Agatha Christie

Five Little Pigs

A Hercule Poirot Mystery

To Stephen Glanville

Introduction

CARLA LEMARCHANT

Hercule Poirot looked with interest and appreciation at the young woman who was being ushered into the room.

There had been nothing distinctive in the letter she had written. It had been a mere request for an appointment, with no hint of what lay behind that request. It had been brief and businesslike. Only the firmness of the handwriting had indicated that Carla Lemarchant was a young woman.

And now here she was in the fleshâa tall, slender young woman in the early twenties. The kind of young woman that one definitely looked at twice. Her clothes were good, an expensive well-cut coat and skirt and luxurious furs. Her head was well poised on her shoulders, she had a square brow, a sensitively cut nose and a determined chin. She looked very much alive. It was her aliveness, more than her beauty, which struck the predominant note.

Before her entrance, Hercule Poirot had been feeling oldânow he felt rejuvenatedâaliveâkeen!

As he came forward to greet her, he was aware of her dark grey eyes studying him attentively. She was very earnest in that scrutiny.

She sat down and accepted the cigarette that he offered her. After it was lit she sat for a minute or two smoking, still looking at him with that earnest, thoughtful gaze.

Poirot said gently:

âYes, it has to be decided, does it not?â

She started. âI beg your pardon?â

Her voice was attractive, with a faint, agreeable huskiness in it.

âYou are making up your mind, are you not, whether I am a mere mountebank, or the man you need?â

She smiled. She said:

âWell, yesâsomething of that kind. You see, Mr. Poirot, youâyou donât look exactly the way I pictured you.â

âAnd I am old, am I not? Older than you imagined?â

âYes, that too.â She hesitated. âIâm being frank, you see. I wantâIâve got to haveâthe best.â

âRest assured,â said Hercule Poirot. âI am the best!â

Carla said: âYouâre not modestâ¦All the same, Iâm inclined to take you at your word.â

Poirot said placidly:

âOne does not, you know, employ merely the muscles. I do not need to bend and measure the footprints and pick up the cigarette ends and examine the bent blades of grass. It is enough for me to sit back in my chair and think. It is thisââhe tapped his egg-shaped headââthis that functions!â

âI know,â said Carla Lemarchant. âThatâs why Iâve come to you. I want you, you see, to do something fantastic!â

âThat,â said Hercule Poirot, âpromises well!â

He looked at her in encouragement.

Carla Lemarchant drew a deep breath.

âMy name,â she said, âisnât Carla. Itâs Caroline. The same as my motherâs. I was called after her.â She paused. âAnd though Iâve always gone by the name of Lemarchantâmy real name is Crale.â

Hercule Poirotâs forehead creased a moment perplexedly. He murmured: âCraleâI seem to rememberâ¦.â

She said:

âMy father was a painterârather a well-known painter. Some people say he was a great painter. I think he was.â

Hercule Poirot said: âAmyas Crale?â

âYes.â She paused, then she went on: âAnd my mother, Caroline Crale, was tried for murdering him!â

âAha,â said Hercule Poirot. âI remember nowâbut only vaguely. I was abroad at the time. It was a long time ago.â

âSixteen years,â said the girl.

Her face was very white now and her eyes two burning lights.

She said:

âDo you understand? She was tried and convictedâ¦She wasnât hanged because they felt that there were extenuating circumstancesâso the sentence was commuted to penal servitude for life. But she died only a year after the trial. You see? Itâs all overâdoneâfinished withâ¦.â

Poirot said quietly: âAnd so?â

The girl called Carla Lemarchant pressed her hands together. She spoke slowly and haltingly but with an odd, pointed emphasis.

She said:

âYouâve got to understandâexactlyâwhere I come in. I was five years old at the time itâhappened. Too young to know anything about it. I remember my mother and my father, of course, and I remember leaving home suddenlyâbeing taken to the country. I remember the pigs and a nice fat farmerâs wifeâand everybody being very kindâand I remember, quite clearly, the funny way they used to look at meâeverybodyâa sort of furtive look. I knew, of course, children do, that there was something wrongâbut I didnât know what.

âAnd then I went on a shipâit was excitingâit went on for days, and then I was in Canada and Uncle Simon met me, and I lived in Montreal with him and with Aunt Louise, and when I asked about Mummy and Daddy they said theyâd be coming soon. And thenâand then I think I forgotâonly I sort of knew that they were dead without remembering anyone actually telling me so. Because by that time, you see, I didnât think about them any more. I was very happy, you know. Uncle Simon and Aunt Louise were sweet to me, and I went to school and had a lot of friends, and Iâd quite forgotten that Iâd ever had another name, not Lemarchant. Aunt Louise, you see, told me that that was my name in Canada and that seemed quite sensible to me at the timeâit was just my Canadian nameâbut as I say I forgot in the end that Iâd ever had any other.â

She flung up her defiant chin. She said:

âLook at me. Youâd sayâwouldnât you? if you met me: âThere goes a girl whoâs got nothing to worry about!â Iâm well off, Iâve got splendid health, Iâm sufficiently good to look at, I can enjoy life. At twenty, there wasnât a girl anywhere Iâd have changed places with.

âBut already, you know, Iâd begun to ask questions. About my own mother and father. Who they were and what they did? Iâd have been bound to find out in the endâ

âAs it was, they told me the truth. When I was twenty-one. They had to then, because for one thing I came into my own money. And then, you see, there was the letter. The letter my mother left for me when she died.â

Her expression changed, dimmed. Her eyes were no longer two burning points, they were dark dim pools. She said:

âThatâs when I learnt the truth. That my mother had been convicted of murder. It wasârather horrible.â

She paused.

âThereâs something else I must tell you. I was engaged to be married. They said we must waitâthat we couldnât be married until I was twenty-one. When I knew, I understood why.â

Poirot stirred and spoke for the first time. He said:

âAnd what was your fiancÃ©âs reaction?â

âJohn? John didnât care. He said it made no differenceânot to him. He and I were John and Carlaâand the past didnât matter.â

She leaned forward.

âWeâre still engaged. But all the same, you know, it does matter. It matters to me. And it matters to John tooâ¦It isnât the past that matters to usâitâs the future.â She clenched her hands. âWe want children, you see. We both want children. And we donât want to watch our children growing up and be afraid.â

Poirot said:

âDo you not realize that amongst every oneâs ancestors there has been violence and evil?â

âYou donât understand. Thatâs so, of course. But then, one doesnât usually know about it. We do. Itâs very near to us. And sometimesâIâve seen John just look at me. Such a quick glanceâjust a flash. Supposing we were married and weâd quarrelledâand I saw him look at me andâand wonder?â

Hercule Poirot said: âHow was your father killed?â

Carlaâs voice came clear and firm.

âHe was poisoned.â

Hercule Poirot said: âI see.â

There was a silence.

Then the girl said in a calm, matter-of-fact voice:

âThank goodness youâre sensible. You see that it does matterâand what it involves. You donât try and patch it up and trot out consoling phrases.â

âI understand very well,â said Poirot. âWhat I do not understand is what you want of me?â

Carla Lemarchant said simply:

âI want to marry John! And I mean to marry John! And I want to have at least two girls and two boys. And youâre going to make that possible!â

âYou meanâyou want me to talk to your fiancÃ©? Ah no, it is idiocy what I say there! It is something quite different that you are suggesting. Tell me what is in your mind.â

âListen, Mr. Poirot. Get thisâand get it clearly. Iâm hiring you to investigate a case of murder.â

âDo you meanâ?â

âYes, I do mean. A case of murder is a case of murder whether it happened yesterday or sixteen years ago.â

âBut my dear young ladyââ

âWait, Mr. Poirot. You havenât got it all yet. Thereâs a very important point.â

âYes?â

âMy mother was innocent,â said Carla Lemarchant.

Hercule Poirot rubbed his nose. He murmured:

âWell, naturallyâI comprehend thatââ

âIt isnât sentiment. Thereâs her letter. She left it for me before she died. It was to be given to me when I was twenty-one. She left it for that one reasonâthat I should be quite sure. Thatâs all that was in it. That she hadnât done itâthat she was innocentâthat I could be sure of that always.â

Hercule Poirot looked thoughtfully at the young vital face staring so earnestly at him. He said slowly:

âTout de mÃªmeââ

Carla smiled.

âNo, mother wasnât like that! Youâre thinking that it might be a lieâa sentimental lie?â She leaned forward earnestly. âListen, Mr. Poirot, there are some things that children know quite well. I can remember my motherâa patchy remembrance, of course, but I remember quite well the sort of person she was. She didnât tell liesâkind lies. If a thing was going to hurt she always told you so. Dentists, or thorns in your fingerâall that sort of thing. Truth was aâa natural impulse to her. I wasnât, I donât think, especially fond of herâbut I trusted her. I still trust her! If she says she didnât kill my father then she didnât kill him! She wasnât the sort of person who would solemnly write down a lie when she knew she was dying.â

Slowly, almost reluctantly, Hercule Poirot bowed his head.

Carla went on.

âThatâs why itâs all right for me marrying John. I know itâs all right. But he doesnât. He feels that naturally I would think my mother was innocent. Itâs got to be cleared up, Mr. Poirot. And youâre going to do it!â

Hercule Poirot said slowly:

âGranted that what you say is true, mademoiselle, sixteen years have gone by!â

Carla Lemarchant said: âOh! of course itâs going to be difficult! Nobody but you could do it!â

Hercule Poirotâs eyes twinkled slightly. He said:

âYou give me the best butterâhein?â

Carla said:

âIâve heard about you. The things youâve done. The way you have done them. Itâs psychology that interests you, isnât it? Well, that doesnât change with time. The tangible things are goneâthe cigarette end and the footprints and the bent blades of grass. You canât look for those any more. But you can go over all the facts of the case, and perhaps talk to the people who were there at the timeâtheyâre all alive stillâand thenâand then, as you said just now, you can lie back in your chair and think. And youâll know what really happenedâ¦.â

Hercule Poirot rose to his feet. One hand caressed his moustache. He said:

âMademoiselle, I am honoured! I will justify your faith in me. I will investigate your case of murder. I will search back into the events of sixteen years ago and I will find out the truth.â

Carla got up. Her eyes were shining. But she only said:

âGood.â

Hercule Poirot shook an eloquent forefinger.

âOne little moment. I have said I will find out the truth. I do not, you understand, have the bias. I do not accept your assurance of your motherâs innocence. If she was guiltyâeh bien, what then?â

Carlaâs proud head went back. She said:

âIâm her daughter. I want the truth!â

Hercule Poirot said:

âEn avant, then. Though it is not that, that I should say. On the contrary. En arriÃ¨reâ¦.â

BOOK ONE

One

COUNSEL FOR THE DEFENCE

âDo I remember the Crale case?â asked Sir Montague Depleach. âCertainly I do. Remember it very well. Most attractive woman. But unbalanced, of course. No self-control.â

He glanced sideways at Poirot.

âWhat makes you ask me about it?â

âI am interested.â

âNot really tactful of you, my dear man,â said Depleach, showing his teeth in his sudden famous âwolfâs smile,â which had been reputed to have such a terrifying effect upon witnesses. âNot one of my successes, you know. I didnât get her off.â

âI know that.â

Sir Montague shrugged his shoulders. He said:

âOf course I hadnât quite as much experience then as I have now. All the same I think I did all that could humanly be done. One canât do much without cooperation. We did get it commuted to penal servitude. Provocation, you know. Lots of respectable wives and mothers got up a petition. There was a lot of sympathy for her.â

He leaned back stretching out his long legs. His face took on a judicial, appraising look.

âIf sheâd shot him, you know, or even knifed himâIâd have gone all out for manslaughter. But poisonâno, you canât play tricks with that. Itâs trickyâvery tricky.â

âWhat was the defence?â asked Hercule Poirot.

He knew because he had already read the newspaper files, but he saw no harm in playing the complete ignorant to Sir Montague.

âOh, suicide. Only thing you could go for. But it didnât go down well. Crale simply wasnât that kind of man! You never met him, I suppose? No? Well, he was a great blustering, vivid sort of chap. Great womanizer, beer drinkerâall the rest of it. Went in for the lusts of the flesh and enjoyed them. You canât persuade a jury that a man like that is going to sit down and quietly do away with himself. It just doesnât fit. No, I was afraid I was up against a losing proposition from the first. And she wouldnât play up! I knew weâd lost as soon as she went into the box. No fight in her at all. But there it isâif you donât put your client into the box, the jury draw their own conclusions.â

Poirot said:

âIs that what you meant when you said just now that one cannot do much without cooperation?â

âAbsolutely, my dear fellow. Weâre not magicians, you know. Half the battle is the impression the accused makes on the jury. Iâve known juries time and again bring in verdicts dead against the judgeâs summing up. ââE did it, all rightââthatâs the point of view. Or âHe never did a thing like thatâdonât tell me!â Caroline Crale didnât even try to put up a fight.â

âWhy was that?â

Sir Montague shrugged his shoulders.

âDonât ask me. Of course, she was fond of the fellow. Broke her all up when she came to and realized what sheâd done. Donât believe she ever rallied from the shock.â

âSo in your opinion she was guilty?â

Depleach looked rather startled. He said:

âErâwell, I thought we were taking that for granted.â

âDid she ever admit to you that she was guilty?â

Depleach looked shocked.

âOf course notâof course not. We have our code, you know. Innocence is alwaysâerâassumed. If youâre so interested itâs a pity you canât get hold of old Mayhew. Mayhews were the solicitors who briefed me. Old Mayhew could have told you more than I can. But thereâheâs joined the great majority. Thereâs young George Mayhew, of course, but he was only a boy at the time. Itâs a long time ago, you know.â

âYes, I know. It is fortunate for me that you remember so much. You have a remarkable memory.â

Depleach looked pleased. He murmured:

âOh well, one remembers the main headings, you know. Especially when itâs a capital charge. And, of course, the Crale case got a lot of publicity from the press. Lot of sex interest and all that. The girl in the case was pretty striking. Hard-boiled piece of goods, I thought.â

âYou will forgive me if I seem too insistent,â said Poirot, âbut I repeat once more, you had no doubt of Caroline Craleâs guilt?â

Depleach shrugged his shoulders. He said:

âFranklyâas man to manâI donât think thereâs much doubt about it. Oh yes, she did it all right.â

âWhat was the evidence against her?â

âVery damning indeed. First of all there was motive. She and Crale had led a kind of cat and dog life for yearsâinterminable rows. He was always getting mixed up with some woman or other. Couldnât help it. He was that kind of man. She stood it pretty well on the whole. Made allowances for him on the score of temperamentâand the man really was a first-class painter, you know. His stuffâs gone up enormously in priceâenormously. Donât care for that style of painting myselfâugly forceful stuff, but itâs goodâno doubt of that.

âWell, as I say, there had been trouble about women from time to time. Mrs. Crale wasnât the meek kind who suffers in silence. There were rows all right. But he always came back to her in the end. These affairs of his blew over. But this final affair was rather different. It was a girl, you seeâand quite a young girl. She was only twenty.

âElsa Greer, that was her name. She was the only daughter of some Yorkshire manufacturer. Sheâd got money and determination, and she knew what she wanted. What she wanted was Amyas Crale. She got him to paint herâhe didnât paint regular Society portraits, âMrs. Blinkety Blank in satin and pearls,â but he painted figures. I donât know that most women would have cared to be painted by himâhe didnât spare them! But he painted the Greer girl, and he ended by falling for her good and proper. He was getting on for forty, you know, and heâd been married a good many years. He was just ripe for making a fool of himself over some chit of a girl. Elsa Greer was the girl. He was crazy about her, and his idea was to get a divorce from his wife and marry Elsa.

âCaroline Crale wasnât standing for that. She threatened him. She was overheard by two people to say that if he didnât give the girl up sheâd kill him. And she meant it all right! The day before it happened, theyâd been having tea with a neighbour. He was by way of dabbling in herbs and home-brewed medicines. Amongst his patent brews was one of coniineâspotted hemlock. There was some talk about it and its deadly properties.

âThe next day he noticed that half the contents of the bottle had gone. Got the wind up about it. They found an almost empty bottle of it in Mrs. Craleâs room, hidden away at the bottom of a drawer.â

Hercule Poirot moved uncomfortably. He said:

âSomebody else might have put it there.â

âOh! She admitted to the police sheâd taken it. Very unwise, of course, but she didnât have a solicitor to advise her at that stage. When they asked her about it, she admitted quite frankly that she had taken it.â

âFor what reason?â

âShe made out that sheâd taken it with the idea of doing herself in. She couldnât explain how the bottle came to be emptyânor how it was that there were only her fingerprints on it. That part of it was pretty damaging. She contended, you see, that Amyas Crale had committed suicide. But if heâd taken the coniine from the bottle sheâd hidden in her room, his fingerprints would have been on the bottle as well as hers.â

âIt was given him in beer, was it not?â

âYes. She got out the bottle from the refrigerator and took it down herself to where he was painting in the garden. She poured it out and gave it to him and watched him drink it. Every one went up to lunch and left himâhe often didnât come in to meals. Afterwards she and the governess found him there dead. Her story was that the beer she gave him was all right. Our theory was that he suddenly felt so worried and remorseful that he slipped the poison in himself. All poppycockâhe wasnât that kind of man! And the fingerprint evidence was the most damning of all.â

âThey found her fingerprints on the bottle?â

âNo, they didnâtâthey found only hisâand they were phoney ones. She was alone with the body, you see, while the governess went to call up a doctor. And what she must have done was to wipe the bottle and glass and then press his fingers on them. She wanted to pretend, you see, that sheâd never even handled the stuff. Well, that didnât work. Old Rudolph, who was prosecuting, had a lot of fun with thatâproved quite definitely by demonstration in court that a man couldnât hold a bottle with his fingers in that position! Of course we did our best to prove that he couldâthat his hands would take up a contorted attitude when he was dyingâbut frankly our stuff wasnât very convincing.â

Hercule Poirot said:

âThe coniine in the bottle must have been put there before she took it down to the garden.â

âThere was no coniine in the bottle at all. Only in the glass.â

He pausedâhis large handsome face suddenly alteredâhe turned his head sharply. âHallo,â he said. âNow then, Poirot, what are you driving at?â

Poirot said:

âIf Caroline Crale was innocent, how did that coniine get into the beer? The defence said at the time that Amyas Crale himself put it there. But you say to me that that was in the highest degree unlikelyâand for my part I agree with you. He was not that kind of man. Then, if Caroline Crale did not do it, someone else did.â

Depleach said with almost a splutter:

âOh, damn it all, man, you canât flog a dead horse. Itâs all over and done with years ago. Of course she did it. Youâd know that well enough if youâd seen her at the time. It was written all over her! I even fancy that the verdict was a relief to her. She wasnât frightened. No nerves at all. Just wanted to get through the trial and have it over. A very brave woman, reallyâ¦.â

âAnd yet,â said Hercule Poirot, âwhen she died she left a letter to be given to her daughter in which she swore solemnly that she was innocent.â

âI dare say she did,â said Sir Montague Depleach. âYou or I would have done the same in her place.â

âHer daughter says she was not that kind of woman.â

âThe daughter saysâpah! What does she know about it? My dear Poirot, the daughter was a mere infant at the time of the trial. What was sheâfourâfive? They changed her name and sent her out of England somewhere to some relatives. What can she know or remember?â

âChildren know people very well sometimes.â

âMaybe they do. But that doesnât follow in this case. Naturally the girl wants to believe her mother didnât do it. Let her believe it. It doesnât do any harm.â

âBut unfortunately she demands proof.â

âProof that Caroline Crale didnât kill her husband?â

âYes.â

âWell,â said Depleach. âShe wonât get it.â

âYou think not?â

The famous K.C. looked thoughtfully at his companion.

