The Monogram Murders(50)

“He is a zoological and botanical artist?”

“I am not interested in any painter who never paints a human face,” said Nancy flatly. “I’m sorry, but there it is. St. John insists that you can’t paint a face without telling a story, and once you start to impose a story, you inevitably distort the visual data, or some such nonsense! What is wrong with telling a story, for heaven’s sake?”

“Will St. John Wallace tell me the same story that you have told me about last Thursday evening?” asked Poirot. “Will he confirm that you were in his house between six and nearly ten o’clock?”

“Of course. This is absurd, Monsieur Poirot. You’re asking me all the questions you would ask a murderer, and I’m not one. Who has told you that these murders must have been committed by me?”

“You were seen running from the Bloxham Hotel in a state of agitation shortly after eight o’clock. As you ran, you dropped two keys on the ground. You bent to pick them up, then ran away. The witness who saw you, he recognized your face from the newspapers and identified the famous artist Nancy Ducane.”

“That is simply impossible. Your witness is mistaken. Ask St. John and Louisa Wallace.”

“I shall, madame. Bon, now I have another question for you: are the initials PIJ familiar to you, or perhaps PJI? It could be somebody else from Great Holling.”

All the color drained from Nancy’s face. “Yes,” she whispered. “Patrick James Ive. He was the vicar.”

“Ah! This vicar, he died tragically, did he not? His wife too?”

“Yes.”

“What happened to them?”

“I won’t talk about it. I won’t!”

“It is of the utmost importance. I must implore you to tell me.”

“I shan’t!” cried Nancy. “I couldn’t if I tried. You don’t understand. I haven’t spoken of it for so long, I . . .” Her mouth opened and closed for a few seconds, while no words came out. Then her face twisted in pain. “What happened to Harriet, Ida and Richard?” she asked. “How were they killed?”

“With poison.”

“Oh, how awful! But fitting.”

“How so, madame? Did Patrick Ive and his wife die as a result of poisoning?”

“I won’t talk about them, I tell you!”

“Did you also know a Jennie in Great Holling?”

Nancy gasped and put her hand to her throat. “Jennie Hobbs. I have nothing to say about her, nothing whatsoever. Do not ask me another question!” She blinked away tears. “Why do people have to be so cruel, Monsieur Poirot? Do you understand it? No, don’t answer! Let us talk about something else, something uplifting. We must talk about art since we both love it.” Nancy stood and walked over to a large portrait that hung to the left of the window. It was of a man with unruly black hair, a wide mouth and a cleft chin. He was smiling. There was a suggestion of laughter.

“My father,” said Nancy. “Albinus Johnson. You might know the name.”

“It is familiar, though I cannot immediately place it,” said Poirot.

“He died two years ago. I last saw him when I was nineteen. I am now forty-two.”

“Please accept my condolences.”

“I didn’t paint it. I don’t know who did, or when. It isn’t signed or dated, so I don’t think much of the artist, whoever he is—an amateur—but . . . it’s my father smiling, and that’s why it’s up on the wall. If he had smiled more in real life . . .” Nancy broke off and turned to face Poirot. “You see?” she said. “St. John Wallace is wrong! It is the job of art to replace unhappy true stories with happier inventions.”

There was a loud knock at the door, followed by the reappearance of Constable Stanley Beer. Poirot knew what was coming from the way that Beer looked only at him and avoided Nancy’s eye. “I’ve found something, sir.”

“What is it?”

“Two keys. They were in a coat pocket, a dark blue coat with fur cuffs. The maid tells me it belongs to Mrs. Ducane.”

“Which two keys?” asked Nancy. “Let me see them. I don’t keep keys in coat pockets, ever. I have a drawer for them.”

Beer still didn’t look at her. Instead, he approached Poirot’s chair. When he was standing beside him, he opened his closed fist.

“What has he got there?” said Nancy impatiently.

“Two keys with room numbers engraved upon them, belonging to the Bloxham Hotel,” said Poirot in a solemn voice. “Room 121 and Room 317.”

“Should those numbers mean something to me?” Nancy asked.

“Two of the three murders were committed in those rooms, madame: 121 and 317. The witness who saw you run from the Bloxham Hotel on the night of the murders, he said that the two keys he saw you drop had numbers on them: one hundred and something, and three hundred and something.”

“Why, what an extraordinary coincidence! Oh, Monsieur Poirot!” Nancy laughed. “Are you sure you’re clever? Can’t you see what’s in front of your nose? Does that enormous mustache of yours impede your view? Someone has taken it upon himself to frame me for murder. It’s almost intriguing! I might have some fun trying to work out who it is—as soon as we’ve agreed I’m not on my way to the gallows.”