“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!”