âIâve always thought you were an honest man, Poirot. What are you doing? Trying to make money by playing on a girlâs natural affections?â

âYou do not know the girl. She is an unusual girl. A girl of great force of character.â

âYes, I should imagine the daughter of Amyas and Caroline Crale might be that. What does she want?â

âShe wants the truth.â

âHmâIâm afraid sheâll find the truth unpalatable. Honestly, Poirot, I donât think thereâs any doubt about it. She killed him.â

âYou will forgive me, my friend, but I must satisfy myself on that point.â

âWell, I donât know what more you can do. You can read up the newspaper accounts of the trial. Humphrey Rudolph appeared for the Crown. Heâs deadâlet me see, who was his junior? Young Fogg, I think. Yes, Fogg. You can have a chat with him. And then there are the people who were there at the time. Donât suppose theyâll enjoy your butting in and raking the whole thing up, but I dare say youâll get what you want out of them. Youâre a plausible devil.â

âAh yes, the people concerned. That is very important. You remember, perhaps, who they were?â

Depleach considered.

âLet me seeâitâs a long time ago. There were only five people who were really in it, so to speakâIâm not counting the servantsâa couple of faithful old things, scared-looking creaturesâthey didnât know anything about anything. No one could suspect them.â

âThere are five people, you say. Tell me about them.â

âWell, there was Philip Blake. He was Craleâs greatest friendâhad known him all his life. He was staying in the house at the time. Heâs alive. I see him now and again on the links. Lives at St. Georgeâs Hill. Stockbroker. Plays the markets and gets away with it. Successful man, running to fat a bit.â

âYes. And who next?â

âThen there was Blakeâs elder brother. Country squireâstay at home sort of chap.â

A jingle ran through Poirotâs head. He repressed it. He must not always be thinking of nursery rhymes. It seemed an obsession with him lately. And yet the jingle persisted.

âThis little pig went to market, this little pig stayed at homeâ¦.â

He murmured:

âHe stayed at homeâyes?â

âHeâs the fellow I was telling you aboutâmessed about with drugsâand herbsâbit of a chemist. His hobby. What was his name now? Literary sort of nameâIâve got it. Meredith. Meredith Blake. Donât know whether heâs alive or not.â

âAnd who next?â

âNext? Well, thereâs the cause of all the trouble. The girl in the case. Elsa Greer.â

âThis little pig ate roast beef,â murmured Poirot.

Depleach stared at him.

âTheyâve fed her meat all right,â he said. âSheâs been a go-getter. Sheâs had three husbands since then. In and out of the divorce court as easy as you please. And every time she makes a change, itâs for the better. Lady Dittishamâthatâs who she is now. Open any Tatler and youâre sure to find her.â

âAnd the other two?â

âThere was the governess woman. I donât remember her name. Nice capable woman. ThompsonâJonesâsomething like that. And there was the child. Caroline Craleâs half sister. She must have been about fifteen. Sheâs made rather a name for herself. Digs up things and goes trekking to the back of beyond. Warrenâthatâs her name. Angela Warren. Rather an alarming young woman nowadays. I met her the other day.â

âShe is not, then, the little pig who cried Wee Wee Weeâ¦?â

Sir Montague Depleach looked at him rather oddly. He said drily:

âSheâs had something to cry Wee-Wee about in her life! Sheâs disfigured, you know. Got a bad scar down one side of her face. SheâOh well, youâll hear all about it, I dare say.â

Poirot stood up. He said:

âI thank you. You have been very kind. If Mrs. Crale did not kill her husbandââ

Depleach interrupted him:

âBut she did, old boy, she did. Take my word for it.â

Poirot continued without taking any notice of the interruption.

âThen it seems logical to suppose that one of these five people must have done so.â

âOne of them could have done it, I suppose,â said Depleach, doubtfully. âBut I donât see why any of them should. No reason at all! In fact, Iâm quite sure none of them did do it. Do get this bee out of your bonnet, old boy!â

But Hercule Poirot only smiled and shook his head.

Two

COUNSEL FOR THE PROSECUTION

âGuilty as Hell,â said Mr. Fogg succinctly.

Hercule Poirot looked meditatively at the thin clear-cut face of the barrister.

Quentin Fogg, K.C. was a very different type from Montague Depleach. Depleach had force, magnetism, an overbearing and slightly bullying personality. He got his effects by a rapid and dramatic change of manner. Handsome, urbane, charming one minuteâthen an almost magical transformation, lips back, snarling smileâout for your blood.

Quentin Fogg was thin, pale, singularly lacking in what is called personality. His questions were quiet and unemotionalâbut steadily persistent. If Depleach was like a rapier, Fogg was like an auger. He bored steadily. He had never reached spectacular fame, but he was known as a first-class man on law. He usually won his cases.

Hercule Poirot eyed him meditatively.

âSo that,â he said, âwas how it struck you?â

Fogg nodded. He said:

âYou should have seen her in the box. Old Humpie Rudolph (he was leading, you know) simply made mincement of her. Mincemeat!â

He paused and then said unexpectedly:

âOn the whole, you know, it was rather too much of a good thing.â

âI am not sure,â said Hercule Poirot, âthat I quite understand you?â

Fogg drew his delicately marked brows together. His sensitive hand stroked his bare upper lip. He said:

âHow shall I put it? Itâs a very English point of view. âShooting the sitting birdâ describes it best. Is that intelligible to you?â

âIt is, as you say, a very English point of view, but I think I understand you. In the Central Criminal Court, as on the playing fields of Eton, and in the hunting country, the Englishman likes the victim to have a sporting chance.â

âThatâs it, exactly. Well, in this case, the accused didnât have a chance. Humpie Rudolph did as he liked with her. It started with her examination by Depleach. She stood up there, you knowâas docile as a little girl at a party, answering Depleachâs questions with the answers sheâd learnt off by heart. Quite docile, word perfectâand absolutely unconvincing! Sheâd been told what to say and she said it. It wasnât Depleachâs fault. That old mountebank played his part perfectlyâbut in any scene that needs two actors, one alone canât carry it. She didnât play up to him. It made the worst possible effect on the jury. And then old Humpie got up. I expect youâve seen him? Heâs a great loss. Hitching his gown up, swaying back on his feetâand thenâstraight off the mark!

âAs I tell you, he made mincemeat of her! Led up to this and thatâand she fell into the pitfall every time. He got her to admit the absurdities of her own statements, he got her to contradict herself, she floundered in deeper and deeper. And then he wound up with his usual stuff. Very compellingâvery convinced: âI suggest to you, Mrs. Crale, that this story of yours about stealing coniine in order to commit suicide is a tissue of falsehood. I suggest that you took it in order to administer it to your husband who was about to leave you for another woman, and that you did deliberately administer it to him.â And she looked at himâsuch a pretty creatureâgraceful, delicateâand she said: âOh, noâno, I didnât.â It was the flattest thing you ever heardâthe most unconvincing. I saw old Depleach squirm in his seat. He knew it was all up then.â

Fogg paused a minuteâthen he went on:

âAnd yetâI donât know. In some ways it was the cleverest thing she could have done! It appealed to chivalryâto that queer chivalry closely allied to blood sports which makes most foreigners think us such almighty humbugs! The jury feltâthe whole court feltâthat she hadnât got a chance. She couldnât even fight for herself. She certainly couldnât put up any kind of a show against a great big clever brute like old Humpie. That weak, unconvincing: âOh noâno, I didnât,â it was patheticâsimply pathetic. She was done for!

âYes, in a way, it was the best thing she could have done. The jury were only out just over half an hour. They brought her in: Guilty with a recommendation to mercy.

âActually, you know, she made a good contrast to the other woman in the case. The girl. The jury were unsympathetic to her from the start. She never turned a hair. Very good looking, hard-boiled, modern. To the women in the court she stood for a typeâtype of the homebreaker. Homes werenât safe when girls like that were wandering abroad. Girls damn full of sex and contemptuous of the rights of wives and mothers. She didnât spare herself, I will say. She was honest. Admirably honest. Sheâd fallen in love with Amyas Crale and he with her, and sheâd no scruples at all about taking him away from his wife and child.

âI admired her in a way. She had guts. Depleach put in some nasty stuff in cross-examination and she stood up well to it. But the court was unsympathetic. And the judge didnât like her. Old Avis, it was. Been a bit of a rip himself when youngâbut heâs very hot on morality when heâs presiding in his robes. His summing up against Caroline Crale was mildness itself. He couldnât deny the facts but he threw out pretty strong hints as to provocation and all that.â

Hercule Poirot asked:

âHe did not support the suicide theory of the defence?â

Fogg shook his head.

âThat never really had a leg to stand upon. Mind you, I donât say Depleach didnât do his best with it. He was magnificent. He painted a most moving picture of a great-hearted, pleasure-loving, temperamental man, suddenly overtaken by a passion for a lovely young girl, conscience stricken, yet unable to resist. Then his recoil, his disgust with himself, his remorse for the way he was treating his wife and child and his sudden decision to end it all! The honourable way out. I can tell you, it was a most moving performance; Depleachâs voice brought tears to your eyes. You saw the poor wretch torn by his passions and his essential decency. The effect was terrific. Onlyâwhen it was all overâand the spell was broken, you couldnât quite square that mythical figure with Amyas Crale. Everybody knew too much about Crale. He wasnât at all that kind of man. And Depleach hadnât been able to get hold of any evidence to show that he was. I should say Crale came as near as possible to being a man without even a rudimentary conscience. He was a ruthless, selfish, good-tempered happy egoist. Any ethics he had would have applied to painting. He wouldnât, Iâm convinced, have painted a sloppy, bad pictureâno matter what the inducement. But for the rest, he was a full-blooded man and he loved lifeâhe had a zest for it. Suicide? Not he!â

âNot, perhaps, a very good defence to have chosen?â

Fogg shrugged his thin shoulders. He said:

âWhat else was there? Couldnât sit back and plead that there was no case for the juryâthat the prosecution had got to prove their case against the accused. There was a great deal too much proof. Sheâd handled the poisonâadmitted pinching it, in fact. There was means, motive, opportunityâeverything.â

âOne might have attempted to show that these things were artificially arranged?â

Fog said bluntly:

âShe admitted most of them. And, in any case, itâs too farfetched. Youâre implying, I presume, that somebody else murdered him and fixed it up to look as though she had done it.â

âYou think that quite untenable?â

Fogg said slowly:

âIâm afraid I do. Youâre suggesting the mysterious X. Where do we look for him?â

Poirot said:

âObviously in a close circle. There were five people, were there not, who could have been concerned?â

âFive? Let me see. There was the old duffer who messed about with his herb brewing. A dangerous hobbyâbut an amiable creature. Vague sort of person. Donât see him as X. There was the girlâshe might have polished off Caroline, but certainly not Amyas. Then there was the stockbrokerâCraleâs best friend. Thatâs popular in detective stories, but I donât believe in it in real life. Thereâs no one elseâoh yes, the kid sister, but one doesnât seriously consider her. Thatâs four.â

Hercule Poirot said:

âYou forget the governess.â

âYes, thatâs true. Wretched people, governesses, one never does remember them. I do recall her dimly though. Middle-aged, plain, competent. I suppose a psychologist would say that she had a guilty passion for Crale and therefore killed him. The repressed spinster! Itâs no goodâI just donât believe it. As far as my dim remembrance goes she wasnât the neurotic type.â

âIt is a long time ago.â

âFifteen or sixteen years, I suppose. Yes, quite that. You canât expect my memories of the case to be very acute.â

Hercule Poirot said:

âBut on the contrary, you remember it amazingly well. That astounds me. You can see it, can you not? When you talk the picture is there before your eyes.â

Fogg said slowly:

âYes, youâre rightâI do see itâquite plainly.â

Poirot said:

âIt would interest me, my friend, very much, if you would tell me why?â

âWhy?â Fogg considered the question. His thin intellectual face was alertâinterested. âYes, now why?â

Poirot asked:

âWhat do you see so plainly? The witnesses? The counsel? The judge? The accused standing in the dock?â

Fogg said quietly:

âThatâs the reason, of course! Youâve put your finger on it. I shall always see herâ¦Funny thing, romance. She had the quality of it. I donât know if she was really beautifulâ¦She wasnât very youngâtired lookingâcircles under her eyes. But it all centered round her. The interestâthe drama. And yet, half the time, she wasnât there. Sheâd gone away somewhere, quite far awayâjust left her body there, quiescent, attentive, with the little polite smile on her lips. She was all half tones, you know, lights and shades. And yet, with it all, she was more alive than the otherâthat girl with the perfect body, and the beautiful face, and the crude young strength. I admired Elsa Greer because she had guts, because she could fight, because she stood up to her tormentors and never quailed! But I admired Caroline Crale because she didnât fight, because she retreated into her world of half lights and shadows. She was never defeated because she never gave battle.â

He paused:

âIâm only sure of one thing. She loved the man she killed. Loved him so much that half of her died with himâ¦.â

Mr. Fogg, K.C., paused and polished his glasses.

âDear me,â he said. âI seem to be saying some very strange things! I was quite a young man at the time, you know. Just an ambitious youngster. These things make an impression. But all the same Iâm sure that Caroline Crale was a very remarkable woman. I shall never forget her. NoâI shall never forget herâ¦.â

Three

THE YOUNG SOLICITOR

George Mayhew was cautious and non-committal.

He remembered the case, of course, but not at all clearly. His father had been in chargeâhe himself had been only nineteen at the time.

Yes, the case had made a great stir. Because of Crale being such a well-known man. His pictures were very fineâvery fine indeed. Two of them were in the Tate. Not that that meant anything.

Mr. Poirot would excuse him, but he didnât see quite what Mr. Poirotâs interest was in the matter. Oh, the daughter! Really? Indeed? Canada? He had always heard it was New Zealand.

George Mayhew became less rigid. He unbent.

A shocking thing in a girlâs life. He had the deepest sympathy for her. Really it would have been better if she had never learned the truth. Still, it was no use saying that now.

She wanted to know? Yes, but what was there to know? There were the reports of the trial, of course. He himself didnât really know anything.

No, he was afraid there wasnât much doubt as to Mrs. Craleâs being guilty. There was a certain amount of excuse for her. These artistsâdifficult people to live with. With Crale, he understood, it had always been some woman or other.

And she herself had probably been the possessive type of woman. Unable to accept facts. Nowadays sheâd simply have divorced him and got over it. He added cautiously:

âLet me seeâerâLady Dittisham, I believe, was the girl in the case.â

Poirot said that he believed that that was so.

âThe newspapers bring it up from time to time,â said Mayhew. âSheâs been in the divorce court a good deal. Sheâs a very rich woman, as I expect you know. She was married to that explorer fellow before Dittisham. Sheâs always more or less in the public eye. The kind of woman who likes notoriety, I should imagine.â

âOr possibly a hero worshipper,â suggested Poirot.

The idea was upsetting to George Mayhew. He accepted it dubiously.

âWell, possiblyâyes, I suppose that might be so.â

He seemed to be turning the idea over in his mind.

Poirot said:

âHad your firm acted for Mrs. Crale for a long period of years?â

George Mayhew shook his head.

âOn the contrary. Jonathan and Jonathan were the Crale solicitors. Under the circumstances, however, Mr. Jonathan felt that he could not very well act for Mrs. Crale, and he arranged with usâwith my fatherâto take over her case. You would do well, I think, Mr. Poirot, to arrange a meeting with old Mr. Jonathan. He has retired from active workâhe is over seventyâbut he knew the Crale family intimately, and he could tell you far more than I can. Indeed, I myself can tell you nothing at all. I was a boy at the time. I donât think I was even in court.â

Poirot rose and George Mayhew, rising too, added:

âYou might like to have a word with Edmunds, our managing clerk. He was with the firm then and took a great interest in the case.â

Â 

Edmunds was a man of slow speech. His eyes gleamed with legal caution. He took his time in sizing up Poirot before he let himself be betrayed into speech. He said:

âAy, I mind the Crale case.â

He added severely: âIt was a disgraceful business.â

His shrewd eyes rested appraisingly on Hercule Poirot.

He said:

âItâs a long time since to be raking things up again.â

âA court verdict is not always an ending.â

Edmundsâs square head nodded slowly.

âIâd not say that you werenât in the right of it there.â

Hercule Poirot went on: âMrs. Crale left a daughter.â

âAy, I mind there was a child. Sent abroad to relatives, was she not?â

Poirot went on:

âThat daughter believes firmly in her motherâs innocence.â

The huge bushy eyebrows of Mr. Edmunds rose.

âThatâs the way of it, is it?â

Poirot asked:

âIs there anything you can tell me to support that belief?â

Edmunds reflected. Then, slowly, he shook his head.

âI could not conscientiously say there was. I admired Mrs. Crale. Whatever else she was, she was a lady! Not like the other. A hussyâno more, no less. Bold as brass! Jumped-up trashâthatâs what she wasâand showed it! Mrs. Crale was quality.â

âBut none the less a murderess?â

Edmunds frowned. He said, with more spontaneity than he had yet shown:

âThatâs what I used to ask myself, day after day. Sitting there in the dock so calm and gentle. âIâll not believe it,â I used to say to myself. But, if you take my meaning, Mr. Poirot, there wasnât anything else to believe. That hemlock didnât get into Mr. Craleâs beer by accident. It was put there. And if Mrs. Crale didnât put it there, who did?â

âThat is the question,â said Poirot. âWho did?â

Again those shrewd old eyes searched his face.

âSo thatâs your idea?â said Mr. Edmunds.

âWhat do you think yourself?â

There was a pause before the officer answered. Then he said:

âThere was nothing that pointed that wayânothing at all.â

Poirot said:

âYou were in court during the hearing of the case?â

âEvery day.â

âYou heard the witnesses give evidence?â

âI did.â

âDid anything strike you about themâany abnormality, any insincerity?â

Edmunds said bluntly:

âWas one of them lying, do you mean? Had one of them a reason to wish Mr. Crale dead? If youâll excuse me, Mr. Poirot, thatâs a very melodramatic idea.â

âAt least consider it,â Poirot urged.

He watched the shrewd face, the screwed-up, thoughtful eyes. Slowly, regretfully, Edmunds shook his head.

