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.

“Oh. Yes, indeed.” Nancy looked surprised. “Oh, dear, I’ve quite ruined your handkerchief.”

“It is not important. I have others. There is one more question I should like to ask you, madame: is the name Samuel Kidd familiar to you?”

“No. Should it be?”

“He did not live in Great Holling when you lived there?”

“No, he did not. Lucky old him, whoever he is,” said Nancy bitterly.

17. The Older Woman and the Younger Man

The Older Woman and the Younger Man