“Oh, no,” she said. “Very few of these are mine. I buy as many as I sell, which is as it should be, I think. Art is my passion.”

“It is one of mine also,” Poirot told her.

“Looking at nothing but one’s own pictures would be unbearably lonely. I always think when I hang a painting by another artist that it’s like having a good friend on my wall.”

“D’accord. You put it succinctly, madame.”

Once they were all seated, Nancy said, “May I get straight to the point and ask what has brought you here? You said on the telephone that you would like to search my house. You are welcome to do so, but why is there a need?”

“You might have read in the newspapers, madame, that three guests of the Bloxham Hotel were murdered last Thursday night.”

“At the Bloxham?” Nancy laughed. Then her face fell. “Oh, heavens—you’re serious, aren’t you? Three? Are you sure? The Bloxham’s a super place, I’ve always thought. I can’t imagine murders happening there.”

“So you know the hotel?”

“Oh yes. I’m often there for afternoon tea. Lazzari, the manager—he’s a darling. They’re famous for their scones, you know—the best in London. I’m sorry . . .” She broke off. “I don’t mean to babble about scones if three people have really been murdered. That’s terrible. I don’t see what it has to do with me, though.”

“Then you have not read about these deaths in the newspapers?” Poirot asked.

“No.” Nancy Ducane’s mouth set in a line. “I don’t read newspapers and I won’t have them in the house. They are full of misery. I avoid misery if I can.”

“So you do not know the names of the three murder victims?”

“No. Nor do I wish to.” Nancy shuddered.

“I am afraid I must tell you whether you wish it or not. Their names were Harriet Sippel, Ida Gransbury and Richard Negus.”

“Oh, no, no. Oh, Monsieur Poirot!” Nancy pressed her hand against her mouth. She was unable to speak for almost a full minute. Eventually she said, “This is not some sort of joke, is it? Please say that it is.”

“It is not a joke. I am very sorry, madame. I have distressed you.”

“Hearing those names has distressed me. Whether they’re dead or alive, it doesn’t matter to me, as long as I don’t have to think about them. You see, one tries to avoid upsetting things, but one doesn’t always succeed, and . . . I am more averse to unhappiness than most people.”

“You have suffered very much in your life?”

“I do not wish to discuss my private affairs.” Nancy turned away.

It would not have done Poirot any good whatever to state that his wishes were the precise opposite of hers in this respect. Nothing fascinated him more than the private passions of strangers he would probably never meet again.