âThat Miss Greer,â he said, âshe was bitter enough, and vindictive! Iâd say she overstepped the mark in a good deal she said, but it was Mr. Crale alive she wanted. He was no use to her dead. She wanted Mrs. Crale hanged all rightâbut that was because death had snatched her man away from her. Like a baulked tigress she was! But, as I say, it was Mr. Crale alive sheâd wanted. Mr. Philip Blake, he was against Mrs. Crale too. Prejudiced. Got his knife into her whenever he could. But Iâd say he was honest according to his lights. Heâd been Mr. Craleâs great friend. His brother, Mr. Meredith Blakeâa bad witness he wasâvague, hesitatingânever seemed sure of his answers. Iâve seen many witnesses like that. Look as though theyâre lying when all the time theyâre telling the truth. Didnât want to say anything more than he could help, Mr. Meredith Blake didnât. Counsel got all the more out of him on that account. One of these quiet gentlemen who get easily flustered. The governess now, she stood up well to them. Didnât waste words and answered pat and to the point. You couldnât have told, listening to her, which side she was on. Got all her wits about her, she had. The brisk kind.â He paused. âKnew a lot more than she ever let on about the whole thing, I shouldnât wonder.â

âI, too, should not wonder,â said Hercule Poirot.

He looked sharply at the wrinkled, shrewd face of Mr. Alfred Edmunds. It was quite bland and impassive. But Hercule Poirot wondered if he had been vouchsafed a hint.

Four

THE OLD SOLICITOR

Mr. Caleb Jonathan lived in Essex. After a courteous exchange of letters, Poirot received an invitation, almost royal in its character, to dine and sleep. The old gentleman was decidedly a character. After the insipidity of young George Mayhew, Mr. Jonathan was like a glass of his own vintage port.

He had his own methods of approach to a subject, and it was not until well on towards midnight, when sipping a glass of fragrant old brandy, that Mr. Jonathan really unbent. In oriental fashion he had appreciated Hercule Poirotâs courteous refusal to rush him in any way. Now, in his own good time, he was willing to elaborate the theme of the Crale family.

âOur firm, of course, has known many generations of the Crales. I knew Amyas Crale and his father, Richard Crale, and I can remember Enoch Craleâthe grandfather. Country squires, all of them, thought more of horses than human beings. They rode straight, liked women, and had no truck with ideas. They distrusted ideas. But Richard Craleâs wife was cram full of ideasâmore ideas than sense. She was poetical and musicalâshe played the harp, you know. She enjoyed poor health and looked very picturesque on her sofa. She was an admirer of Kingsley. Thatâs why she called her son Amyas. His father scoffed at the nameâbut he gave in.

âAmyas Crale profited by his mixed inheritance. He got his artistic trend from his weakly mother, and his driving power and ruthless egoism from his father. All the Crales were egoists. They never by any chance saw any point of view but their own.â

Tapping with a delicate finger on the arm of his chair, the old man shot a shrewd glance at Poirot.

âCorrect me if I am wrong, Mr. Poirot, but I think you are interested inâcharacter, shall we say?â

Poirot replied.

âThat, to me, is the principal interest of all my cases.â

âI can conceive of it. To get under the skin, as it were, of your criminal. How interesting. How absorbing. Our firm, of course, have never had a criminal practice. We should not have been competent to act for Mrs. Crale, even if taste had allowed. Mayhews, however, were a very adequate firm. They briefed Depleachâthey didnât perhaps show much imagination thereâstill, he was very expensive and, of course, exceedingly dramatic! What they hadnât the wits to see was that Caroline would never play up in the way he wanted her to. She wasnât a dramatic woman.â

âWhat was she?â asked Poirot. âIt is that that I am chiefly anxious to know.â

âYes, yesâof course. How did she come to do what she did? That is the really vital question. I knew her, you know, before she married. Caroline Spalding, she was. A turbulent unhappy creature. Very alive. Her mother was left a widow early in life and Caroline was devoted to her mother. Then the mother married againâthere was another child. Yesâyes, very sad, very painful. These young, ardent, adolescent jealousies.â

âShe was jealous?â

âPassionately so. There was a regrettable incident. Poor child, she blamed herself bitterly afterwards. But you know, Mr. Poirot, these things happen. There is an inability to put on the brakes. It comesâit comes with maturity.â

Poirot said:

âWhat happened?â

âShe struck the childâthe babyâflung a paperweight at her. The child lost the sight of one eye and was permanently disfigured.â

Mr. Jonathan sighed. He said:

âYou can imagine the effect a simple question on that point had at the trial.â

He shook his head:

âIt gave the impression that Caroline Crale was a woman of ungovernable temper. That was not true. No, that was not true.â

He paused and then resumed:

âCaroline Spalding came often to stay at Alderbury. She rode well, and was keen. Richard Crale was fond of her. She waited on Mrs. Crale and was deft and gentleâMrs. Crale also liked her. The girl was not happy at home. She was happy at Alderbury. Diana Crale, Amyasâs sister, and she were by way of being friends. Philip and Meredith Blake, boys from the adjoining estate, were frequently at Alderbury. Philip was always a nasty, money-grubbing little brute. I must confess I have always had a distaste for him. But I am told that he tells a very good story and that he has the reputation of being a staunch friend. Meredith was what my contemporaries used to call Namby Pamby. Liked botany and butterflies and observing birds and beasts. Nature study they call it nowadays. Ah, dearâall the young people were a disappointment to their parents. None of them ran true to typeâhuntinâ, shootinâ, fishinâ. Meredith preferred watching birds and animals to shooting or hunting them, Philip definitely preferred town to country and went into the business of moneymaking. Diana married a fellow who wasnât a gentlemanâone of the temporary officers in the war. And Amyas, strong, handsome, virile Amyas, blossomed into being a painter, of all things in the world. Itâs my opinion that Richard Crale died of the shock.

âAnd in due course Amyas married Caroline Spalding. Theyâd always fought and sparred, but it was a love match all right. They were both crazy about each other. And they continued to care. But Amyas was like all the Crales, a ruthless egoist. He loved Caroline but he never once considered her in any way. He did as he pleased. Itâs my opinion that he was as fond of her as he could be of anybodyâbut she came a long way behind his art. That came first. And I should say at no time did his art give place to a woman. He had affairs with womenâthey stimulated himâbut he left them high and dry when heâd finished with them. He wasnât a sentimental man, nor a romantic one. And he wasnât entirely a sensualist either. The only woman he cared a button for was his own wife. And because she knew that she put up with a lot. He was a very fine painter, you know. She realized that, and respected it. He chased off in his amorous pursuits and came back againâusually with a picture to show for it.

âIt might have gone on like that if it hadnât come to Elsa Greer. Elsa Greerââ

Mr. Jonathan shook his head.

Poirot said: âWhat of Elsa Greer?â

Mr. Jonathan said unexpectedly:

âPoor child. Poor child.â

Poirot said: âSo you feel like that about her?â

Jonathan said:

âMaybe it is because I am an old man, but I find, Mr. Poirot, that there is something about the defencelessness of youth that moves me to tears. Youth is so vulnerable. It is so ruthlessâso sure. So generous and so demanding.â

Getting up, he crossed to the bookcase. Taking out a volume he opened it, turned the pages, and then read out:

ââIf that thy bent of love be honourable,

The purpose marriage, send me word tomorrow

By one that Iâll procure to come to thee,

Where and what time thou wilt perform the rite,

And all my fortunes at thy foot Iâll lay,

And follow thee my lord throughout the world.ââ

âThere speaks love allied to youth, in Julietâs words. No reticence, no holding back, no so-called maiden modesty. It is the courage, the insistence, the ruthless force of youth. Shakespeare knew youth. Juliet singles out Romeo. Desdemona claims Othello. They have no doubts, the young, no fear, no pride.â

Poirot said thoughtfully:

âSo to you Elsa Greer spoke in the words of Juliet?â

âYes. She was a spoiled child of fortuneâyoung, lovely, rich. She found her mate and claimed himâno young Romeo, a married, middle-aged painter. Elsa Greer had no code to restrain her, she had the code of modernity. âTake what you wantâwe shall only live once!ââ

He sighed, leaned back, and again tapped gently on the arm of his chair.

âA predatory Juliet. Young, ruthless, but horribly vulnerable! Staking everything on the one audacious throw. And seemingly she wonâ¦and thenâat the last momentâdeath steps inâand the living, ardent, joyous Elsa died also. There was left only a vindictive, cold, hard woman, hating with all her soul the woman whose hand had done this thing.â

His voice changed:

âDear, dear. Pray forgive this little lapse into melodrama. A crude young womanâwith a crude outlook on life. Not, I think, an interesting character. Rose white youth, passionate, pale, etc. Take that away and what remains? Only a somewhat mediocre young woman seeking for another life-sized hero to put on an empty pedestal.â

Poirot said:

âIf Amyas Crale had not been a famous painterââ

Mr. Jonathan agreed quickly. He said:

âQuiteâquite. You have taken the point admirably. The Elsas of this world are hero worshippers. A man must have done something, must be somebodyâ¦Caroline Crale, now, could have recognized quality in a bank clerk or an insurance agent! Caroline loved Amyas Crale the man, not Amyas Crale the painter. Caroline Crale was not crudeâElsa Greer was.â

He added:

âBut she was young and beautiful and to my mind infinitely pathetic.â

Hercule Poirot went to bed thoughtful. He was fascinated by the problem of personality.

To Edmunds, the clerk, Elsa Greer was a hussy, no more, no less.

To old Mr. Jonathan she was the eternal Juliet.

And Caroline Crale?

Each person had seen her differently. Montague Depleach had despised her as a defeatistâa quitter. To young Fogg she had represented Romance. Edmunds saw her simply as a âlady.â Mr. Jonathan had called her a stormy, turbulent creature.

How would he, Hercule Poirot, have seen her?

On the answer to that question depended, he felt, the success of his quest.

So far, not one of the people he had seen had doubted that whatever else she was, Caroline Crale was also a murderess.

Five

THE POLICE SUPERINTENDENT

Ex-Superintendent Hale pulled thoughtfully at his pipe.

He said:

âThis is a funny fancy of yours, Mr. Poirot.â

âIt is, perhaps, a little unusual,â Poirot agreed cautiously.

âYou see,â said Hale, âitâs all such a long time ago.â

Hercule Poirot foresaw that he was going to get a little tired of that particular phrase. He said mildly:

âThat adds to the difficulty, of course.â

âRaking up the past,â mused the other. âIf there were an object in it, nowâ¦.â

âThere is an object.â

âWhat is it?â

âOne can enjoy the pursuit of truth for its own sake. I do. And you must not forget the young lady.â

Hale nodded.

âYes, I see her side of it. Butâyouâll excuse me, Mr. Poirotâyouâre an ingenious man. You could cook her up a tale.â

Poirot replied:

âYou do not know the young lady.â

âOh, come nowâa man of your experience!â

Poirot drew himself up.

âI may be, mon cher, an artistic and competent liarâyou seem to think so. But it is not my idea of ethical conduct. I have my standards.â

âSorry, Mr. Poirot. I didnât mean to hurt your feelings. But it would be all in a good cause, so to speak.â

âOh I wonder, would it really?â

Hale said slowly:

âItâs tough luck on a happy innocent girl whoâs just going to get married to find that her mother was a murderess. If I were you Iâd go to her and say that, after all, suicide was what it was. Say the case was mishandled by Depleach. Say that thereâs no doubt in your mind that Crale poisoned himself!â

âBut there is every doubt in my mind! I do not believe for one minute that Crale poisoned himself. Do you consider it even reasonably possible yourself?â

Slowly Hale shook his head.

âYou see? No, it is the truth I must haveânot a plausibleâor not very plausibleâlie.â

Hale turned and looked at Poirot. His square rather red face grew a little redder and even appeared to get a little squarer. He said:

âYou talk about the truth. Iâd like to make it plain to you that we think we got the truth in the Crale case.â

Poirot said quickly:

âThat pronouncement from you means a great deal. I know you for what you are, an honest and capable man. Now tell me this, was there no doubt at any time in your mind as to the guilt of Mrs. Crale?â

The Superintendentâs answer came promptly.

âNo doubt at all, Mr. Poirot. The circumstances pointed to her straight away, and every single fact that we uncovered supported that view.â

âYou can give me an outline of the evidence against her?â

âI can. When I received your letter I looked up the case.â He picked up a small notebook. âIâve jotted down all the salient facts here.â

âThank you, my friend. I am all eagerness to hear.â

Hale cleared his throat. A slight official intonation made itself heard in his voice.

He said:

âAt two forty-five on the afternoon of September 18th, Inspector Conway was rung up by Dr. Andrew Faussett. Dr. Faussett stated that Mr. Amyas Crale of Alderbury had died suddenly and that in consequence of the circumstances of that death and also of a statement made to him by a Mr. Blake, a guest staying in the house, he considered that it was a case for the police.

âInspector Conway, in company with a sergeant and the police surgeon, came over to Alderbury straight away. Dr. Faussett was there and took him to where the body of Mr. Crale had not been disturbed.

âMr. Crale had been painting in a small enclosed garden, known as the Battery garden, from the fact that it overlooked the sea, and had some miniature cannon placed in embattlements. It was situated at about four minutesâ walk from the house. Mr. Crale had not come up to the house for lunch as he wanted to get certain effects of light on the stoneâand the sun would have been wrong for this later. He had, therefore, remained alone in the Battery garden, painting. This was stated not to be an unusual occurrence. Mr. Crale took very little notice of meal times. Sometimes a sandwich would be sent down to him, but more often he preferred to remain undisturbed. The last people to see him alive were Miss Elsa Greer (staying in the house) and Mr. Meredith Blake (a near neighbour). These two went up together to the house and went with the rest of the household in to lunch. After lunch, coffee was served on the terrace. Mrs. Crale finished drinking her coffee and then observed that she would âgo down and see how Amyas was getting on.â Miss Cecilia Williams, governess, got up and accompanied her. She was looking for a pullover belonging to her pupil, Miss Angela Warren, sister of Mrs. Crale, which the latter had mislaid and she thought it possible it might have been left down on the beach.

âThese two started off together. The path led downwards, through some woods, until it emerged at the door leading into the Battery garden. You could either go into the Battery garden or you could continue on the same path, which led down to the seashore.

âMiss Williams continued on down and Mrs. Crale went into the Battery garden. Almost at once, however, Mrs. Crale screamed and Miss Williams hurried back. Mr. Crale was reclining on a seat and he was dead.

âAt Mrs. Craleâs urgent request Miss Williams left the Battery garden and hurried up to the house to telephone for a doctor. On her way, however, she met Mr. Meredith Blake and entrusted her errand to him, herself returning to Mrs. Crale whom she felt might be in need of someone. Dr. Faussett arrived on the scene a quarter of an hour later. He saw at once that Mr. Crale had been dead for some timeâhe placed the probable time of death at between one and two oâclock. There was nothing to show what had caused death. There was no sign of any wound and Mr. Craleâs attitude was a perfectly natural one. Nevertheless Dr. Faussett, who was well acquainted with Mr. Craleâs state of health, and who knew positively that there was no disease or weakness of any kind, was inclined to take a grave view of the situation. It was at this point that Mr. Philip Blake made a certain statement to Dr. Faussett.â

Superintendent Hale paused, drew a deep breath and passed, as it were, to Chapter Two.

âSubsequently Mr. Blake repeated this statement to Inspector Conway. It was to this effect. He had that morning received a telephone message from his brother, Mr. Meredith Blake (who lived at Handcross Manor, a mile and a half away). Mr. Meredith Blake was an amateur chemistâor perhaps herbalist would describe it best. On entering his laboratory that morning, Mr. Meredith Blake had been startled to note that a bottle containing a preparation of hemlock, which had been quite full the day before, was now nearly empty. Worried and alarmed by this fact he had rung up his brother to ask his advice as to what he should do about it. Mr. Philip Blake had urged his brother to come over to Alderbury at once and they would talk the matter over. He himself walked part way to meet his brother and they had come up to the house together. They had come to no decision as to what course to adopt and had left the matter in order to consult again after lunch.

âAs a result of further inquiries, Inspector Conway ascertained the following facts: On the preceding afternoon five people had walked over from Alderbury to tea at Handcross Manor. There were Mr. and Mrs. Crale, Miss Angela Warren, Miss Elsa Greer and Mr. Philip Blake. During the time spent there, Mr. Meredith Blake had given quite a dissertation on his hobby and had taken the party into his little laboratory and âshown them round.â In the course of this tour, he had mentioned certain specific drugsâone of which was coniine, the active principle of the spotted hemlock. He had explained its properties, had lamented the fact that it had now disappeared from the PharmacopÅia and boasted that he had known small doses of it to be very efficacious in whooping cough and asthma. Later he had mentioned its lethal properties and had actually read to his guests some passage from a Greek author describing its effects.â

Superintendent Hale paused, refilled his pipe and passed on to Chapter Three.

âColonel Frere, the Chief Constable, put the case into my hands. The result of the autopsy put the matter beyond any doubt. Coniine, I understand, leaves no definite postmortem appearances, but the doctors knew what to look for, and an ample amount of the drug was recovered. The doctor was of the opinion that it had been administered two or three hours before death. In front of Mr. Crale, on the table, there had been an empty glass and an empty beer bottle. The dregs of both were analysed. There was no coniine in the bottle, but there was in the glass. I made inquiries and learned that although a case of beer and glasses were kept in a small summerhouse in the Battery garden in case Mr. Crale should feel thirsty when painting, on this particular morning Mrs. Crale had brought down from the house a bottle of freshly iced beer. Mr. Crale was busy painting when she arrived and Miss Greer was posing for him, sitting on one of the battlements.

âMrs. Crale opened the beer, poured it out and put the glass into her husbandâs hand as he was standing before the easel. He tossed it off in one draughtâa habit of his, I learned. Then he made a grimace, set down the glass on the table, and said: âEverything tastes foul to me today!â Miss Greer upon that laughed and said, âLiver!â Mr. Crale said: âWell, at any rate it was cold.ââ

Hale paused. Poirot said:

âAt what time did this take place?â

âAt about a quarter past eleven. Mr. Crale continued to paint. According to Miss Greer, he later complained of stiffness in the limbs and grumbled that he must have got a touch of rheumatism. But he was the type of man who hates to admit to illness of any kind, and he undoubtedly tried not to admit that he was feeling ill. His irritable demand that he should be left alone and the others go up to lunch was quite characteristic of the man, I should say.â

Poirot nodded.

Hale continued.

âSo Crale was left alone in the Battery garden. No doubt he dropped down on the seat and relaxed as soon as he was alone. Muscular paralysis would then set in. No help was at hand, and death supervened.â

Again Poirot nodded.

