Instead he said, “Then let us return to the business of the police investigation that brings me here. You are familiar with the names of the three murder victims?”

Nancy nodded. “I used to live in a village called Great Holling, in the Culver Valley. You won’t know it. Nobody does. Harriet, Ida and Richard were neighbors of mine. I haven’t seen or heard tell of them for years. Not since 1913, when I moved to London. Have they really been murdered?”

“Oui, madame.”

“At the Bloxham Hotel? But what were they doing there? Why had they come to London?”

“That is one of the many questions for which I do not yet have an answer,” Poirot told her.

“It makes no sense, them getting killed.” Nancy sprang up from her chair and started to walk back and forth between the door and the far wall. “The only person who would do it didn’t do it!”

“Who is that person?”

“Oh, pay no attention to me.” Nancy returned to her chair and sat down again. “I’m sorry. Your news has shocked me, as you see. I can’t help you. And . . . I don’t mean to be rude, but I think I should like you to leave now.”

“Were you referring to yourself, madame, as the only person who would commit these three murders? And yet you did not?”

“I did not . . .” Nancy said slowly, her eyes flitting around the room. “Ah, but now I see what you’re about. You’ve heard some story or other and you think I killed them. And that is why you wish to search my house. Well, I didn’t murder anybody. Search to your heart’s content, Monsieur Poirot. Ask Tabitha to take you through every room—there are so many, you’ll miss one if you don’t have her as a guide.”

“Thank you, madame.”

“You will find nothing incriminating because there’s nothing to find. I wish you would leave! I can’t tell you how you have upset me.”

Stanley Beer rose to his feet. “I’ll make a start,” he said. “Thank you for your cooperation, Mrs. Ducane.” He left the room, closing the door behind him.

“You’re clever, aren’t you?” Nancy Ducane said to Poirot as if this counted as a point against him. “As clever as people say you are. I can tell by your eyes.”

“I am thought to have a superior mind, oui.”

“How proud you sound. In my opinion, a superior mind counts for nothing unless accompanied by a superior heart.”

“Naturellement. As lovers of great art, we must believe this. Art speaks to the heart and soul more than to the mind.”

“I agree,” said Nancy quietly. “You know, Monsieur Poirot, your eyes . . . they are more than clever. They’re wise. They go back a long way. Oh, you won’t know what I mean by that, but it’s true. They would be wonderful in a painting, though I can never paint you, not now that you have brought those three dreaded names into my home.”