The Monogram Murders(52)

“Yes. I hope you’re not suggesting that I’m not telling you the truth, Monsieur Poirot.”

“No, no. Pas du tout.”

“Good,” said Louisa Wallace decisively. She turned back to the picture of herself on the wall. “Color’s her special talent, you know. Oh, she can capture personality in a face, but her greatest strength is her use of color. Look at the way the light falls on my green dress.”

Poirot saw what she meant. The green seemed brighter one moment, then darker the next. There was not one consistent shade. The light seemed to change as one regarded the picture; such was Nancy Ducane’s skill. The portrait depicted Louisa Wallace sitting in a chair, wearing a green low-necked dress, with a blue jug and bowl set behind her on a wooden table. Poirot walked up and down the room, inspecting the picture from different angles and positions.

“I wanted to pay Nancy her usual rate for a portrait, but she wouldn’t hear of it,” said Louisa Wallace. “I’m so lucky to have such a generous friend. You know, I think my husband is a little jealous of it—the painting, I mean. The whole house is full of his pictures—we’ve barely a free wall left. Only his pictures, until this one arrived. He and Nancy have this silly rivalry between them. I take no notice. They’re both brilliant in their different ways.”

So Nancy Ducane had given the painting to Louisa Wallace as a gift, thought Poirot. Did she really want nothing in return, or did she perhaps hope for an alibi? Some loyal friends would be unable to resist if asked to tell one small, harmless lie after being given such a lavish present. Poirot wondered if he ought to tell Louisa Wallace that he was here in connection with a murder case. He had not yet done so.

He was distracted from his train of thought by the sudden appearance of Dorcas the maid, who bounded into the room with an air of urgency and anxiety. “Excuse me, sir!”

“What is the matter?” Poirot half expected her to say that she had accidentally set fire to his hat and coat.

“Would you like a cup of tea or coffee, sir?”

“This is what you have come to ask me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“There is nothing else? Nothing has happened?”

“No, sir.” Dorcas sounded confused.

“Bon. In that case, yes, please, I will take a coffee. Thank you.”

“Right you are, sir.”

“Did you see that?” Louisa Wallace grumbled as the girl lolloped out of the room. “Can you credit it? I thought she was about to announce that she had to leave at once for her mother’s deathbed! She really is the limit. I should dismiss her without further ado, but even help that’s no help at all is better than none. It’s impossible to find decent girls these days.”

Poirot made appropriate noises of concern. He did not wish to discuss domestic servants. He was far more interested in his own ideas, especially the one that had struck him while Louisa Wallace had been complaining about Dorcas and he had been staring at a blue painted jug and bowl set.

“Madame, if I might take a little more of your time . . . these other pictures here on the walls, they are by your husband?”

“Yes.”

“As you say, he too is an excellent artist. I would be honored, madame, if you would show me around your beautiful house. I would very much like to look at your husband’s paintings. You said they are on every wall?”

“Yes. I’ll happily give you the St. John Wallace art tour, and you will see that I wasn’t exaggerating.” Louisa beamed and clapped her hands together. “What fun! Though I do wish St. John were here—he would be able to tell you so much more about the pictures than I can. Still, I shall do my best. You would be amazed, Monsieur Poirot, by the number of people who come to the house and don’t look at the paintings or ask about them or anything. Dorcas is a case in point. There could be five hundred framed dishcloths hanging on the walls and she wouldn’t notice the difference. Let’s start in the hall, shall we?”

It was lucky, thought Poirot as he made the tour of the house and had many species of spider, plant and fish pointed out to him, that he was an appreciator of art. As far as the rivalry between St. John Wallace and Nancy Ducane went, he knew what he thought about that. Wallace’s pictures were meticulous and worthy, but they made one feel nothing. Nancy Ducane’s was the greater talent. She had encapsulated the essence of Louisa Wallace and made her live on canvas as vividly as she lived in real life. Poirot found himself wanting to look at the portrait again before he left the house, and not only to check that he was not mistaken about the important detail he thought he had noticed.

Dorcas appeared on the upstairs landing. “Your coffee, sir.” Poirot, who had been inside St. John Wallace’s study, stepped forward to take the cup from her hand. She lurched back as if she hadn’t expected him to move toward her, and spilled most of the drink on her white apron. “Oh, dear! I’m sorry, sir, I’m a right old butterfingers. I’ll make you another cup.”

“No, no, please. There is no need.” Poirot seized what was left of his coffee and ingested it in one gulp, before any more of it could be spilled.

“This one is my favorite, I think,” said Louisa Wallace, still in the study. She was pointing at a painting that Poirot couldn’t see. “Blue Bindweed: Solanum Dulcamara. The fourth of August last year, you see? This was my wedding anniversary present from St. John. Thirty years. Beautiful, isn’t it?”