Hale said:

âWell, I proceeded according to routine. There wasnât much difficulty in getting down to the facts. On the preceding day there had been a set-to between Mrs. Crale and Miss Greer. The latter had pretty insolently described some change in the arrangement of the furniture âwhen I am living here.â Mrs. Crale took her up, and said, âWhat do you mean? When you are living here.â Miss Greer replied: âDonât pretend you donât know what I mean, Caroline. Youâre just like an ostrich that buries its head in the sand. You know perfectly well that Amyas and I care for each other and are going to be married.â Mrs. Crale said: âI know nothing of the kind.â Miss Greer then said: âWell, you know it now.â Whereupon, it seems, Mrs. Crale turned to her husband who had just come into the room and said: âIs it true, Amyas, that you are going to marry Elsa?ââ

Poirot said with interest:

âAnd what did Mr. Crale say to that?â

âApparently he turned on Miss Greer and shouted at her: âWhat the devil do you mean by blurting that out? Havenât you got the sense to hold your tongue?â

âMiss Greer said: âI think Caroline ought to recognize the truth.â

âMrs. Crale said to her husband: âIs it true, Amyas?â

âHe wouldnât look at her, it seems, turned his face away and mumbled something.

âShe said: âSpeak out. Iâve got to know.â Whereupon he said:

ââOh, itâs true enoughâbut I donât want to discuss it now.â

âThen he flounced out of the room again and Miss Greer said:

ââYou see!â and went onâwith something about its being no good for Mrs. Crale to adopt a dog-in-the-manger attitude about it. They must all behave like rational people. She herself hoped that Caroline and Amyas would always remain good friends.â

âAnd what did Mrs. Crale say to that?â asked Poirot curiously.

âAccording to the witnesses she laughed. She said: âOver my dead body, Elsa.â She went to the door and Miss Greer called after her: âWhat do you mean?â Mrs. Crale looked back and said: âIâll kill Amyas before I give him up to you.ââ

Hale paused.

âPretty damningâeh?â

âYes.â Poirot seemed thoughtful. âWho overheard this scene?â

âMiss Williams was in the room and Philip Blake. Very awkward for them.â

âTheir accounts of the scene agree?â

âNear enoughâyou never got two witnesses to remember a thing exactly alike. You know that just as well as I do, Mr. Poirot.â

Poirot nodded. He said thoughtfully:

âYes, it will be interesting to seeââ He stopped with the sentence unfinished.

Hale went on: âI instituted a search of the house. In Mrs. Craleâs bedroom I found in a bottom drawer, tucked away underneath some winter stockings, a small bottle labelled jasmine scent. It was empty. I fingerprinted it. The only prints on it were those of Mrs. Crale. On analysis it was found to contain faint traces of oil of jasmine, and a strong solution of coniine hydrobromide.

âI cautioned Mrs. Crale and showed her the bottle. She replied readily. She had, she said, been in a very unhappy state of mind. After listening to Mr. Meredith Blakeâs description of the drug she had slipped back to the laboratory, had emptied out a bottle of jasmine scent which was in her bag and had filled the bottle up with coniine solution. I asked her why she had done this and she said: âI donât want to speak of certain things more than I can help, but I had received a bad shock. My husband was proposing to leave me for another woman. If that was so, I didnât want to live. That is why I took it.ââ

Hale paused.

Poirot said: âAfter allâit is likely enough.â

âPerhaps, Mr. Poirot. But it doesnât square with what she was overheard to say. And then there was a further scene on the following morning. Mr. Philip Blake overheard a portion of it. Miss Greer overheard a different portion of it. It took place in the library between Mr. and Mrs. Crale. Mr. Blake was in the hall and caught a fragment or two. Miss Greer was sitting outside near the open library window and heard a good deal more.â

âAnd what did they hear?â

âMr. Blake heard Mrs. Crale say: âYou and your women. Iâd like to kill you. Some day I will kill you.ââ

âNo mention of suicide?â

âExactly. None at all. No words like âIf you do this thing, Iâll kill myself.â Miss Greerâs evidence was much the same. According to her, Mr. Crale said: âDo try and be reasonable about this, Caroline. Iâm fond of you and will always wish you wellâyou and the child. But Iâm going to marry Elsa. Weâve always agreed to leave each other free.â Mrs. Crale answered to that: âVery well, donât say I havenât warned you.â He said: âWhat do you mean?â And she said: âI mean that I love you and Iâm not going to lose you. Iâd rather kill you than let you go to that girl.ââ

Poirot made a slight gesture.

âIt occurs to me,â he murmured, âthat Miss Greer was singularly unwise to raise this issue. Mrs. Crale could easily have refused her husband a divorce.â

âWe had some evidence bearing on that point,â said Hale. âMrs. Crale, it seems, confided partly in Mr. Meredith Blake. He was an old and trusted friend. He was very distressed and managed to get a word with Mr. Crale about it. This, I may say, was on the preceding afternoon. Mr. Blake remonstrated delicately with his friend, said how distressed he would be if the marriage between Mr. and Mrs. Crale was to break up so disastrously. He also stressed the point that Miss Greer was a very young girl and that it was a very serious thing to drag a young girl through the divorce court. To this Mr. Crale replied, with a chuckle (callous sort of brute he must have been): âThat isnât Elsaâs idea at all. She isnât going to appear. We shall fix it up in the usual way.ââ

Poirot said: âTherefore even more imprudent of Miss Greer to have broken out the way she did.â

Superintendent Hale said:

âOh, you know what women are! Have to get at each otherâs throats. It must have been a difficult situation anyhow. I canât understand Mr. Crale allowing it to happen. According to Mr. Meredith Blake he wanted to finish his picture. Does that make sense to you?â

âYes, my friend, I think it does.â

âIt doesnât to me. The man was asking for trouble!â

âHe was probaby seriously annoyed with his young woman for breaking out the way she did.â

âOh, he was. Meredith Blake said so. If he had to finish the picture I donât see why he couldnât have taken some photographs and worked from them. I know a chapâdoes watercolours of placesâhe does that.â

Poirot shook his head.

âNoâI can understand Crale the artist. You must realize, my friend, that at that moment, probably, his picture was all that mattered to Crale. However much he wanted to marry the girl, the picture came first. Thatâs why he hoped to get through her visit without its coming to an open issue. The girl, of course, didnât see it that way. With women, love always comes first.â

âDonât I know it?â said Superintendent Hale with feeling.

âMen,â continued Poirot, âand especially artistsâare different.â

âArt!â said the Superintendent with scorn. âAll this talk about Art! I never have understood it and I never shall! You should have seen that picture Crale was painting. All lopsided. Heâd made the girl look as though sheâd got toothache, and the battlements were all cock-eyed. Unpleasant looking, the whole thing. I couldnât get it out of my mind for a long time afterwards. I even dreamt about it. And whatâs more it affected my eyesightâI began to see battlements and walls and things all out of drawing. Yes, and women too!â

Poirot smiled. He said:

âAlthough you do not know it, you are paying a tribute to the greatness of Amyas Craleâs art.â

âNonsense. Why canât a painter paint something nice and cheerful to look at? Why go out of your way to look for ugliness?â

âSome of us, mon cher, see beauty in curious places.â

âThe girl was a good looker, all right,â said Hale. âLots of makeup and next to no clothes on. It isnât decent the way these girls go about. And that was sixteen years ago, mind you. Nowadays one wouldnât think anything of it. But thenâwell, it shocked me. Trousers and one of those canvas shirts, open at the neckâand not another thing, I should say!â

âYou seem to remember these points very well,â murmured Poirot slyly.

Superintendent Hale blushed. âIâm just passing on the impression I got,â he said austerely.

âQuiteâquite,â said Poirot soothingly. He went on:

âSo it would seem that the principal witnesses against Mrs. Crale were Philip Blake and Elsa Greer?â

âYes. Vehement, they were, both of them. But the governess was called by the prosecution too, and what she said carried more weight than the other two. She was on Mrs. Craleâs side entirely, you see. Up in arms for her. But she was an honest woman and gave her evidence truthfully without trying to minimize it in any way.â

âAnd Meredith Blake?â

âHe was very distressed by the whole thing, poor gentleman. As well he might be! Blamed himself for his drug brewingâand the coroner blamed him for it too. Coniine and AE Salts comes under Schedule I of the Poisons Acts. He came in for some pretty sharp censure. He was a friend of both parties, and it hit him very hardâbesides being the kind of county gentleman who shrinks from notoriety and being in the public eye.â

âDid not Mrs. Craleâs young sister give evidence?â

âNo. It wasnât necessary. She wasnât there when Mrs. Crale threatened her husband, and there was nothing she could tell us that we couldnât get from someone else equally well. She saw Mrs. Crale go to the refrigerator and get the iced beer out and, of course, the Defence could have subpÅnaed her to say that Mrs. Crale took it straight down without tampering with it in any way. But that point wasnât relevant because we never claimed that the coniine was in the beer bottle.â

âHow did she manage to put it in the glass with those two looking on?â

âWell, first of all, they werenât looking on. That is to say, Mr. Crale was paintingâlooking at his canvas and at the sitter. And Miss Greer was posed, sitting with her back almost to where Mrs. Crale was standing, and her eyes looking over Mr. Craleâs shoulder.â

Poirot nodded.

âAs I say neither of the two was looking at Mrs. Crale. She had the stuff in one of those pipette thingsâone used to fill fountain pens with them. We found it crushed to splinters on the path up to the house.â

Poirot murmured:

âYou have an answer to everything.â

âWell, come now, Mr. Poirot! Without prejudice. She threatens to kill him. She takes the stuff from the laboratory. The empty bottle is found in her room and nobody has handled it but her. She deliberately takes down iced beer to himâa funny thing, anyway, when you realize that they werenât on speaking termsââ

âA very curious thing. I had already remarked on it.â

âYes. Bit of a give away. Why was she so amiable all of a sudden? He complains of the taste of the stuffâand coniine has a nasty taste. She arranges to find the body and she sends the other woman off to telephone. Why? So that she can wipe that bottle and glass and then press his fingers on it. After that she can pipe up and say that it was remorse and that he committed suicide. A likely story.â

âIt was certainly not very well imagined.â

âNo. If you ask me she didnât take the trouble to think. She was so eaten up with hate and jealousy. All she thought of was doing him in. And then, when itâs over, when she sees him there deadâwell, then, I should say, she suddenly comes to herself and realizes that what sheâs done is murderâand that you get hanged for murder. And desperately she goes baldheaded for the only thing she can think ofâwhich is suicide.â

Poirot said:

âIt is very sound what you say thereâyes. Her mind might work that way.â

âIn a way it was a premeditated crime and in a way it wasnât,â said Hale. âI donât believe she really thought it out, you know. Just went on with it blindly.â

Poirot murmured:

âI wonderâ¦.â

Hale looked at him curiously. He said:

âHave I convinced you, Mr. Poirot, that it was a straightforward case?â

âAlmost. Not quite. There are one or two peculiar pointsâ¦!â

âCan you suggest an alternative solutionâthat will hold water?â

Poirot said:

âWhat were the movements of the other people on that morning?â

âWe went into them, I can assure you. We checked up on everybody. Nobody had what you could call an alibiâyou canât have with poisoning. Why, thereâs nothing to prevent a would-be murderer from handing his victim some poison in a capsule the day before, telling him itâs a specific cure for indigestion and he must take it before lunchâand then going away to the other end of England.â

âBut you donât think that happened in this case?â

âMr. Crale didnât suffer from indigestion. And in any case I canât see that kind of thing happening. Itâs true that Mr. Meredith Blake was given to recommending quack nostrums of his own concocting, but I donât see Mr. Crale trying any of them. And if he did heâd probably talk and joke about it. Besides, why should Mr. Meredith Blake want to kill Mr. Crale? Everything goes to show that he was on very good terms with him. They all were. Mr. Philip Blake was his best friend. Miss Greer was in love with him. Miss Williams disapproved of him, I imagine, very stronglyâbut moral disapprobation doesnât lead to poisoning. Little Miss Warren scrapped with him a lot, she was at a tiresome ageâjust off to school, I believe, but he was quite fond of her and she of him. She was treated, you know, with particular tenderness and consideration in that house. You may have heard why. She was badly injured when she was a childâinjured by Mrs. Crale in a kind of maniacal fit of rage. That rather shows, doesnât it, that she was a pretty uncontrolled sort of person? To go for a childâand maim her for life!â

âIt might show,â said Poirot thoughtfully, âthat Angela Warren had good reason to bear a grudge against Caroline Crale.â

âPerhapsâbut not against Amyas Crale. And anyway Mrs. Crale was devoted to her young sisterâgave her a home when her parents died, and, as I say, treated her with special affectionâspoiled her badly, so they say. The girl was obviously fond of Mrs. Crale. She was kept away from the trial and sheltered from it all as far as possibleâMrs. Crale was very insistent about that, I believe. But the girl was terribly upset and longed to be taken to see her sister in prison. Caroline Crale wouldnât agree. She said that sort of thing might injure a girlâs mentality for life. She arranged for her to go to school abroad.â

He added:

âMiss Warrenâs turned out a very distinguished woman. Traveller to weird places. Lectures at the Royal Geographicalâall that sort of thing.â

âAnd no one remembers the trial?â

âWell, itâs a different name for one thing. They hadnât even the same maiden name. They had the same mother but different fathers. Mrs. Craleâs name was Spalding.â

âThis Miss Williams, was she the childâs governess, or Angela Warrenâs?â

âAngelaâs. There was a nurse for the childâbut she used to do a few little lessons with Miss Williams every day, I believe.â

âWhere was the child at the time?â

âSheâd gone with the nurse to pay a visit to her grandmother. A Lady Tressillian. A widow lady whoâd lost her own two little girls and who was devoted to this kid.â

Poirot nodded. âI see.â

Hale continued:

âAs to the movements of the other people on the day of the murder, I can give them to you.

âMiss Greer sat on the terrace near the library window after breakfast. There, as I say, she overheard the quarrel between Crale and his wife. After that she accompanied Crale down to the Battery and sat for him until lunch time with a couple of breaks to ease her muscles.

âPhilip Blake was in the house after breakfast, and overheard part of the quarrel. After Crale and Miss Greer went off, he read the paper until his brother telephoned him. Thereupon he went down to the shore to meet his brother. They walked together up the path again past the Battery garden. Miss Greer had just gone up to the house to fetch a pullover as she felt chilly and Mrs. Crale was with her husband discussing arrangements for Angelaâs departure to school.â

âAh, an amicable interview.â

âWell, no, not amicable. Crale was fairly shouting at her, I understand. Annoyed at being bothered with domestic details. I suppose she wanted to get things straightened up if there was going to be a break.â

Poirot nodded.

Hale went on:

âThe two brothers exchanged a few words with Amyas Crale. Then Miss Greer reappeared and took up her position, and Crale picked up his brush again, obviously wanting to get rid of them. They took the hint and went up to the house. It was when they were at the Battery, by the way, that Amyas Crale complained all the beer down there was hot and his wife promised to send him down some iced beer.â

âAha!â

âExactlyâAha! Sweet as sugar she was about it. They went up to the house and sat on the terrace outside. Mrs. Crale and Angela Warren brought them out beer there.

âLater, Angela Warren went down to bathe and Philip Blake went with her.

âMeredith Blake went down to a clearing with a seat just above the Battery garden. He could just see Miss Greer as she posed on the battlements and could hear her voice and Craleâs as they talked. He sat there and thought over the coniine business. He was still very worried about it and didnât know quite what to do. Elsa Greer saw him and waved her hand to him. When the bell went for lunch he came down to the Battery and Elsa Greer and he went back to the house together. He noticed then that Crale was looking, as he put it, very queer, but he didnât really think anything of it at the time. Crale was the kind of man who is never illâand so one didnât imagine he would be. On the other hand, he did have moods of fury and despondency according as to whether his painting was not going as he liked it. On those occasions one left him alone and said as little as possible to him. Thatâs what these two did on this occasion.

âAs to the others, the servants were busy with housework and cooking lunch. Miss Williams was in the schoolroom part of the morning correcting some exercise books. Afterwards she took some household mending to the terrace. Angela Warren spent most of the morning wandering about the garden, climbing trees and eating thingsâyou know what a girl of fifteen is! Plums, sour apples, hard pears, etc. After she came back to the house and, as I say, went down with Philip Blake to the beach and had a bathe before lunch.â

Superintendent Hale paused:

âNow then,â he said belligerently, âdo you find anything phoney about that?â

Poirot said: âNothing at all.â

âWell, then!â

The two words expressed volumes.

âBut all the same,â said Hercule Poirot. âI am going to satisfy myself. Iââ

âWhat are you going to do?â

âI am going to visit these five peopleâand from each one I am going to get his or her own story.â

Superintendent Hale sighed with a deep melancholy.

He said:

âMan, youâre nuts! None of their stories are going to agree! Donât you grasp that elementary fact? No two people remember a thing in the same order anyway. And after all this time! Why, youâll hear five accounts of five separate murders!â

âThat,â said Poirot, âis what I am counting upon. It will be very instructive.â

Six

THIS LITTLE PIG WENT TO MARKETâ¦

Philip Blake was recognizably like the description given of him by Montague Depleach. A prosperous, shrewd, jovial-looking manâslightly running to fat.

Hercule Poirot had timed his appointment for half past six on a Saturday afternoon. Philip Blake had just finished his eighteen holes, and he had been on his gameâwinning a fiver from his opponent. He was in the mood to be friendly and expansive.

Hercule Poirot explained himself and his errand. On this occasion at least he showed no undue passion for unsullied truth. It was a question, Blake gathered, of a series of books dealing with famous crimes.

Philip Blake frowned. He said:

âGood Lord, why make up these things?â

Hercule Poirot shrugged his shoulders. He was at his most foreign today. He was out to be despised but patronized.

He murmured:

âIt is the public. They eat it upâyes, eat it up.â

âGhouls,â said Philip Blake.

But he said it good-humouredlyânot with the fastidiousness and the distaste that a more sensitive man might have displayed.

Hercule Poirot said with a shrug of the shoulders:

âIt is human nature. You and I, Mr. Blake, who know the world, have no illusions about our fellow human beings. Not bad people, most of them, but certainly not to be idealized.â

Blake said heartily:

âIâve parted with my illusions long ago.â

âInstead, you tell a very good story, so I have been told.â

âAh!â Blakeâs eyes twinkled. âHeard this one?â

Poirotâs laugh came at the right place. It was not an edifying story, but it was funny.

Philip Blake lay back in his chair, his muscles relaxed, his eyes creased with good humour.

Hercule Poirot thought suddenly that he looked rather like a contented pig.

A pig. This little pig went to marketâ¦.

What was he like, this man, this Philip Blake? A man, it would seem, without cares. Prosperous, contented. No remorseful thoughts, no uneasy twinges of conscience from the past, no haunting memories here. No, a well-fed pig who had gone to marketâand fetched the full market priceâ¦.

But once, perhaps, there had been more to Philip Blake. He must have been, when young, a handsome man. Eyes always a shade too small, a fraction too near together, perhapsâbut otherwise a well made, well set up young man. How old was he now? At a guess between fifty and sixty. Nearing forty, then, at the time of Craleâs death. Less stultified, then, less sunk in the gratifications of the minute. Asking more of life, perhaps, and receiving lessâ¦.

