreary old leaves and chilly-eyed cods and haddocks!”