The Monogram Murders (25 page)

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?”

“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!”

“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