“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.”