Samuel Kidd traced an angry red ridge of scab on his left cheek with the tip of his finger as he mused, “Seems to me there’s not much time to read about other people’s lives and live your own while you’re at it. If I have to choose, and I reckon I do, I’ll choose living my own life over reading summat about someone else’s. But as I say, I did look at the newspaper this morning, because I wanted to see if there was anything about the Bloxham Hotel murders.”

“Oui,” said Poirot, struggling to remain patient. “And what did you see?”

“Oh, there was plenty about the murders, most of it saying the police aren’t getting very far and asking for anyone who saw summat to come forward. Well, I did, as you know, Mr. Poirot, and forward I came. But, like I said the other day, at first I couldn’t put a name to a face. Well, now I can!”

“That is excellent news, Mr. Kidd. It will be more excellent still if you can put that name into the next sentence that you speak, so that I may hear it.”

“That’s where I’ve seen her, you see: her photograph, in the newspaper. That’s why looking at a newspaper made me think of her. She’s a famous lady, sir. Her name’s Nancy Ducane.”

Poirot’s eyes widened. “Nancy Ducane the artist?”

“Yes, sir. She’s the one, and no other. I’d swear to it. Paints portraits, she does. And got a face worth painting of her own, which is probably why I remembered it. I said to meself, ‘Sammy, that was Nancy Ducane you saw running from the Bloxham Hotel on the night of the murders.’ And now I’m here saying it to you.”

12. A Grievous Wound

A Grievous Wound

THE FOLLOWING DAY, IMMEDIATELY after breakfast, I set out for Margaret Ernst’s cottage next to Holy Saints churchyard in Great Holling. I found the front door ajar and knocked as lightly as I could, taking care not to push it open any farther.

There was no answer, so I knocked again, more volubly. “Mrs. Ernst?” I called out. “Margaret?”

Silence.

I don’t know why, but I turned, sensing some kind of movement behind me, but perhaps it was only the wind in the trees.

I pushed the door gently and it swung open with a creak. The first thing I saw was a scarf on the kitchen’s flagstone floor: blue and green silk, elaborately patterned. What was it doing there? I took a deep breath and was steeling myself to enter when a voice called out, “Come in, Mr. Catchpool.” I nearly jumped out of my skin.