“That is simply impossible. Your witness is mistaken. Ask St. John and Louisa Wallace.”

“I shall, madame. Bon, now I have another question for you: are the initials PIJ familiar to you, or perhaps PJI? It could be somebody else from Great Holling.”

All the color drained from Nancy’s face. “Yes,” she whispered. “Patrick James Ive. He was the vicar.”

“Ah! This vicar, he died tragically, did he not? His wife too?”

“Yes.”

“What happened to them?”

“I won’t talk about it. I won’t!”

“It is of the utmost importance. I must implore you to tell me.”

“I shan’t!” cried Nancy. “I couldn’t if I tried. You don’t understand. I haven’t spoken of it for so long, I . . .” Her mouth opened and closed for a few seconds, while no words came out. Then her face twisted in pain. “What happened to Harriet, Ida and Richard?” she asked. “How were they killed?”

“With poison.”

“Oh, how awful! But fitting.”

“How so, madame? Did Patrick Ive and his wife die as a result of poisoning?”

“I won’t talk about them, I tell you!”

“Did you also know a Jennie in Great Holling?”

Nancy gasped and put her hand to her throat. “Jennie Hobbs. I have nothing to say about her, nothing whatsoever. Do not ask me another question!” She blinked away tears. “Why do people have to be so cruel, Monsieur Poirot? Do you understand it? No, don’t answer! Let us talk about something else, something uplifting. We must talk about art since we both love it.” Nancy stood and walked over to a large portrait that hung to the left of the window. It was of a man with unruly black hair, a wide mouth and a cleft chin. He was smiling. There was a suggestion of laughter.

“My father,” said Nancy. “Albinus Johnson. You might know the name.”

“It is familiar, though I cannot immediately place it,” said Poirot.

“He died two years ago. I last saw him when I was nineteen. I am now forty-two.”

“Please accept my condolences.”

“I didn’t paint it. I don’t know who did, or when. It isn’t signed or dated, so I don’t think much of the artist, whoever he is—an amateur—but . . . it’s my father smiling, and that’s why it’s up on the wall. If he had smiled more in real life . . .” Nancy broke off and turned to face Poirot. “You see?” she said. “St. John Wallace is wrong! It is the job of art to replace unhappy true stories with happier inventions.”

There was a loud knock at the door, followed by the reappearance of Constable Stanley Beer. Poirot knew what was coming from the way that Beer looked only at him and avoided Nancy’s eye. “I’ve found something, sir.”

“What is it?”

“Two keys. They were in a coat pocket, a dark blue coat with fur cuffs. The maid tells me it belongs to Mrs. Ducane.”