The Monogram Murders(62)
“I agree with you absolutely, madame. A movement driven by fury and resentment will not change any of our lives for the better. Ce n’est pas possible. It is corrupt at the source.”
I nearly said that I too agreed, but I stopped myself. Nobody was interested in my ideas.
Nancy said, “When I met William Ducane, I did not fall in love with him, but I liked him. I respected him. He was calm and courteous; he never behaved or spoke intemperately. If he failed to return a book to the library when it was due to be returned, he would suffer agonies of remorse.”
“A man with a conscience.”
“Yes, and a sense of proportion, and humility. If something stood in his way, he would consider moving himself before he would consider moving the obstacle. I knew that he would not fill our home with men intent on making the world uglier with their violent acts. William appreciated art and beautiful things. He was like me in that respect.”
“I understand, madame. But you did not love William Ducane passionately, in the way that Harriet Sippel loved her husband?”
“No. The man I loved passionately was Patrick Ive. From the first moment I saw him, my heart belonged to him alone. I would have laid down my life for him. When I lost him, I finally understood how Harriet had felt when she had lost George. One thinks one can imagine, but one can’t. I remember thinking Harriet morbid when she begged me, after George’s funeral, to pray for her death so that she might be quickly reunited with him. I refused to do as she asked. The passing of time would ease her pain, I told her, and one day she would find something else to live for.”
Nancy stopped to compose herself before continuing. “Regrettably, she did. She found a delight in the suffering of others. Harriet the widow was a joyless harridan. That was the woman who was killed at the Bloxham Hotel in London recently. The Harriet I knew and loved died with her husband George.” She looked at me suddenly. “You observed that I am angry with Jennie. I have no right to be. I am as guilty as she is of letting Patrick down.” Nancy started to cry and covered her face with her hands.
“Come, come, madame. Here.” Poirot passed her a handkerchief. “How did you let down Patrick Ive? You have told us that you would have sacrificed your life for him.”
“I am as bad as Jennie: a disgusting coward! When I stood up in the King’s Head Inn and confessed that Patrick and I were in love and had been meeting in secret, I did not tell the truth. Oh, the secret meetings were real enough, and Patrick and I were desperately in love—that was true too. But . . .” Nancy appeared too distressed to continue. Her shoulders shook as she wept into the handkerchief.
“I think I comprehend, madame. That day at the King’s Head Inn, you told the villagers that your relations with Patrick Ive had been chaste. That was your lie. Poirot, he guesses correctly?”
Nancy let out a wail of despair. “I couldn’t bear the rumors,” she cried. “All those whispered macabre tales of encounters with the souls of the dead in exchange for money; little children hissing in the street about blasphemy . . . I was appalled! You cannot imagine the horror of so many voices of accusation and condemnation, all rounding on one man, a good man!”
I could imagine. I could imagine it so vividly that I wished she would stop talking about it.
“I had to do something, Monsieur Poirot. So I thought, “I shall fight these lies with something pure and good: the truth.” The truth was my love for Patrick and his for me, but I was afraid, and I tarnished our truth with lies! That was my mistake. In my frenzy, I could not think clearly. I sullied the beauty of my love for Patrick with faint-hearted dishonesty. Relations between us were not chaste, but I said that they were. I imagined that I had no choice but to lie. That was craven of me. Despicable!”
“You are hard on yourself,” said Poirot. “Unnecessarily so.”
Nancy dabbed at her eyes. “How I wish I could believe you,” she said. “Why did I not tell the whole truth? My defense of Patrick against those horrible accusations should have been a noble thing, and I ruined it. For that, I curse myself every day of my life. Those braying, spittle-flecked sin-hunters at the King’s Head, they all disapproved of me anyway—thought I was a fallen woman, and Patrick the very devil. What would it have mattered if they had disapproved a little more? In point of fact, I’m not sure there was a higher peak of opprobrium for them to ascend to.”
“Why, then, did you not tell the truth?” Poirot asked.
“I hoped to make the ordeal more bearable for Frances, I suppose. To avoid a bigger scandal. But then Frances and Patrick took their own lives, and all hope of ever making anything better was lost. I know they killed themselves, whatever anybody says,” Nancy added as an apparent afterthought.
“Is this a fact that has been disputed?” asked Poirot.
“According to the doctor and all official records, their deaths were accidental, but nobody in Great Holling believed that. Suicide is a sin in the eyes of the Church. The village doctor wanted to protect Patrick and Frances’s reputations from greater damage, I think. He liked them very much and stood up for them when no one else would. He’s a good egg, Dr. Flowerday—one of very few in Great Holling. He knew a wicked lie when he heard one.” Nancy laughed through her tears. “A lie for a lie and a tooth for a tooth.”
“Or a truth for a truth?” Poirot suggested.