“I suppose that’s true.” Nancy sighed. “I used to be devoted to Harriet. When my husband William and I moved to Great Holling, Harriet and George Sippel were our dearest friends. Then George died, and Harriet became a monster. But once you have been very fond of a person, it’s difficult to condemn them, don’t you find?”

“It is either impossible, or irresistible,” said Poirot.

“Impossible, I should say. You imagine that their worst behavior is a symptom of an ailment and not their true self. I couldn’t forgive Harriet’s treatment of Patrick. I couldn’t persuade myself to try. At the same time, I felt that it must have been as horrible for her as it was for anybody else—to have turned into that.”

“You saw her as a victim?”

“Of the tragedy of losing a beloved husband, yes—and so young! One can be both victim and villain, I think.”

“It was something that you and Harriet had in common,” said Poirot. “The loss of a husband when you were far too young.”

“This will sound heartless, but there is really no comparison,” said Nancy. “George Sippel was everything to Harriet, her whole world. I married William because he was wise and safe, and I needed to escape from my father’s home.”

“Ah, yes. Albinus Johnson,” said Poirot. “It came back to me after I left your house that I do indeed know the name. Your father was one of a circle of English and Russian agitators in London at the end of the last century. He spent a period of time in prison.”

“He was a dangerous man,” said Nancy. “I couldn’t bear to speak to him about his . . . ideas, but I know that he believed it was acceptable to murder any number of people if those people were delaying the cause of making the world a better place—better only according to his definition! How in the name of heaven can anything ever be made better by bloodshed and mass slaughter? How can any improvement be brought about by men who wish only to smash and destroy, who cannot speak of their hopes and dreams without their faces twisting in hatred and anger?”

“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.”