Poirot murmured as a mere catch-phrase:

âYou comprehend my position.â

âNo, really, you know, Iâm hanged if I do.â The stockbroker sat upright again, his glance was once more shrewd. âWhy you? Youâre not a writer?â

âNot preciselyâno. Actually I am a detective.â

The modesty of this remark had probably not been equalled before in Poirotâs conversation.

âOf course you are. We all know that. The famous Hercule Poirot!â

But his tone held a subtly mocking note. Intrinsically, Philip Blake was too much of an Englishman to take the pretensions of a foreigner seriously.

To his cronies he would have said:

âQuaint little mountebank. Oh well, I expect his stuff goes down with the women all right.â

And although that derisive patronizing attitude was exactly the one which Hercule Poirot had aimed at inducing, nevertheless he found himself annoyed by it.

This man, this successful man of affairs, was unimpressed by Hercule Poirot! It was a scandal.

âI am gratified,â said Poirot untruly, âthat I am so well known to you. My success, let me tell you, has been founded on the psychologyâthe eternal why? of human behaviour. That, Mr. Blake, is what interests the world in crime today. It used to be romance. Famous crimes were retold from one angle onlyâthe love story connected with them. Nowadays it is very different. People read with interest that Dr. Crippen murdered his wife because she was a big bouncing woman and he was little and insignificant and therefore she made him feel inferior. They read of some famous woman criminal that she killed because sheâd been snubbed by her father when she was three years old. It is, as I say, the why of crime that interests nowadays.â

Philip Blake said, with a slight yawn:

âThe why of most crimes is obvious enough, I should say. Usually money.â

Poirot cried:

âAh, but my dear sir, the why must never be obvious. That is the whole point!â

âAnd thatâs where you come in?â

âAnd that, as you say, is where I come in! It is proposed to rewrite the stories of certain bygone crimesâfrom the psychological angle. Psychology in crime, it is my speciality. I have accepted the commission.â

Philip Blake grinned.

âPretty lucrative, I suppose?â

âI hope soâI certainly hope so.â

âCongratulations. Now, perhaps, youâll tell me where I come in?â

âMost certainly. The Crale case, Monsieur.â

Phillip Blake did not look startled. But he looked thoughtful. He said:

âYes, of course, the Crale caseâ¦.â

Hercule Poirot said anxiously:

âIt is not displeasing to you, Mr. Blake?â

âOh, as to that.â Philip Blake shrugged his shoulders. âItâs no use resenting a thing that youâve no power to stop. The trial of Caroline Crale is public property. Anyone can go ahead and write it up. Itâs no use my objecting. In a wayâI donât mind telling youâI do dislike it a good deal. Amyas Crale was one of my best friends. Iâm sorry the whole unsavoury business has to be raked up again. But these things happen.â

âYou are a philosopher, Mr. Blake.â

âNo, no. I just know enough not to start kicking against the pricks. I dare say youâll do it less offensively than many others.â

âI hope, at least, to write with delicacy and good taste,â said Poirot.

Philip Blake gave a loud guffaw but without any real amusement. âMakes me chuckle to hear you say that.â

âI assure you, Mr. Blake, I am really interested. It is not just a matter of money with me. I genuinely want to recreate the past, to feel and see the events that took place, to see behind the obvious and to visualize the thoughts and feelings of the actors in the drama.â

Philip Blake said:

âI donât know that there was much subtlety about it. It was a pretty obvious business. Crude female jealousy, that was all there was to it.â

âIt would interest me enormously, Mr. Blake, if I could have your own reactions to the affair.â

Philip Blake said with sudden heat, his face deepening in colour.

âReactions! Reactions! Donât speak so pedantically. I didnât just stand there and react! You donât seem to understand that my friendâmy friend, I tell you, had been killedâpoisoned! And that if Iâd acted quicker I could have saved him.â

âHow do you make that out, Mr. Blake?â

âLike this. I take it that youâve already read up the facts of the case?â Poirot nodded. âVery well. Now on that morning my brother Meredith called me up. He was in a pretty good stew. One of his Hell brews was missingâand it was a fairly deadly Hell brew. What did I do? I told him to come along and weâd talk it over. Decide what was best to be done. âDecide what was best.â It beats me now how I could have been such a hesitating fool! I ought to have realized that there was no time to lose. I ought to have gone to Amyas straight away and warned him. I ought to have said: âCarolineâs pinched one of Meredithâs patent poisons, and you and Elsa had better look out for yourselves.ââ

Blake got up. He strode up and down in his excitement.

âGood God, man. Do you suppose I havenât gone over it in my mind again and again? I knew. I had the chance to save himâand I dallied aboutâwaiting for Meredith! Why hadnât I the sense to realize that Caroline wasnât going to have any qualms or hesitancies. Sheâd taken that stuff to useâand, by God, sheâd used it at the very first opportunity. She wouldnât wait till Meredith discovered his loss. I knewâof course I knewâthat Amyas was in deadly dangerâand I did nothing!â

âI think you reproach yourself unduly, Monsieur. You had not much timeââ

The other interrupted him:

âTime? I had plenty of time. Any amount of courses open to me. I could have gone to Amyas, as I sayâbut there was the chance, of course, that he wouldnât believe me. Amyas wasnât the sort of man whoâd believe easily in his own danger. Heâd have scoffed at the notion. And he never thoroughly understood the sort of devil Caroline was. But I could have gone to her. I could have said: âI know what youâre up to. I know what youâre planning to do. But if Amyas or Elsa die of coniine poisoning, youâll be hanged by your neck!â That would have stopped her. Or I might have rung up the police. Oh! there were things that could have been doneâand instead, I let myself be influenced by Meredithâs slow, cautious methods. âWe must be sureâtalk it overâmake quite certain who could have taken itâ¦â Damned old foolânever made a quick decision in his life! A good thing for him he was the eldest son and has an estate to live on. If heâd ever tried to make money heâd have lost every penny he had.â

Poirot asked:

âYou had no doubt yourself who had taken the poison?â

âOf course not. I knew at once it must be Caroline. You see, I knew Caroline very well.â

Poirot said:

âThat is very interesting. I want to know, Mr. Blake, what kind of a woman Caroline Crale was?â

Philip Blake said sharply:

âShe wasnât the injured innocent people thought she was at the time of the trial!â

âWhat was she, then?â

Blake sat down again. He said seriously:

âWould you really like to know?â

âI would like to know very much indeed.â

âCaroline was a rotter. She was a rotter through and through. Mind you, she had charm. She had that kind of sweetness of manner that deceives people utterly. She had a frail, helpless look about her that appealed to peopleâs chivalry. Sometimes, when Iâve read a bit of history, I think Mary Queen of Scots must have been a bit like her. Always sweet and unfortunate and magneticâand actually a cold calculating woman, a scheming woman who planned the murder of Darnley and got away with it. Caroline was like thatâa cold, calculating planner. And she had a wicked temper.

âI donât know whether theyâve told youâit isnât a vital point of the trial, but it shows her upâwhat she did to her baby sister? She was jealous, you know. Her mother had married again, and all the notice and affection went to little Angela. Caroline couldnât stand that. She tried to kill the baby with a crowbarâsmash its head in. Luckily the blow wasnât fatal. But it was a pretty ghastly thing to do.â

âYes, indeed.â

âWell, that was the real Caroline. She had to be first. That was the thing she simply could not standânot being first. And there was a cold, egotistical devil in her that was capable of being stirred to murderous lengths.

âShe appeared impulsive, you know, but she was really calculating. When she stayed at Alderbury as a girl, she gave us all the once over and made her plans. Sheâd no money of her own. I was never in the runningâa younger son with his way to make. (Funny, that, I could probably buy up Meredith and Crale, if heâd lived, nowadays!) She considered Meredith for a bit, but she finally fixed on Amyas. Amyas would have Alderbury, and though he wouldnât have much money with it, she realized that his talent as a painter was something quite out of the way. She gambled on his being not only a genius but a financial success as well.

âAnd she won. Recognition came to Amyas early. He wasnât a fashionable painter exactlyâbut his genius was recognized and his pictures were bought. Have you seen any of his paintings? Thereâs one here. Come and look at it.â

He led the way into the dining room and pointed to the left-hand wall.

âThere you are. Thatâs Amyas.â

Poirot looked in silence. It came to him with fresh amazement that a man could so imbue a conventional subject with his own particular magic. A vase of roses on a polished mahogany table. That hoary old set piece. How then did Amyas Crale contrive to make his roses flame and burn with a riotous almost obscene life. The polished wood of the table trembled and took on sentient life. How explain the excitement the picture roused? For it was exciting. The proportions of the table would have distressed Superintendent Hale, he would have complained that no known roses were precisely of that shape or colour. And afterwards he would have gone about wondering vaguely why the roses he saw were unsatisfactory, and round mahogany tables would have annoyed him for no known reason.

Poirot gave a little sigh.

He murmured:

âYesâit is all there.â

Blake led the way back. He mumbled:

âNever have understood anything about art myself. Donât know why I like looking at that thing so much, but I do. Itâsâoh, damn it all, itâs good.â

Poirot nodded emphatically.

Blake offered his guest a cigarette and lit one himself. He said:

âAnd thatâs the manâthe man who painted those rosesâthe man who painted the âWoman with a Cocktail Shakerââthe man who painted that amazing painful âNativity,â thatâs the man who was cut short in his prime, deprived of his vivid forceful life all because of a vindictive mean-natured woman!â

He paused:

âYouâll say that Iâm bitterâthat Iâm unduly prejudiced against Caroline. She had charmâIâve felt it. But I knewâI always knewâthe real woman behind. And that woman, Mr. Poirot, was evil. She was cruel and malignant and a grabber!â

âAnd yet it has been told me that Mrs. Crale put up with many hard things in her married life?â

âYes, and didnât she let everybody know about it! Always the martyr! Poor old Amyas. His married life was one long hellâor rather it would have been if it hadnât been for his exceptional quality. His art, you seeâhe always had that. It was an escape. When he was painting he didnât care, he shook off Caroline and her nagging and all the ceaseless rows and quarrels. They were endless, you know. Not a week passed without a thundering row over one thing or another. She enjoyed it. Having rows stimulated her, I believe. It was an outlet. She could say all the hard bitter stinging things she wanted to say. Sheâd positively purr after one of those set-tosâgo off looking as sleek and well-fed as a cat. But it took it out of him. He wanted peaceârestâa quiet life. Of course a man like that ought never to marryâhe isnât out for domesticity. A man like Crale should have affairs but no binding ties. Theyâre bound to chafe him.â

âHe confided in you?â

âWellâhe knew that I was a pretty devoted pal. He let me see things. He didnât complain. He wasnât that kind of man. Sometimes heâd say, âDamn all women.â Or heâd say, âNever get married, old boy. Wait for hell till after this life.ââ

âYou knew about his attachment to Miss Greer?â

âOh yesâat least I saw it coming on. He told me heâd met a marvellous girl. She was different, he said, from anything or anyone heâd ever met before. Not that I paid much attention to that. Amyas was always meeting one woman or other who was âdifferent.â Usually a month later heâd stare at you if you mentioned them, and wonder who you were talking about! But this Elsa Greer really was different. I realized that when I came down to Alderbury to stay. Sheâd got him, you know, hooked him good and proper. The poor mutt fairly ate out of her hand.â

âYou did not like Elsa Greer either?â

âNo, I didnât like her. She was definitely a predatory creature. She, too, wanted to own Crale body and soul. But I think, all the same, that sheâd have been better for him than Caroline. She might conceivably have let him alone once she was sure of him. Or she might have got tired of him and moved on to someone else. The best thing for Amyas would have been to be quite free of female entanglements.â

âBut that, it would seem, was not to his taste?â

Philip Blake said with a sigh:

âThe damned fool was always getting himself involved with some woman or other. And yet, in a way, women really meant very little to him. The only two women who really made any impression on him at all in his life were Caroline and Elsa.â

Poirot said:

âWas he fond of the child?â

âAngela? Oh! we all liked Angela. She was such a sport. She was always game for anything. What a life she led that wretched governess of hers. Yes, Amyas liked Angela all rightâbut sometimes she went too far and then he used to get really mad with herâand then Caroline would step inâCaro was always on Angelaâs side and that would finish Amyas altogether. He hated it when Caro sided with Angela against him. There was a bit of jealousy all round, you know. Amyas was jealous of the way Caro always put Angela first and would do anything for her. And Angela was jealous of Amyas and rebelled against his overbearing ways. It was his decision that she should go to school that autumn, and she was furious about it. Not, I think, because she didnât like the idea of school, she really rather wanted to go, I believeâbut it was Amyasâs high-handed way of settling it all offhand that infuriated her. She played all sorts of tricks on him in revenge. Once she put ten slugs in his bed. On the whole, I think Amyas was right. It was time she got some discipline. Miss Williams was very efficient, but even she confessed that Angela was getting too much for her.â

He paused. Poirot said:

âWhen I asked if Amyas was fond of the childâI referred to his own child, his daughter?â

âOh, you mean little Carla? Yes, she was a great pet. He enjoyed playing with her when he was in the mood. But his affection for her wouldnât have deterred him from marrying Elsa, if thatâs what you mean. He hadnât that kind of feeling for her.â

âWas Caroline Crale very devoted to the child?â A kind of spasm contorted Philipâs face. He said:

âI canât say that she wasnât a good mother. No, I canât say that. Itâs the one thingââ

âYes, Mr. Blake?â

Philip said slowly and painfully:

âItâs the one thing I reallyâregretâin this affair. The thought of that child. Such a tragic background to her young life. They sent her abroad to Amyasâs cousin and her husband. I hopeâI sincerely hopeâthey managed to keep the truth from her.â

Poirot shook his head. He said:

âThe truth, Mr. Blake, has a habit of making itself known. Even after many years.â

The stockbroker murmured: âI wonder.â

Poirot went on:

âIn the interests of truth, Mr. Blake, I am going to ask you to do something.â

âWhat is it?â

âI am going to beg that you will write me out an exact account of what happened on those days at Alderbury. That is to say, I am going to ask you to write me out a full account of the murder and its attendant circumstances.â

âBut, my dear fellow, after all this time? I should be hopelessly inaccurate.â

âNot necessarily.â

âSurely.â

âNo, for one thing, with the passage of time, the mind retains a hold on essentials and rejects superficial matters.â

âHo! You mean a mere broad outline?â

âNot at all. I mean a detailed conscientious account of each event as it occurred, and every conversation you can remember.â

âAnd supposing I remember them wrong?â

âYou can give the wording at least to the best of your reflection. There may be gaps, but that cannot be helped.â

Blake looked at him curiously.

âBut whatâs the idea? The police files will give you the whole thing far more accurately.â

âNo, Mr. Blake. We are speaking now from the psychological point of view. I do not want bare facts. I want your own selections of facts. Time and your memory are responsible for that selection. There may have been things done, words spoken, that I should seek for in vain in the police files. Things and words that you never mentioned because, maybe, you judged them irrelevant, or because you preferred not to repeat them.â

Blake said sharply:

âIs this account of mine for publication?â

âCertainly not. It is for my eye only. To assist me to draw my own deductions.â

âAnd you wonât quote from it without my consent?â

âCertainly not.â

âHm,â said Philip Blake. âIâm a very busy man, Mr. Poirot.â

âI appreciate that there will be time and trouble involved. I should be happy to agree to aâreasonable fee.â

There was a momentâs pause. Then Philip Blake said suddenly:

âNo, if I do itâIâll do it for nothing.â

âAnd you will do it?â

Philip said warningly:

âRemember, I canât vouch for the accuracy of my memory.â

âThat is perfectly understood.â

âThen I think,â said Philip Blake, âthat I should like to do it. I feel I owe itâin a wayâto Amyas Crale.â

Seven

THIS LITTLE PIG STAYED AT HOME

Hercule Poirot was not a man to neglect details.

His advance towards Meredith Blake was carefully thought out. Meredith Blake was, he already felt sure, a very different proposition from Philip Blake. Rush tactics would not succeed here. The assault must be leisurely.

Hercule Poirot knew that there was only one way to penetrate the stronghold. He must approach Meredith Blake with the proper credentials. Those credentials must be social, not professional. Fortunately, in the course of his career, Hercule Poirot had made friends in many counties. Devonshire was no exception. He sat down to review what resources he had in Devonshire. As a result he discovered two people who were acquaintances or friends of Mr. Meredith Blake. He descended upon him therefore armed with two letters, one from Lady Mary Lytton-Gore, a gentle widow lady of restricted means, the most retiring of creatures; and the other from a retired Admiral, whose family had been settled in the county for four generations.

Meredith Blake received Poirot in a state of some perplexity.

As he had often felt lately, things were not what they used to be. Dash it all, private detectives used to be private detectivesâfellows you got to guard wedding presents at country receptions, fellows you went toârather shamefacedlyâwhen there was some dirty business afoot and youâd got to get the hang of it.

But here was Lady Mary Lytton-Gore writing: âHercule Poirot is a very old and valued friend of mine. Please do all you can to help him, wonât you?â And Mary Lytton-Gore wasnâtâno, decidedly she wasnâtâthe sort of woman you associate with private detectives and all that they stand for. And Admiral Cronshaw wrote: âVery good chapâabsolutely sound. Grateful if you will do what you can for him. Most entertaining fellow, can tell you lots of good stories.â

And now here was the man himself. Really a most impossible personâthe wrong clothesâbutton boots!âan incredible moustache! Not hisâMeredith Blakeâsâkind of fellow at all. Didnât look as though heâd ever hunted or shotâor even played a decent game. A foreigner.

Slightly amused, Hercule Poirot read accurately these thoughts passing through the otherâs head.

He had felt his own interest rising considerably as the train brought him into the West Country. He would see now, with his own eyes, the actual place where these long past events happened.

It was here, at Handcross Manor, that two young brothers had lived and gone over to Alderbury and joked and played tennis and fraternized with a young Amyas Crale and a girl called Caroline. It was from here that Meredith had started out to Alderbury on that fatal morning. That had been sixteen years ago. Hercule Poirot looked with interest at the man who was confronting him with somewhat uneasy politeness.

Very much what he had expected. Meredith Blake resembled superficially every other English country gentleman of straitened means and outdoor tastes.

A shabby old coat of Harris tweed, a weather-beaten, pleasant, middle-aged face with somewhat faded blue eyes, a weak mouth, half hidden by a rather straggly moustache. Poirot found Meredith Blake a great contrast to his brother. He had a hesitating manner, his mental processes were obviously leisurely. It was as though his tempo had slowed down with the years just as his brotherâs had been accelerated.

As Poirot had already guessed, he was a man whom you could not hurry. The leisurely life of the English countryside was in his bones.

He looked, the detective thought, a good deal older than his brother, though, from what Mr. Jonathan had said, it would seem that only a couple of years separated them.

