I’ve told you you won’t find her.”
“Did this gentleman tell you his name?”
“No. He was nice and polite, though. Respectful.
Not like the one who was all mucky looking and
spoke with your voice. He had no right doing that,
however clever it was.”
“Pardon, mademoiselle. The man to whom you
refer—Mr. Samuel Kidd—he did not speak with my
voice. He attempted to replicate it, but no person can
replicate the voice of another.”
Fee laughed. “He did yours pretty darn good! I’d
not know the difference, with my eyes closed.”
“Then you do not pay attention when people talk,”
said Poirot irritably. “Each of us has a speaking voice
that is unique, a cadence that belongs to that
individual alone.” To illustrate his point, Poirot held
up his cup. “As unique as the tremendous coffee of
Pleasant’s Coffee House.”
“You’re drinking far too much of it,” said Fee. “It’s
not good for you.”
“From where did you get this idea?”
“You can’t see your eyes, Mr. Poirot. I can. You
should try drinking a cup of tea once in a while. Tea
doesn’t taste like mud, and there’s no such thing as too
much of it. Tea’s only ever good for a person.”
Having delivered her speech, Fee smoothed down the
front of her apron. “And I do listen when people talk
—to the words, not the accent. It’s what people say
that counts, not whether they say it Belgian-sounding
or English-sounding.”
At that moment, the coffee-house door opened and
a man walked in. He had the drooping eyes of a
basset hound.
Fee nudged Poirot. “Here he is, without the police
fellow,” she whispered.
The man was Rafal Bobak, the waiter from the
Bloxham Hotel who had served afternoon tea to
Harriet Sippel, Ida Gransbury and Richard Negus at a
quarter past seven on the night of the murders. Bobak
apologized for the intrusion, and explained that Luca
Lazzari had told his whole staff that if any of them
wanted to speak to the famous detective Hercule
Poirot, Pleasant’s Coffee House in St. Gregory’s
Alley was the place to find him.
Once they had settled themselves at a table, Poirot
asked, “What is it that you wish to tell me? You have
remembered something?”
“I’ve remembered as much as I’m likely to
remember, sir, and I thought it would be as well to tell
you while it’s fresh in my mind. Some of it you’ve
heard already, but I’ve been going over and over it,
and it’s remarkable how much comes back to you
once you apply yourself.”
“Indeed, monsieur. It is necessary only to sit still
and employ the little gray cells.”
“Mr. Negus was the one who took delivery of the
meal, as I’ve told you, sir. The two ladies were
discussing a woman and a man, like I said at the hotel.
It sounded as if she’d been abandoned by him for
being too old, or he’d lost interest in her for some
other reason. At least, that was my understanding, sir,
but I’ve managed to remember a bit of what they said,
so you can judge for yourself.”
“Ah! Most helpful!”
“Well, sir, the first thing I’ve managed to
remember is Mrs. Harriet Sippel saying, “She had no
choice, did she? She’s no longer the one he confides
in. He’d hardly be interested in her now—she’s let
herself go, and she’s old enough to be his mother. No,
if she wanted to find out what’s going on in his mind,
she had no choice but to receive the woman he does
confide in, and talk to her.” After saying all this, Mrs.
Sippel broke into peals of laughter, and it wasn’t nice
laughter. Catty, as I said at the hotel.”
“Please go on, Mr. Bobak.”
“Well, Mr. Negus heard what she said, because he
turned away from me—he and I had been exchanging
pleasantries, you see—and he said, “Oh, Harriet,
that’s hardly fair. Ida’s easily shocked. Go easy on
her.” And then either Harriet Sippel or the other one,
Ida Gransbury, said something. I can’t for the life of
me remember what it was, sir, for which I’m sorry.”
“There is no need to apologize,” said Poirot.
“Your recollection, incomplete as it is, will prove
invaluable, I am sure.”
“I hope so, sir,” said Bobak doubtfully. “The next
bit I remember word by word was many minutes later,
as I laid everything out on the table for the three
guests. Mr. Negus said to Mrs. Sippel, “His mind? I’d
argue he has no mind. And I dispute your old-enough-
to-be-his-mother claim. I dispute it utterly.” Mrs.
Sippel laughed at this and said, “Well, neither of us
can prove we’re right, so let’s agree to disagree!”
That was the last thing I heard before I left the room,
sir.”
“I would argue he has no mind,” Poirot murmured.
“What they were saying, sir—none of it was
friendly. This woman they were talking about, they
harbored nothing but ill will for her.”
“I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Bobak,” said
Poirot warmly. “Your account is inordinately helpful.
To know the very words that were spoken, and so
many of them, is more than I could have hoped for.”
“I only wish I could remember the rest, sir.”
Poirot tried to persuade Bobak to stay and drink a
cup of something, but the waiter was determined to
return to the Bloxham Hotel as soon as he could, and
not take advantage of Luca Lazzari’s good nature.
Refused another cup of coffee by Fee Spring, who
cited his health in her defense, Poirot decided to
return to Blanche Unsworth’s lodging house. He
moved slowly, ambling through the busy London
streets, while his mind raced ahead. As he walked, he
turned over in his mind the words Rafal Bobak had
repeated to him: “He’d hardly be interested in her
now . . . She’s old enough to be his mother . . . His
mind? I’d argue he has no mind . . . I dispute your old-
enough-to-be-his-mother claim . . . Well, neither of us
can prove we’re right . . .”
