“Very well, if you will not speak then I shall explain it myself. Mr. Kidd cut his cheek while climbing down the tree outside the window of Room 238, Richard Negus’s hotel room. A cut on the face of a smartly dressed man might stand out and invite questions, no? One who is careful about his appearance would surely not allow a razor to make an unsightly mark upon his face. Mr. Kidd did not want me to think along these lines. He did not want me to wonder if he might recently have climbed out of an open window and down a tree, so he created the general unkempt appearance. He arranged himself to look like the sort of man who would be so careless as to cut himself while shaving and then, to avoid further cuts, walk around with half a beard on and half off! Such a chaotic man would of course use his shaving razor recklessly and do damage—this is what Poirot was supposed to believe, and it was what he did believe at first.”

“Hold on a minute, Poirot,” I said. “If you’re saying that Samuel Kidd climbed out of Richard Negus’s hotel-room window—”

“Am I saying that he murdered Mr. Negus? Non. He did not. He assisted the murderer of Richard Negus. As for who that person is . . . I have not yet told you the name.” Poirot smiled.

“No, you haven’t,” I said sharply. “Nor have you told me who were the three people in Room 317 when Rafal Bobak took up the afternoon tea. You’ve said that the three murder victims were all dead by then—”

“Indeed they were. One of the three in Room 317 at a quarter past seven was Ida Gransbury—dead, but positioned upright in a chair to appear alive, as long as one did not see her face. Another was Samuel Kidd, playing the part of Richard Negus.”

“Yes, I see that, but who was the third?” I asked rather desperately. “Who was the woman posing as Harriet Sippel, gossiping with spiteful glee? It can’t have been Jennie Hobbs. As you say, Jennie would have had to be halfway to Pleasant’s Coffee House by then.”

“Ah, yes, the woman gossiping gleefully,” said Poirot. “I shall tell you who that was, my friend. That woman was Nancy Ducane.”

LOUD CRIES OF SHOCK filled the room.

“Oh, no, Monsieur Poirot,” said Luca Lazzari. “Signora Ducane is one of the country’s foremost artistic talents. She is also a most loyal friend of this hotel. You must be mistaken!”

“I am not mistaken, mon ami.”

I looked at Nancy Ducane, who sat with an air of quiet resignation. She denied nothing that Poirot had said.

Famous artist Nancy Ducane conspiring with Samuel Kidd, Jennie Hobbs’s former fiancé? I had never been more flummoxed in my life than I was at that moment. What could it all mean?