Hercule Poirot prided himself on knowing how to handle an âold school tie.â It was no moment for trying to seem English. No, one must be a foreignerâfrankly a foreignerâand be magnanimously forgiven for the fact. âOf course, these foreigners donât quite know the ropes. Will shake hands at breakfast. Still, a decent fellow reallyâ¦.â

Poirot set about creating this impression of himself. The two men talked, cautiously, of Lady Mary Lytton-Gore and of Admiral Cronshaw. Other names were mentioned. Fortunately Poirot knew someoneâs cousin and had met somebody elseâs sister-in-law. He could see a kind of warmth dawning in the Squireâs eye. The fellow seemed to know the right people.

Gracefully, insidiously, Poirot slid into the purpose of his visit. He was quick to counteract the inevitable recoil. This book was, alas! going to be written. Miss CraleâMiss Lemarchant, as she was now calledâwas anxious for him to exercise a judicious editorship. The facts, unfortunately, were public property. But much could be done in their presentation to avoid wounding susceptibilities. Poirot murmured that before now he had been able to use discreet influence to avoid certain purple passages in a book of memoirs.

Meredith Blake flushed angrily. His hand shook a little as he filled a pipe. He said, a slight stammer in his voice:

âItâsâitâs g-ghoulish the way they dig these things up. S-sixteen years ago. Why canât they let it be?â

Poirot shrugged his shoulders. He said:

âI agree with you. But what will you? There is a demand for such things. And anyone is at liberty to reconstruct a proved crime and to comment on it.â

âSeems disgraceful to me.â

Poirot murmured:

âAlasâwe do not live in a delicate ageâ¦You would be surprised, Mr. Blake, if you knew the unpleasant publications I had succeeded inâshall we sayâsoftening. I am anxious to do all I can to save Miss Craleâs feeling in the matter.â

Meredith Blake murmured: âLittle Carla! That child! A grown-up woman. One can hardly believe it.â

âI know. Time flies swiftly, does it not?â

Meredith Blake sighed. He said: âToo quickly.â

Poirot said:

âAs you will have seen in the letter I handed you from Miss Crale, she is very anxious to know everything possible about the sad events of the past.â

Meredith Blake said with a touch of irritation:

âWhy? Why rake up everything again? How much better to let it all be forgotten.â

âYou say that, Mr. Blake, because you know all the past too well. Miss Crale, remember, knows nothing. That is to say she knows only the story as she has learnt it from the official accounts.â

Meredith Blake winced. He said:

âYes, I forgot. Poor child. What a detestable position for her. The shock of learning the truth. And thenâthose soulless, callous reports of the trial.â

âThe truth,â said Hercule Poirot, âcan never be done justice to in a mere legal recital. It is the things that are left out that are the things that matter. The emotions, the feelingsâthe characters of the actors in the drama. The extenuating circumstancesââ

He paused and the other man spoke eagerly like an actor who had received his cue.

âExtenuating circumstances! Thatâs just it. If ever there were extenuating circumstances, there were in this case. Amyas Crale was an old friendâhis family and mine had been friends for generations, but one has to admit that his conduct was, frankly, outrageous. He was an artist, of course, and presumably that explains it. But there it isâhe allowed a most extraordinary set of affairs to arise. The position was one that no ordinary decent man could have contemplated for a moment.â

Hercule Poirot said:

âI am interested that you should say that. It had puzzled me, that situation. Not so does a well-bred man, a man of the world, go about his affairs.â

Blakeâs thin, hesitating face had lit up with animation. He said:

âYes, but the whole point is that Amyas never was an ordinary man! He was a painter, you see, and with him painting came firstâreally sometimes in the most extraordinary way! I donât understand these so-called artistic people myselfânever have. I understood Crale a little because, of course, Iâd known him all my life. His people were the same sort as my people. And in many ways Crale ran true to typeâit was only where art came in that he didnât conform to the usual standards. He wasnât, you see, an amateur in any way. He was first-classâreally first-class. Some people say heâs a genius. They may be right. But as a result, he was always what I should describe as unbalanced. When he was painting a pictureânothing else mattered, nothing could be allowed to get in the way. He was like a man in a dream. Completely obsessed by what he was doing. Not till the canvas was finished did he come out of this absorption and start to pick up the threads of ordinary life again.â

He looked questioningly at Poirot and the latter nodded.

âYou understand, I see. Well, that explains, I think, why this particular situation arose. He was in love with this girl. He wanted to marry her. He was prepared to leave his wife and child for her. But heâd started painting her down here, and he wanted to finish that picture. Nothing else mattered to him. He didnât see anything else. And the fact that the situation was a perfectly impossible one for the two women concerned, doesnât seem to have occurred to him.â

âDid either of them understand his point of view?â

âOh yesâin a way. Elsa did, I suppose. She was terrifically enthusiastic about his painting. But it was a difficult position for herânaturally. And as for Carolineââ

He stopped. Poirot said:

âFor Carolineâyes, indeed.â

Meredith Blake said, speaking with a little difficulty:

âCarolineâI had alwaysâwell, I had always been very fond of Caroline. There was a time whenâwhen I hoped to marry her. But that was soon nipped in the bud. Still, I remained, if I may say so, devoted toâto her service.â

Poirot nodded thoughtfully. That slightly old-fashioned phrase expressed, he felt, the man before him very typically. Meredith Blake was the kind of man who would devote himself readily to a romantic and honourable devotion. He would serve his lady faithfully and without hope of reward. Yes, it was all very much in character.

He said, carefully weighing the words:

âYou must have resented thisâattitudeâon her behalf?â

âI did. Oh, I did. IâI actually remonstrated with Crale on the subject.â

âWhen was this?â

âActually the day beforeâbefore it all happened. They came over to tea here, you know. I got Crale aside and IâI put it to him. I even said, I remember, that it wasnât fair on either of them.â

âAh, you said that?â

âYes. I didnât thinkâyou see, that he realized.â

âPossibly not.â

âI said to him that it was putting Caroline in a perfectly unendurable position. If he meant to marry this girl, he ought not to have her staying in the house andâwellâmore or less flaunt her in Carolineâs face. It was, I said, an unendurable insult.â

Poirot asked curiously: âWhat did he answer?â

Meredith Blake replied with distaste:

âHe said: âCaroline must lump it.ââ

Hercule Poirotâs eyebrows rose.

âNot,â he said, âa very sympathetic reply.â

âI thought it abominable. I lost my temper. I said that no doubt, not caring for his wife, he didnât mind how much he made her suffer, but what, I said, about the girl? Hadnât he realized it was a pretty rotten position for her? His reply to that was that Elsa must lump it too!

âThen he went on: âYou donât seem to understand, Meredith, that this thing Iâm painting is the best thing Iâve done. Itâs good, I tell you. And a couple of jealous quarrelling women arenât going to upset itâno, by hell, theyâre not.â

âIt was hopeless talking to him. I said he seemed to have taken leave of all ordinary decency. Painting, I said, wasnât everything. He interrupted there. He said: âAh, but it is to me.â

âI was still very angry. I said it was perfectly disgraceful the way he had always treated Caroline. She had had a miserable life with him. He said he knew that and he was sorry about it. Sorry! He said: âI know, Merry, you donât believe thatâbut itâs the truth. Iâve given Caroline the hell of a life and sheâs been a saint about it. But she did know, I think, what she might be letting herself in for. I told her candidly the sort of damnable egoistic, loose-living kind of chap I was.â

âI put it to him then very strongly that he ought not to break up his married life. There was the child to be considered and everything. I said that I could understand that a girl like Elsa could bowl a man over, but that even for her sake he ought to break off the whole thing. She was very young. She was going into this baldheaded, but she might regret it bitterly afterwards. I said couldnât he pull himself together, make a clean break and go back to his wife?â

âAnd what did he say?â

Blake said: âHe just lookedâembarrassed. He patted me on the shoulder and said: âYouâre a good chap, Merry. But youâre too sentimental. You wait till the pictureâs finished and youâll admit that I was right.â

âI said: âDamn your picture.â And he grinned and said all the neurotic women in England couldnât do that. Then I said that it would have been more decent to have kept the whole thing from Caroline until after the picture was finished. He said that that wasnât his fault. It was Elsa who had insisted on spilling the beans. I said, Why? And he said that she had had some idea that it wasnât straight otherwise. She wanted everything to be clear and above board. Well, of course, in a way, one could understand that and respect the girl for it. However badly she was behaving, she did at least want to be honest.â

âA lot of additional pain and grief is caused by honesty,â remarked Hercule Poirot.

Meredith Blake looked at him doubtfully. He did not quite like the sentiment. He sighed:

âIt was aâa most unhappy time for us all.â

âThe only person who does not seem to have been affected by it was Amyas Crale,â said Poirot.

âAnd why? Because he was a rank egoist. I remember him now. Grinning at me as he went off saying: âDonât worry, Merry. Everythingâs going to pan out all right!ââ

âThe incurable optimist,â murmured Poirot.

Meredith Blake said:

âHe was the kind of man who didnât take women seriously. I could have told him that Caroline was desperate.â

âDid she tell you so?â

âNot in so many words. But I shall always see her face as it was that afternoon. White and strained with a kind of desperate gaiety. She talked and laughed a lot. But her eyesâthere was a kind of anguished grief in them that was the most moving thing I have ever known. Such a gentle creature, too.â

Hercule Poirot looked at him for a minute or two without speaking. Clearly the man in front of him felt no incongruity in speaking thus of a woman who on the day after had deliberately killed her husband.

Meredith Blake went on. He had by now quite overcome his first suspicious hostility. Hercule Poirot had the gift of listening. To men such as Meredith Blake, the reliving of the past has a definite attraction. He spoke now almost more to himself than to his guest.

âI ought to have suspected something, I suppose. It was Caroline who turned the conversation toâto my little hobby. It was, I must confess, an enthusiasm of mine. The old English herbalists, you know, are a very interesting study. There are so many plants that were formerly used in medicine and which have now disappeared from the official PharmacopÅia. And itâs astonishing, really, how a simple decoction of something or other will really work wonders. No need for doctors half the time. The French understand these thingsâsome of their tisanes are first rate.â He was well away now on his hobby.

âDandelion tea, for instance; marvellous stuff. And a decoction of hipsâI saw the other day somewhere that thatâs coming into fashion with the medical profession again. Oh yes, I must confess, I got a lot of pleasure out of my brews. Gathering the plants at the right time, drying themâmacerating themâall the rest of it. Iâve even dropped to superstition sometimes and gathered my roots at the full of the moon or whatever it was the ancients advised. On that day I gave my guests, I remember, a special disquisition on the spotted hemlock. It flowers biennially. You gather the fruits when theyâre ripening, just before they turn yellow. Coniine, you know, is a drug thatâs dropped outâI donât believe thereâs any official preparation of it in the last PharmacopÅiaâbut Iâve proved the usefulness of it in whooping coughâand in asthma too, for that matterââ

âYou talked of all this in your laboratory?â

âYes, I showed them roundâexplained the various drugs to themâvalerian and the way it attracts catsâone sniff at that was enough for them! Then they asked about deadly nightshade and I told them about belladonna and atropine. They were very much interested.â

âThey? What is comprised in that word?â

Meredith Blake looked faintly surprised as though he had forgotten that his listener had no first-hand knowledge of the scene.

âOh, the whole party. Let me see, Philip was there and Amyas, and Caroline, of course. Angela. And Elsa Greer.â

âThat was all?â

âYesâI think so. Yes, I am sure of it,â Blake looked at him curiously. âWho else should there be?â

âI thought perhaps the governessââ

âOh, I see. No, she wasnât there that afternoon. I believe Iâve forgotten her name now. Nice women. Took her duties very seriously. Angela worried her a good deal I think.â

âWhy was that?â

âWell, she was a nice kid, but she was inclined to run wild. Always up to something or other. Put a slug or something down Amyasâs back one day when he was hard at work painting. He went up in smoke. Cursed her up and down dale. It was after that that he insisted on this school idea.â

âSending her to school?â

âYes. I donât mean he wasnât fond of her, but he found her a bit of a nuisance sometimes. And I thinkâIâve always thoughtââ

âYes?â

âThat he was a bit jealous. Caroline, you see, was a slave to Angela. In a way, perhaps, Angela came first with herâand Amyas didnât like that. There was a reason for it of course. I wonât go into that, butââ

Poirot interrupted.

âThe reason being that Caroline Crale reproached herself for an action that had disfigured the girl?â

Blake exclaimed: âOh, you know that? I wasnât going to mention it. All over and done with. But yes, that was the cause of her attitude I think. She always seemed to feel that there was nothing too much she could doâto make up, as it were.â

Poirot nodded thoughtfully. He asked:

âAnd Angela? Did she bear a grudge against her half sister?â

âOh no, donât run away with that idea. Angela was devoted to Caroline. She never gave that old business a thought, Iâm sure. It was just Caroline who couldnât forgive herself.â

âDid Angela take kindly to the idea of boarding school?â

âNo, she didnât. She was furious with Amyas. Caroline took her side, but Amyas had absolutely made his mind up about it. In spite of a hot temper, Amyas was an easy man in most respects, but when he really got his back up, everyone had to give in. Both Caroline and Angela knuckled under.â

âShe was to go to schoolâwhen?â

âThe autumn termâthey were getting her kit together, I remember. I suppose, if it hadnât been for the tragedy, she would have gone off a few days later. There was some talk of her packing on the morning of that day.â

Poirot said: âAnd the governess?â

âWhat do you meanâthe governess?â

âHow did she like the idea? It deprived her of a job, did it not?â

âYesâwell, I suppose it did in a way. Little Carla used to do a few lessons, but of course she was onlyâwhat? Six or thereabouts. She had a nurse. They wouldnât have kept Miss Williams on for her. Yes, thatâs the nameâWilliams. Funny how things come back to you when you talk them over.â

âYes, indeed. You are back now, are you not, in the past? You relive the scenesâthe words that people said, their gesturesâthe expressions on their faces?â

Meredith Blake said slowly:

âIn a wayâyesâ¦But there are gaps, you knowâ¦Great chunks missed out. I remember, for instance, the shock it was to me when I first learned that Amyas was going to leave Carolineâbut I canât remember whether it was he who told me or Elsa. I do remember arguing with Elsa on the subjectâtrying to show her, I mean, that it was a pretty rotten thing to do. And she only laughed at me in that cool way of hers and said I was old fashioned. Well, I dare say I am old fashioned, but I still think I was right. Amyas had a wife and childâhe ought to have stuck to them.â

âBut Miss Greer thought that point of view out of date?â

âYes. Mind you, sixteen years ago, divorce wasnât looked on quite so much as a matter of course as it is now. But Elsa was the kind of girl who went in for being modern. Her point of view was that when two people werenât happy together it was better to make a break. She said that Amyas and Caroline never stopped having rows and that it was far better for the child that she shouldnât be brought up in an atmosphere of disharmony.â

âAnd her argument did not impress you?â

Meredith Blake said slowly:

âI felt, all the time, that she didnât really know what she was talking about. She was rattling these things offâthings sheâd read in books or heard from her friendsâit was like a parrot. She wasâitâs a queer thing to sayâpathetic somehow. So young and so self-confident.â He paused. âThere is something about youth, Mr. Poirot, that isâthat can beâterribly moving.â

Hercule Poirot said, looking at him with some interest: âI know what you meanâ¦.â

Blake went on, speaking more to himself than to Poirot.

âThatâs partly, I think, why I tackled Crale. He was nearly twenty years older than the girl. It didnât seem fair.â

Poirot murmured:

âAlasâhow seldom one makes any effect. When a person has determined on a certain courseâit is not easy to turn them from it.â

Meredith Blake said:

âThat is true enough.â His tone was a shade bitter. âI certainly did no good by my interference. But then, I am not a very convincing person. I never have been.â

Poirot threw him a quick glance. He read into that slight acerbity of tone the dissatisfaction of a sensitive man with his own lack of personality. And he acknowledged to himself the truth of what Blake had just said. Meredith Blake was not the man to persuade anyone into or out of any course. His well-meaning attempts would always be set asideâindulgently usually, without anger, but definitely set aside. They would not carry weight. He was essentially an ineffective man.

Poirot said, with an appearance of changing a painful subject: âYou still have your laboratory of medicines and cordials, yes?â

âNo.â

The word came sharplyâwith an almost anguished rapidity Meridith Blake said, his face flushing:

âI abandoned the whole thingâdismantled it. I couldnât go on with itâhow could I?âafter what had happened. The whole thing, you see, might have been said to be my fault.â

âNo, no, Mr. Blake, you are too sensitive.â

âBut donât you see? If I hadnât collected those damned drugs? If I hadnât laid stress on themâboasted about themâforced them on those peopleâs notice that afternoon? But I never thoughtâI never dreamedâhow could Iââ

âHow indeed.â

âBut I went bumbling on about them. Pleased with my little bit of knowledge. Blind, conceited fool. I pointed out that damned coniine. I even, fool that I was, took them back into the library and read them out that passage from the Phaedo describing Socratesâ death. A beautiful piece of writingâIâve always admired it. But itâs haunted me ever since.â

Poirot said:

âDid they find any fingerprints on the coniine bottle?â

âHers.â

âCaroline Craleâs?â

âYes.â

âNot yours?â

âNo. I didnât handle the bottle, you see. Only pointed to it.â

âBut at the same time, surely, you had handled it?â

âOh, of course, but I gave the bottles a periodic dusting from time to timeâI never allowed the servants in there, of courseâand I had done that about four or five days previously.â

âYou kept the room locked up?â

âInvariably.â

âWhen did Caroline Crale take the coniine from the bottle?â

Meredith Blake replied reluctantly:

âShe was the last to leave the room. I called her, I remember, and she came hurrying out. Her cheeks were just a little pinkâand her eyes wide and excited. Oh, God, I can see her now.â

Poirot said: âDid you have any conversation with her at all that afternoon? I mean by that, did you discuss the situation as between her and her husband at all?â

Blake said slowly in a low voice:

âNot directly. She was looking as Iâve told youâvery upset. I said to her at a moment when we were more or less by ourselves: âIs anything the matter, my dear?â she said: âEverythingâs the matterâ¦â I wish you could have heard the desperation in her voice. Those words were the absolute literal truth. Thereâs no getting away from itâAmyas Crale was Carolineâs whole world. She said, âEverythingâs goneâfinished. Iâm finished, Meredith.â And then she laughed and turned to the others and was suddenly wildly and very unnaturally gay.â

Hercule Poirot nodded his head slowly. He looked very like a china mandarin. He said:

âYesâI seeâit was like thatâ¦.â

Meredith Blake pounded suddenly with his fist. His voice rose. It was almost a shout.