He was still murmuring these phrases to himself
when he arrived at his temporary accommodation.
Blanche Unsworth rushed toward him as he entered.
“What are you saying to yourself, Mr. Poirot?” she
asked cheerily. “It’s like having two of you!”
Poirot looked down at his body, the shape of
which inclined toward rotundity. “I hope I have not
eaten so much that I have doubled in size, madame,”
he said.
“No, I meant two of you talking. ” Blanche
Unsworth lowered her voice to a whisper and came
so close to Poirot that he felt obliged to pin himself
against the wall in order to avoid physical contact
with her. “There’s a chap come to call on you, and his
voice is just like yours. He’s waiting in the drawing
room. A visitor from your native Belgium, he must be.
Raggedy fellow, but I let him in, since there was no
bad smell coming from him, and . . . well, I didn’t
want to turn away a relation of yours, Mr. Poirot. I
expect customs with regard to clothing are different in
every country. ’Course, it’s the French who likes to
dress smart, isn’t it?”
“He is no relative of mine,” said Poirot stiffly.
“His name is Samuel Kidd and he is as English as you
are, madame.”
“He’s got cuts all over his face,” said Blanche
Unsworth. “From shaving, he said. I don’t think he
must know how to do it properly, poor lamb. I told
him I’d something to put on the cuts to help them heal,
but all he did was laugh!”
“All over his face?” Poirot frowned. “The Mr.
Kidd I met last Friday at Pleasant’s Coffee House had
only one cut on his face, on a patch of skin that he had
shaved. Tell me, does this man in the drawing room
have a beard?”
“Oh, no. There’s not a hair on his face apart from
his eyebrows. Not as much skin on his face as there
should be either! I wish you’d teach him how to shave
without causing himself lacerations, Mr. Poirot. Oh,
I’m sorry.” Blanche clapped her hands over her
mouth. “You did say he was no relation, didn’t you. I
still have him down in my head as Belgian. He
sounded exactly like you, the way he spoke. I thought
he might be a younger brother. About forty, isn’t he?”
Affronted that anyone might take raggedy Samuel
Kidd to be his kin, Poirot cut short his exchange with
Blanche Unsworth somewhat abruptly, and proceeded
to the drawing room.
Inside it, he found what he had been told he would
find: a man—the same man he had met at Pleasant’s
the previous Friday—who had removed all his facial
hair and cut himself extensively in the process.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Poirr-oh. ” Samuel Kidd
rose to his feet. “I bet I fooled her, didn’t I, her what
let me in? Did she think I was a native of your
country?”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Kidd. I see that you have
suffered much misfortune since the last time we met.”
“Misfortune?”
“The injuries to your face.”
“Ah, you’re right there, sir. Truth is, I don’t like
thinking about a sharp blade so close to me eyes. I
think about it cutting clean through the eyeball, and it
gives me a shaky hand. I’m funny about eyes. I’ve
tried telling meself to think about something different,
but it don’t work. Always end up sliced to ribbons, I
do.”
“So I see. May I ask: how did you know that you
would find me at this address?”
“Mr. Lazzari at the hotel said that Constable
Stanley Beer said that Mr. Catchpool lived here and
you did too, sir. I’m sorry about disturbing you at
home, but I’ve got good news for you and I thought
you’d want to know it straight away.”
“What is the news?”
“The lady that dropped the two keys, the one I saw
running from the hotel after the murders . . . I’ve
remembered who she is! It came to me when I looked
at a newspaper this morning. I don’t often look at a
newspaper.”
“Who is the woman you saw, monsieur? You are
right. Poirot, he would like to know her name straight
away.”
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.”
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.
Margaret Ernst appeared in the kitchen. “Oh, I was
looking for that,” she said with a smile, bending to
retrieve the scarf. “I knew it would be you. I left the
door open. In fact, I expected you to arrive five
minutes ago, but I suppose nine o’clock on the dot
would have looked too eager, wouldn’t it?” She
ushered me inside, draping the scarf around her neck.
Something about her teasing—though I knew it was
not intended to offend—emboldened me to be more
direct than I might otherwise have been. “I am eager
to discover the truth, and I don’t mind looking it,” I
said. “Who might have wished to murder Harriet
Sippel, Ida Gransbury and Richard Negus? I believe
you have an idea about that, and I’d like to know it.”
“What are those papers?”
“What? Oh!” I had forgotten I was holding them.
“Lists. Guests at the Bloxham Hotel around the time
of the murders, and people employed by the Bloxham.
I was wondering if you might take a look and let me
know if you see a name you recognize—after you’ve
answered my question about who might have wanted
to murder—”
“Nancy Ducane,” said Margaret. She took the two
lists from my hand and studied them, frowning.
I said the very same words to her that Poirot had
said to Samuel Kidd the day before, though I did not
know then that he had said them. “Nancy Ducane the
artist?”
“Wait a moment.” We stood in silence while
Margaret read the two lists. “None of these names is
familiar to me, I’m afraid.”
“Are you saying that Nancy Ducane—the same
Nancy Ducane I’m thinking of, the society portrait
painter—had a motive for killing Harriet Sippel, Ida
Gransbury and Richard Negus?”
Margaret folded the two pieces of paper, handed
them back to me, then beckoned me to follow her into
the parlor. Once we were sitting comfortably in the
same chairs as on the previous day, she said, “Yes.
Nancy Ducane the famous artist. She is the only
person I can think of who would have had both the
