“Did I not tell you, Catchpool, that Madame Ducane wears the scarf over her face today because she does not wish to be recognized? You assumed that I meant ‘recognized as the celebrated portrait painter.’ No! She did not want be recognized by Rafal Bobak as the Harriet he saw in Room 317 on the night of the murders! Please stand and remove your scarf, Mrs. Ducane.”

Nancy did so.

“Mr. Bobak, was this the woman you saw?”

“Yes, Mr. Poirot. It was.”

It was quiet, but audible nonetheless: the sound of breath being drawn into lungs and held there. It filled the large room.

“You did not recognize her as the famous portrait painter, Nancy Ducane?”

“No, sir. I know nothing about art, and I only saw her in profile. She had her head turned away from me.”

“I am sure she did, in case you happened to be an art enthusiast and able to identify her.”

“I spotted her as soon as she walked in today, though—her and that Mr. Kidd chappy. I tried to tell you, sir, but you wouldn’t let me speak.”

“Yes, and so did Thomas Brignell try to tell me that he recognized Samuel Kidd,” said Poirot.

“Two of the three people I’d thought were murdered—alive and well and walking into the room!” From his voice, it was evident that Rafal Bobak had not yet recovered from the shock.

“What about Nancy Ducane’s alibi from Lord and Lady Wallace?” I asked Poirot.

“I’m afraid that wasn’t true,” said Nancy. “It is my fault. Please do not blame them. They are dear friends and were trying to help me. Neither St. John nor Louisa knew that I was at the Bloxham Hotel on the night of the murders. I swore to them that I had not been, and they trusted me. They are good, brave people who did not want to see me framed for three murders I did not commit. Monsieur Poirot, I believe you understand everything, so you must know that I have murdered nobody.”

“To lie to the police in a murder investigation is not brave, madame. It is inexcusable. By the time I left your house, Lady Wallace, I knew you to be a liar!”

“How dare you speak to my wife like that?” said St. John Wallace.

“I am sorry if the truth is not to your taste, Lord Wallace.”

“How did you know, Monsieur Poirot?” his wife asked.