âAnd Iâll tell you this Mr. Poirotâwhen Caroline Crale said at the trial that she took the stuff for herself, Iâll swear she was speaking the truth! There was no thought in her mind of murder at that time. I swear there wasnât. That came later.â

Hercule Poirot asked:

âAre you sure that it did come later?â

Blake stared. He said:

âI beg your pardon? I donât quite understandââ

Poirot said:

âI ask you whether you are sure that the thought of murder ever did come? Are you perfectly convinced in your own mind that Caroline Crale did deliberately commit murder?â

Meredith Blakeâs breath came unevenly. He said: âBut if notâif notâare you suggesting anâwell, accident of some kind?â

âNot necessarily.â

âThatâs a very extraordinary thing to say.â

âIs it? You have called Caroline Crale a gentle creature. Do gentle creatures commit murder?â

âShe was a gentle creatureâbut all the sameâwell, there were very violent quarrels, you know.â

âNot such a gentle creature, then?â

âBut she wasâOh, how difficult these things are to explain.â

âI am trying to understand.â

âCaroline had a quick tongueâa vehement way of speaking. She might say âI hate you. I wish you were dead.â But it wouldnât meanâit wouldnât entailâaction.â

âSo in your opinion, it was highly uncharacteristic of Mrs. Crale to commit murder?â

âYou have the most extraordinary ways of putting things, Mr. Poirot. I can only say thatâyesâit does seem to me uncharacteristic of her. I can only explain it by realizing that the provocation was extreme. She adored her husband. Under those circumstances a woman mightâwellâkill.â

Poirot nodded. âYes, I agreeâ¦.â

âI was dumbfounded at first. I didnât feel it could be true. And it wasnât trueâif you know what I meanâit wasnât the real Caroline who did that.â

âBut you are quite sure thatâin the legal senseâCaroline Crale did do it?â

Again Meredith Blake stared at him.

âMy dear manâif she didnâtââ

âWell, if she didnât?â

âI canât imagine any alternative solution. Accident? Surely impossible.â

âQuite impossible, I should say.â

âAnd I canât believe in the suicide theory. It had to be brought forward, but it was quite unconvincing to anyone who knew Crale.â

âQuite.â

âSo what remains?â asked Meredith Blake.

Poirot said coolly: âThere remains the possibility of Amyas Crale having been killed by somebody else.â

âBut thatâs absurd!â

âYou think so?â

âIâm sure of it. Who would have wanted to kill him? Who could have killed him?â

âYou are more likely to know than I am.â

âBut you donât seriously believeââ

âPerhaps not. It interests me to examine the possibility. Give it your serious consideration. Tell me what you think.â

Meredith stared at him for a minute or two. Then he lowered his eyes. After a minute or two he shook his head. He said:

âI canât imagine any possible alternative. I should like to do so. If there were any reason for suspecting anybody else I would readily believe Caroline innocent. I donât want to think she did it. I couldnât believe it at first. But who else is there? Who else was there. Philip? Craleâs best friend. Elsa? Ridiculous. Myself? Do I look like a murderer? A respectable governess? A couple of old faithful servants? Perhaps youâd suggest that the child Angela did it? No, Mr. Poirot, thereâs no alternative. Nobody could have killed Amyas Crale but his wife. But he drove her to it. And so, in a way, it was suicide after all, I suppose.â

âMeaning that he died by the result of his own actions, though not by his own hand?â

âYes, itâs a fanciful point of view, perhaps. Butâwellâcause and effect, you know.â

Hercule Poirot said:

âHave you ever reflected, Mr. Blake, that the reason for murder is nearly always to be found by a study of the person murdered?â

âI hadnât exactlyâyes, I suppose I see what you mean.â

Poirot said:

âUntil you know exactly what sort of a person the victim was, you cannot begin to see the circumstances of a crime clearly.â

He added:

âThat is what I am seeking forâand what you and your brother have helped to give meâa reconstruction of the man Amyas Crale.â

Meredith Blake passed the main point of the remark over. His attention had been attracted by a single word. He said quickly:

âPhilip?â

âYes.â

âYou have talked with him also?â

âCertainly.â

Meredith Blake said sharply:

âYou should have come to me first.â

Smiling a little, Poirot made a courteous gesture.

âAccording to the laws of primogenitude, that is so,â he said. âI am aware that you are the elder. But you comprehend that as your brother lives near London, it was easier to visit him first.â

Meredith Blake was still frowning. He pulled uneasily at his lip. He repeated:

âYou should have come to me first.â

This time, Poirot did not answer. He waited. And presently Meredith Blake went on:

âPhilip,â he said, âis prejudiced.â

âYes?â

âAs a matter of fact heâs a mass of prejudicesâalways has been.â He shot a quick uneasy glance at Poirot. âHeâll have tried to put you against Caroline.â

âDoes that matter, so longâafter?â

Meredith Blake gave a sharp sigh.

âI know. I forget that itâs so long agoâthat itâs all over. Caroline is beyond being harmed. But all the same I shouldnât like you to get a false impression.â

âAnd you think your brother might give me a false impression?â

âFrankly, I do. You see, there was always a certainâhow shall I put it?âantagonism between him and Caroline.â

âWhy?â

The question seemed to irritate Blake. He said:

âWhy? How should I know why? These things are so. Philip always crabbed her whenever he could. He was annoyed, I think, when Amyas married her. He never went near them for over a year. And yet Amyas was almost his best friend. That was the reason really, I suppose. He didnât feel that any woman was good enough. And he probably felt that Carolineâs influence would spoil their friendship.â

âAnd did it?â

âNo, of course it didnât. Amyas was always just as fond of Philipâright up to the end. Used to twit him with being a money grabber and with growing a corporation and being a Philistine generally. Philip didnât care. He just used to grin and say it was a good thing Amyas had one respectable friend.â

âHow did your brother react to the Elsa Greer affair?â

âDo you know, I find it rather difficult to say. His attitude wasnât really easy to define. He was annoyed, I think, with Amyas for making a fool of himself over the girl. He said more than once that it wouldnât work and that Amyas would live to regret it. At the same time I have a feelingâyes, very definitely I have a feeling that he was just faintly pleased at seeing Caroline let down.â

Poirotâs eyebrows rose. He said:

âHe really felt like that?â

âOh, donât misunderstand me. I wouldnât go further than to say that I believe that feeling was at the back of his mind. I donât know that he ever quite realized himself that that is what he felt. Philip and I have nothing much in common, but there is a link, you know, between people of the same blood. One brother often knows what the other brother is thinking.â

âAnd after the tragedy?â

Meredith Blake shook his head. A spasm of pain crossed his face. He said:

âPoor Phil. He was terribly cut up. Just broken up by it. Heâd always been devoted to Amyas, you see. There was an element of hero worship about it, I think. Amyas Crale and I are the same age. Philip was two years younger. And he looked up to Amyas always. Yesâit was a great blow to him. He wasâhe was terribly bitter against Caroline.â

âHe, at least, had no doubts, then?â

Meredith Blake said:

âNone of us had any doubtsâ¦.â

There was a silence. Then Blake said with the irritable plaintiveness of a weak man:

âIt was all overâforgottenâand now you comeâraking it all upâ¦.â

âNot I. Caroline Crale.â

Meredith stared at him: âCaroline? What do you mean?â

Poirot said, watching him:

âCaroline Crale the second.â

Meredithâs face relaxed.

âAh yes, the child. Little Carla. IâI misunderstood you for a moment.â

âYou thought I meant the original Caroline Crale? You thought that it was she who would notâhow shall I say itârest easy in her grave?â

Meredith Blake shivered.

âDonât, man.â

âYou know that she wrote to her daughterâthe last words she ever wroteâthat she was innocent?â

Meredith stared at him. He saidâand his voice sounded utterly incredulous:

âCaroline wrote that?â

âYes.â

Poirot paused and said:

âIt surprises you?â

âIt would surprise you if youâd seen her in court. Poor, hunted, defenceless creature. Not even struggling.â

âA defeatist?â

âNo, no. She wasnât that. It was, I think, the knowledge that sheâd killed the man she lovedâor I thought it was that.â

âYou are not so sure now?â

âTo write a thing like thatâsolemnlyâwhen she was dying.â

Poirot suggested:

âA pious lie, perhaps.â

âPerhaps.â But Meredith was dubious. âThatâs notâthatâs not like Carolineâ¦.â

Hercule Poirot nodded. Carla Lemarchant had said that. Carla had only a childâs obstinate memory. But Meredith Blake had known Caroline well. It was the first confirmation Poirot had got that Carlaâs belief was to be depended upon.

Meredith Blake looked up at him. He said slowly:

âIfâif Caroline was innocentâwhy, the whole thingâs madness! I donât seeâany other possible solutionâ¦.â

He turned sharply on Poirot.

âAnd you? What do you think?â

There was a silence.

âAs yet,â said Poirot at last, âI think nothing. I collect only the impressions. What Caroline Crale was like. What Amyas Crale was like. What the other people who were there at the time were like. What happened exactly on those two days. That is what I need. To go over the facts laboriously one by one. Your brother is going to help me there. He is sending me an account of the events as he remembers them.â

Meredith Blake said sharply:

âYou wonât get much from that. Philipâs a busy man. Things slip his memory once theyâre past and done with. Probably heâll remember things all wrong.â

âThere will be gaps, of course. I realize that.â

âI tell you whatââ Meredith paused abruptly, then went on, reddening a little as he spoke. âIf you like, IâI could do the same. I mean, it would be a kind of check, wouldnât it?â

Hercule Poirot said warmly:

âIt would be most valuable. An idea of the first excellence!â

âRight. I will. Iâve got some old diaries somewhere. Mind you,â he laughed awkwardly. âIâm not much of a hand at literary language. Even my spellingâs not too good. Youâyou wonât expect too much?â

âAh, it is not the style I demand. Just a plain recital of everything you can remember. What every one said, how they lookedâjust what happened. Never mind if it doesnât seem relevant. It all helps with the atmosphere, so to speak.â

âYes, I can see that. It must be difficult visualizing people and places you have never seen.â

Poirot nodded.

âThere is another thing I wanted to ask you. Alderbury is the adjoining property to this, is it not? Would it be possible to go thereâto see with my own eyes where the tragedy occurred?â

Meredith Blake said slowly:

âI can take you over there right away. But, of course, it is a good deal changed.â

âIt has not been built over?â

âNo, thank goodnessânot quite so bad as that. But itâs a kind of hostel nowâit was bought by some society. Hordes of young people come down to it in the summer, and of course all the rooms have been cut up and partitioned into cubicles, and the grounds have been altered a good deal.â

âYou must reconstruct it for me by your explanations.â

âIâll do my best. I wish you could have seen it in the old days. It was one of the loveliest properties I know.â

He led the way out through the window and began walking down a slope of lawn.

âWho was responsible for selling it?â

âThe executors on behalf of the child. Everything Crale had came to her. He hadnât made a will, so I imagine that it would be divided automatically between his wife and the child. Carolineâs will left what she had to the child also.â

âNothing to her half sister?â

âAngela had a certain amount of money of her own left her by her father.â

Poirot nodded. âI see.â

Then he uttered an exclamation:

âBut where is it that you take me? This is the seashore ahead of us!â

âAh, I must explain our geography to you. Youâll see for yourself in a minute. Thereâs a creek, you see, Camel Creek, they call it, runs inlandâlooks almost like a river mouth, but it isnâtâitâs just sea. To get to Alderbury by land you have to go right inland and round the creek, but the shortest way from one house to the other is to row across this narrow bit of the creek. Alderbury is just oppositeâthere, you can see the house through the trees.â

They had come out on a little beach. Opposite them was a wooded headland and a white house could just be distinguished high up amongst the trees.

Two boats were drawn up on the beach. Meredith Blake, with Poirotâs somewhat awkward assistance, dragged one of them down to the water and presently they were rowing across to the other side.

âWe always went this way in the old days,â Meredith explained. âUnless, of course, there was a storm or it was raining, and then weâd take the car. But itâs nearly three miles if you go round that way.â

He ran the boat neatly alongside a stone quay on the other side. He cast a disparaging eye on a collection of wooden huts and some concrete terraces.

âAll new, this. Used to be a boathouseâtumbledown old placeâand nothing else. And one walked along the shore and bathed off those rocks over there.â

He assisted his guest to alight, made fast the boat, and led the way up a steep path.

âDonât suppose weâll meet anyone,â he said over his shoulder. âNobody here in Aprilâexcept for Easter. Doesnât matter if we do. Iâm on good terms with my neighbours. Sunâs glorious today. Might be summer. It was a wonderful day then. More like July than September. Brilliant sunâbut a chilly little wind.â

The path came out of the trees and skirted an outcrop of rock. Meredith pointed up with his hand.

âThatâs what they called the Battery. Weâre more or less underneath it nowâskirting round it.â

They plunged into trees again and then the path took another sharp turn and they emerged by a door set in a high wall. The path itself continued to zigzag upwards, but Meredith opened the door and the two men passed through it.

For a moment Poirot was dazzled coming in from the shade outside. The Battery was an artificially cleared plateau with battlements set with cannon. It gave one the impression of overhanging the sea. There were trees above it and behind it, but on the sea side there was nothing but the dazzling blue water below.

âAttractive spot,â said Meredith. He nodded contemptuously towards a kind of pavilion set back against the back wall. âThat wasnât there, of courseâonly an old tumbledown shed where Amyas kept his painting muck and some bottled beer and a few deck chairs. It wasnât concreted then, either. There used to be a bench and a tableâpainted iron ones. That was all. Stillâit hasnât changed much.â

His voice held an unsteady note.

Poirot said: âAnd it was here that it happened?â

Meredith nodded.

âThe bench was thereâup against the shed. He was sprawled on that. He used to sprawl there sometimes when he was paintingâjust fling himself down and stare and stareâand then suddenly up heâd jump and start laying the paint on the canvas like mad.â

He paused.

âThatâs why, you know, he lookedâalmost natural. As though he might be asleepâjust have dropped off. But his eyes were openâand heâdâjust stiffened up. Stuff sort of paralyses you, you know. There isnât any painâ¦IâveâIâve always been glad of thatâ¦.â

Poirot asked a thing that he already knew.

âWho found him?â

âShe did. Caroline. After lunch. I and Elsa, I suppose, were the last ones to see him alive. It must have been coming on then. Heâlooked queer. Iâd rather not talk about it. Iâll write it to you. Easier that way.â

He turned abruptly and went out of the Battery. Poirot followed him without speaking.

The two men went on up the zigzag path. At a higher level than the Battery there was another small plateau. It was overshadowed with trees and there was a bench there and a table.

Meredith said:

âThey havenât changed this much. But the bench used not to be Ye Olde Rustic. It was just a painted iron business. A bit hard for sitting, but a lovely view.â

Poirot agreed. Through a framework of trees one looked down over the Battery to the creek mouth.

âI sat up here part of the morning,â Meredith explained. âTrees werenât quite so overgrown then. One could see the battlements of the Battery quite plainly. Thatâs where Elsa was posing, you know. Sitting on one with her head twisted round.â

He gave a slight twitch of his shoulders.

âTrees grow faster than one thinks,â he muttered. âOh well, suppose Iâm getting old. Come on up to the house.â

They continued to follow the path till it emerged near the house. It had been a fine old house, Georgian in style. It had been added to and on a green lawn near it were set some fifty little wooden bathing hutches.

âYoung men sleep there, girls in the house,â Meredith explained. âI donât suppose thereâs anything you want to see here. All the rooms have been cut about. Used to be a little conservatory tacked on here. These people have built a loggia. Oh wellâI suppose they enjoy their holidays. Canât keep everything as it used to beâmoreâs the pity.â

He turned away abruptly.

âWeâll go down another way. Itâit all comes back to me, you know. Ghosts. Ghosts everywhere.â

They returned to the quay by a somewhat longer and more rambling route. Neither of them spoke. Poirot respected his companionâs mood.

When they reached Handcross Manor once more, Meredith Blake said abruptly:

âI bought that picture, you know. The one that Amyas was painting. I just couldnât stand the idea of its being sold forâwellâpublicity valueâa lot of dirty-minded brutes gaping at it. It was a fine piece of work. Amyas said it was the best thing heâd ever done. I shouldnât be surprised if he was right. It was practically finished. He only wanted to work on it another day or so. Wouldâwould you care to see it?â

Hercule Poirot said quickly: âYes, indeed.â

Blake led the way across the hall and took a key from his pocket. He unlocked a door and they went into a fair-sized, dusty smelling room. It was closely shuttered. Blake went across to the windows and opened the wooden shutters. Then, with a little difficulty, he flung up a window and a breath of fragrant spring air came wafting into the room.

Meredith said: âThatâs better.â

He stood by the window inhaling the air and Poirot joined him. There was no need to ask what the room had been. The shelves were empty but there were marks upon them where bottles had stood. Against one wall was some derelict chemical apparatus and a sink. The room was thick in dust.

Meredith Blake was looking out of the window. He said:

âHow easily it all comes back. Standing here, smelling the jasmineâand talkingâtalkingâlike the damned fool I wasâabout my precious potions and distillations!â

Absently, Poirot stretched a hand through the window. He pulled off a spray of jasmine leaves just breaking from their woody stem.

Meredith Blake moved resolutely across the floor. On the wall was a picture covered with a dust sheet. He jerked the dust sheet away.

Poirot caught his breath. He had seen so far, four pictures of Amyas Craleâs: two at the Tate, one at a London dealerâs, one, the still life of roses. But now he was looking at what the artist himself had called his best picture, and Poirot realized at once what a superb artist the man had been.

The painting had an old superficial smoothness. At first sight it might have been a poster, so seemingly crude were its contrasts. A girl, a girl in a canary-yellow shirt and dark-blue slacks, sitting on a grey wall in full sunlight against a background of violent blue sea. Just the kind of subject for a poster.

But the first appearance was deceptive; there was a subtle distortionâan amazing brilliance and clarity in the light. And the girlâ

Yes, here was life. All there was, all there could be of life, of youth, of sheer blazing vitality. The face was alive and the eyesâ¦.

So much life! Such passionate youth! That, then, was what Amyas Crale had seen in Elsa Greer, which had made him blind and deaf to the gentle creature, his wife. Elsa was life. Elsa was youth.

A superb, slim, straight creature, arrogant, her head turned, her eyes insolent with triumph. Looking at you, watching youâwaitingâ¦.

Hercule Poirot spread out his hands. He said:

âIt is a greatâyes, it is greatââ

Meredith Blake said, a catch in his voice:

âShe was so youngââ

Poirot nodded. He thought to himself.

âWhat do most people mean when they say that? So young. Something innocent, something appealing, something helpless. But youth is not that! Youth is crude, youth is strong, youth is powerfulâyes, and cruel! And one thing moreâyouth is vulnerable.â

He followed his host to the door. His interest was quickened now in Elsa Greer whom he was to visit next. What would the years have done to that passionate, triumphant crude child?

He looked back at the picture.

Those eyes. Watching himâ¦watching himâ¦Telling him somethingâ¦.

Supposing he couldnât understand what they were telling him? Would the real woman be able to tell him? Or were those eyes saying something that the real woman did not know?

Such arrogance, such triumphant anticipation.

And then Death had stepped in and taken the prey out of those eager, clutching young handsâ¦.

And the light had gone out of those passionately anticipating eyes. What were the eyes of Elsa Greer like now?

He went out of the room with one last look.

He thought: âShe was too much alive.â

He feltâa littleâfrightenedâ¦.

Eight

THIS LITTLE PIG HAD ROAST BEEF

The house in Brook Street had Darwin tulips in the window boxes. Inside the hall a great vase of white lilac sent eddies of perfume towards the open front door.

A middle-aged butler relieved Poirot of his hat and stick. A footman appeared to take them and the butler murmured deferentially:

âWill you come this way, sir?â

Poirot followed him along the hall and down three steps. A door was opened, the butler pronounced his name with every syllable correct.

Then the door closed behind him and a tall thin man got up from a chair by the fire and came towards him.

Lord Dittisham was a man just under forty. He was not only a Peer of the Realm, he was a poet. Two of his fantastical poetic dramas had been staged at vast expense and had had a succÃ¨s dâestime. His forehead was rather prominent, his chin was eager, and his eyes and his mouth unexpectedly beautiful.

He said:

âSit down, Mr. Poirot.â

Poirot sat down and accepted a cigarette from his host. Lord Dittisham shut the box, struck a match and held it for Poirot to light his cigarette, then he himself sat down and looked thoughtfully at his visitor.

Then he said:

âIt is my wife you have come to see, I know.â

Poirot answered:

âLady Dittisham was so kind as to give me an appointment.â

âYes.â

There was a pause. Poirot hazarded:

âYou do not, I hope, object, Lord Dittisham?â

The thin dreamy face was transformed by a sudden quick smile.

âThe objections of husbands, Mr. Poirot, are never taken seriously in these days.â

âThen you do object?â

âNo. I cannot say that. But I am, I must confess it, a little fearful of the effect upon my wife. Let me be quite frank. A great many years ago, when my wife was only a young girl, she passed through a terrible ordeal. She has, I hope, recovered from the shock. I have come to believe that she has forgotten it. Now you appear and necessarily your questions will reawaken these old memories.â

âIt is regrettable,â said Hercule Poirot politely.

âI do not know quite what the result will be.â

âI can only assure you, Lord Dittisham, that I shall be as discreet as possible, and do all I can not to distress Lady Dittisham. She is, no doubt, of a delicate and nervous temperament.â

Then, suddenly and surprisingly, the other laughed. He said:

âElsa? Elsaâs as strong as a horse!â

âThenââ Poirot paused diplomatically. The situation intrigued him.

Lord Dittisham said:

âMy wife is equal to any amount of shocks. I wonder if you know her reason for seeing you?â

Poirot replied placidly: âCuriosity?â

A kind of respect showed in the other manâs eyes.

âAh, you realize that?â

Poirot said:

âIt is inevitable. Women will always see a private detective! Men will tell him to go to the devil.â

âSome women might tell him to go to the devil too.â

âAfter they have seen himânot before.â

âPerhaps.â Lord Dittisham paused. âWhat is the idea behind this book?â

Hercule Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

âOne resurrects the old tunes, the old stage turns, the old costumes. One resurrects, too, the old murders.â

âFaugh!â said Lord Dittisham.

âFaugh! If you like. But you will not alter human nature by saying Faugh. Murder is a drama. The desire for drama is very strong in the human race.â

Lord Dittisham murmured:

âI knowâI knowâ¦.â

âSo you see,â said Poirot, âthe book will be written. It is my part to make sure that there shall be no gross misstatements, no tampering with the known facts.â

âThe facts are public property I should have thought.â

âYes. But not the interpretation of them.â

Dittisham said sharply:

âJust what do you mean by that, Mr. Poirot?â

âMy dear Lord Dittisham, there are many ways of regarding, for instance, a historical fact. Take an example: many books have been written on your Mary Queen of Scots, representing her as a martyr, as an unprincipled and wanton woman, as a rather simpleminded saint, as a murderess and an intriguer, or again as a victim of circumstance and fate! One can take oneâs choice.â

âAnd in this case? Crale was killed by his wifeâthat is, of course, undisputed. At the trial my wife came in for some, in my opinion, undeserved calumny. She had to be smuggled out of court afterwards. Public opinion was very hostile to her.â

âThe English,â said Poirot, âare a very moral people.â

Lord Dittisham said: âConfound them, they are!â

He addedâlooking at Poirot: âAnd you?â

âMe,â said Poirot. âI lead a very moral life. That is not quite the same thing as having moral ideas.â

Lord Dittisham said:

âIâve wondered sometimes what this Mrs. Crale was really like. All this injured wife businessâIâve a feeling there was something behind that.â

âYour wife might know,â agreed Poirot.

âMy wife,â said Lord Dittisham, âhas never mentioned the case once.â

Poirot looked at him with quickened interest. He said:

âAh, I begin to seeââ

The other said sharply:

âWhat do you see?â

Poirot replied with a bow:

âThe creative imagination of the poetâ¦.â

Lord Dittisham rose and rang the bell. He said brusquely:

âMy wife will be waiting for you.â

The door opened.

âYou rang, my lord?â

âTake Mr. Poirot up to her ladyship.â

Up two flights of stairs, feet sinking into soft pile carpets. Subdued flood lighting. Money, money everywhere. Of taste, not so much. There had been a sombre austerity in Lord Dittishamâs room. But here, in the house, there was only a solid lavishness. The best. Not necessarily the showiest, or the most startling. Merely âexpense no object,â allied to a lack of imagination.

Poirot said to himself: âRoast beef? Yes, roast beef!â

It was not a large room into which he was shown. The big drawing room was on the first floor. This was the personal sitting room of the mistress of the house and the mistress of the house was standing against the mantelpiece as Poirot was announced and shown in.

A phrase leapt into his startled mind and refused to be driven out.

She died youngâ¦.

That was his thought as he looked at Elsa Dittisham who had been Elsa Greer.

He would never have recognized her from the picture Meredith Blake had shown him. That had been, above all, a picture of youth, a picture of vitality. Here there was no youthâthere might never have been youth. And yet he realized, as he had not realized from Craleâs picture, that Elsa was beautiful. Yes, it was a very beautiful woman who came forward to meet him. And certainly not old. After all, what was she? Not more than thirty-six now if she had been twenty at the time of the tragedy. Her black hair was perfectly arranged round her shapely head, her features were almost classic, her makeup was exquisite.

He felt a strange pang. It was, perhaps, the fault of old Mr. Jonathan, speaking of Julietâ¦No Juliet hereâunless perhaps one could imagine Juliet a survivorâliving on, deprived of Romeoâ¦Was it not an essential part of Julietâs makeup that she should die young?

Elsa Greer had been left aliveâ¦.

She was greeting him in a level rather monotonous voice.

âI am so interested, Mr. Poirot. Sit down and tell me what you want me to do?â

He thought:

âBut she isnât interested. Nothing interests her.â

Big grey eyesâlike dead lakes.

Poirot became, as was his way, a little obviously foreign.

He exclaimed:

âI am confused, madame, veritably I am confused.â

âOh no, why?â

âBecause I realize that thisâthis reconstruction of a past drama must be excessively painful to you!â

She looked amused. Yes, it was amusement. Quite genuine amusement.

She said:

âI suppose my husband put that idea into your head? He saw you when you arrived. Of course he doesnât understand in the least. He never has. Iâm not at all the sensitive sort of person he imagines I am.â

The amusement was still in her voice. She said:

âMy father, you know, was a mill hand. He worked his way up and made a fortune. You donât do that if youâre thin-skinned. Iâm the same.â

Poirot thought to himself: Yes, that is true. A thin-skinned person would not have come to stay in Caroline Craleâs house.

Lady Dittisham said:

âWhat is it you want me to do?â

âYou are sure, madame, that to go over the past would not be painful to you?â

She considered a minute, and it struck Poirot suddenly that Lady Dittisham was a very frank woman. She might lie from necessity but never from choice.

Elsa Dittisham said slowly:

âNo, not painful. In a way, I wish it were.â

âWhy?â

She said impatiently:

âItâs so stupid never to feel anythingâ¦.â

And Hercule Poirot thought:

âYes, Elsa Greer is deadâ¦.â

Aloud he said:

âAt all events, Lady Dittisham, it makes my task very much easier.â

She said cheerfully:

âWhat do you want to know?â

âHave you a good memory, madame?â

âReasonably good, I think.â

âAnd you are sure it will not pain you to go over those days in detail?â

âIt wonât pain me at all. Things can only pain you when they are happening.â

âIt is so with some people, I know.â

Lady Dittisham said:

âThatâs what Edwardâmy husbandâcanât understand. He thinks the trial and all that was a terrible ordeal for me.â

âWas it not?â

Elsa Dittisham said:

âNo, I enjoyed it.â There was a reflective satisfied quality in her voice. She went on: âGod, how that old brute Depleach went for me. Heâs a devil, if you like. I enjoyed fighting him. He didnât get me down.â

She looked at Poirot with a smile.

âI hope Iâm not upsetting your illusions. A girl of twenty, I ought to have been prostrated, I supposeâagonized with shame or something. I wasnât. I didnât care what they said to me. I only wanted one thing.â

âWhat?â

âTo get her hanged, of course,â said Elsa Dittisham.

He noticed her handsâbeautiful hands but with long curving nails. Predatory hands.

She said:

âYouâre thinking me vindictive? So I am vindictiveâto anyone who has injured me. That woman was to my mind the lowest kind of woman there is. She knew that Amyas cared for meâthat he was going to leave her and she killed him so that I shouldnât have him.â

She looked across at Poirot.

âDonât you think thatâs pretty mean?â

âYou do not understand or sympathize with jealousy?â

âNo, I donât think I do. If youâve lost, youâve lost. If you canât keep your husband, let him go with a good grace. Itâs possessiveness I donât understand.â

âYou might have understood it if you had ever married him.â

âI donât think so. We werenâtââ She smiled suddenly at Poirot. Her smile was, he felt, a little frightening. It was so far removed from any real feeling. âIâd like you to get this right,â she said. âDonât think that Amyas Crale seduced an innocent young girl. It wasnât like that at all! Of the two of us, I was responsible. I met him at a party and I fell for himâI knew Iâd got to have himââ

A travestyâa grotesque travesty butâ

And all my fortunes at thy foot Iâll lay

And follow thee, my lord, throughout the worldâ¦.

âAlthough he was married?â

âTrespassers will be prosecuted? It takes more than a printed notice to keep you from reality. If he was unhappy with his wife and could be happy with me, then why not? Weâve only one life to live.â

âBut it has been said he was happy with his wife.â

Elsa shook her head.

âNo. They quarrelled like cat and dog. She nagged at him. She wasâoh, she was a horrible woman!â

She got up and lit a cigarette. She said with a little smile:

âProbably Iâm unfair to her. But I really do think she was rather hateful.â

Poirot said slowly: âIt was a great tragedy.â

âYes, it was a great tragedy.â She turned on him suddenly, into the dead monotonous weariness of her face something came quiveringly alive.

âIt killed me, do you understand? It killed me. Ever since thereâs been nothingânothing at all.â Her voice dropped. âEmptiness!â She waved her hands impatiently. âLike a stuffed fish in a glass case!â

âDid Amyas Crale mean so much to you?â

She nodded. It was a queer confiding little nodâoddly pathetic. She said:

âI think Iâve always had a single-track mind.â She mused sombrely. âI supposeâreallyâone ought to put a knife into oneselfâlike Juliet. Butâbut to do that is to acknowledge that youâre done forâthat lifeâs beaten you.â

âAnd instead?â

âThere ought to be everythingâjust the sameâonce one has got over it. I did get over it. It didnât mean anything to me any more. I thought Iâd go on to the next thing.â

Yes, the next thing. Poirot saw her plainly trying so hard to fulfil that crude determination. Saw her beautiful and rich, seductive to men, seeking with greedy predatory hands to fill up a life that was empty. Hero worshipâa marriage to a famous aviatorâthen an explorer, that big giant of a man, Arnold Stevensonâpossibly not unlike Amyas Crale physicallyâa reversion to the creative arts: Dittisham!

Elsa Dittisham said:

âIâve never been a hypocrite! Thereâs a Spanish proverb Iâve always liked. Take what you want and pay for it, says God. Well, Iâve done that. Iâve taken what I wantedâbut Iâve always been willing to pay the price.â

Hercule Poirot said:

âWhat you do not understand is that there are things that cannot be bought.â

She stared at him. She said:

âI donât mean just money.â

Poirot said:

âNo, no, I understand what you mean. But it is not everything in life that has its ticket, so much. There are things that are not for sale.â

âNonsense!â

He smiled very faintly. In her voice was the arrogance of the successful mill hand who had risen to riches.

Hercule Poirot felt a sudden wave of pity. He looked at the ageless, smooth face, the weary eyes, and he remembered the girl whom Amyas Crale had paintedâ¦.

Elsa Dittisham said:

âTell me all about this book. What is the purpose of it? Whose idea is it?â

âOh! my dear lady, what other purpose is there but to serve up yesterdayâs sensation with todayâs sauce.â

âBut youâre not a writer?â

âNo, I am an expert on crime.â

âYou mean they consult you on crime books?â

âNot always. In this case, I have a commission.â

âFrom whom?â

âI amâwhat do you sayâvetting this publication on behalf of an interested party.â

âWhat party?â

âMiss Carla Lemarchant.â

âWho is she?â

âShe is the daughter of Amyas and Caroline Crale.â

Elsa stared for a minute. Then she said:

âOh, of course, there was a child. I remember. I suppose sheâs grown up now?â

âYes, she is twenty-one.â

âWhat is she like?â

âShe is tall and dark and, I think, beautiful. And she has courage and personality.â

Elsa said thoughtfully:

âI should like to see her.â

âShe might not care to see you.â

Elsa looked surprised.

âWhy? Oh, I see. But what nonsense! She canât possibly remember anything about it. She canât have been more than six.â

âShe knows that her mother was tried for her fatherâs murder.â

âAnd she thinks itâs my fault?â

âIt is a possible interpretation.â

Elsa shrugged her shoulders. She said:

âHow stupid! If Caroline had behaved like a reasonable human beingââ

âSo you take no responsibility?â

âWhy should I? Iâve nothing to be ashamed of. I loved him. I would have made him happy.â She looked across at Poirot. Her face broke upâsuddenly, incredibly, he saw the girl of the picture. She said: âIf I could make you see. If you could see it from my side. If you knewââ

Poirot leaned forward.

âBut that is what I want. See, Mr. Philip Blake who was there at the time, he is writing me a meticulous account of everything that happened. Mr. Meredith Blake the same. Now if youââ

Elsa Dittisham took a deep breath. She said contemptuously:

âThose two! Philip was always stupid. Meredith used to trot round after Carolineâbut he was quite a dear. But you wonât have any real idea from their accounts.â

He watched her, saw the animation rising in her eyes, saw a living woman take shape from a dead one. She said quickly and almost fiercely:

âWould you like the truth? Oh, not for publication. But just for yourselfââ

âI will undertake not to publish without your consent.â

âIâd like to write down the truthâ¦â She was silent a minute or two, thinking. He saw the smooth hardness of her cheeks falter and take on a younger curve, he saw life ebbing into her as the past claimed her again.

âTo go backâto write it all downâ¦To show you what she wasââ

Her eyes flashed. Her breast heaved passionately.

âShe killed him. She killed Amyas. Amyas who wanted to liveâwho enjoyed living. Hate oughtnât to be stronger than loveâbut her hate was. And my hate for her isâI hate herâI hate herâI hate herâ¦.â

She came across to him. She stooped, her hand clutched at his sleeve. She said urgently:

âYou must understandâyou mustâhow we felt about each other. Amyas and I, I mean. Thereâs somethingâIâll show you.â

She whirled across the room. She was unlocking a little desk, pulling out a drawer concealed inside a pigeon hole.

Then she was back. In her hand was a creased letter, the ink faded. She thrust it on him and Poirot had a sudden poignant memory of a child he had known who had thrust on him one of her treasuresâa special shell picked up on the seashore and zealously guarded. Just so had that child stood back and watched him. Proud, afraid, keenly critical of his reception of her treasure.

He unfolded the faded sheets.

Elsaâyou wonderful child! There never was anything as beautiful. And yet Iâm afraidâIâm too oldâa middle-aged, ugly tempered devil with no stability in me. Donât trust me, donât believe in meâIâm no goodâapart from my work. The best of me is in that. There, donât say you havenât been warned.

Hell, my lovelyâIâm going to have you all the same. Iâd go to the devil for you and you know it. And Iâll paint a picture of you that will make the fat-headed world hold its sides and gasp! Iâm crazy about youâI canât sleepâI canât eat. ElsaâElsaâElsaâIâm yours for everâyours till death. Amyas.

Sixteen years ago. Faded ink, crumbling paper. But the words still aliveâstill vibratingâ¦.

He looked across at the woman to whom they had been written.

But it was no longer a woman at whom he looked.

It was a young girl in love.

He thought again of Julietâ¦.

Nine

THIS LITTLE PIG HAD NONE

âMay I ask why, Mr. Poirot?â

Hercule Poirot considered his answer to the question. He was aware of a pair of very shrewd grey eyes watching him out of the small wizened face.

He had climbed to the top floor of the bare building and knocked on the door of No. 584 Gillespie Buildings, which had come into existence to provide what were called âflatletsâ for working women.

Here, in a small cubic space, existed Miss Cecilia Williams, in a room that was bedroom, sitting room, dining room, and, by judicious use of the gas ring, kitchenâa kind of cubby hole attached to it contined a quarter-length bath and the usual offices.

Meagre though these surroundings might be, Miss Williams had contrived to impress upon them her stamp of personality.

The walls were distempered an ascetic pale grey, and various reproductions hung upon them. Dante meeting Beatrice on a bridgeâand that picture once described by a child as a âblind girl sitting on an orange and called, I donât know why, âHope.ââ There were also two water colours of Venice and a sepia copy of Botticelliâs âPrimavera.â On the top of the low chest of drawers were a large quantity of faded photographs, mostly, by their style of hairdressing, dating from twenty to thirty years ago.

The square of carpet was threadbare, the furniture battered and of poor quality. It was clear to Hercule Poirot that Cecilia Williams lived very near the bone. There was no roast beef here. This was the little pig that had none.

Clear, incisive and insistent, the voice of Miss Williams repeated its demand.

âYou want my recollections of the Crale case? May I ask why?â

It had been said of Hercule Poirot by some of his friends and associates, at moments when he has maddened them most, that he prefers lies to truth and will go out of his way to gain his ends by means of elaborate false statements, rather than trust to the simple truth.

But in this case his decision was quickly made. Hercule Poirot did not come of that class of Belgian or French children who have had an English governess, but he reacted as simply and inevitably as various small boys who had been asked in their time: âDid you brush your teeth this morning, Harold (or Richard or Anthony)?â They considered fleetingly the possibility of a lie and instantly rejected it, replying miserably, âNo, Miss Williams.â

For Miss Williams had what every successful child educator must have, that mysterious qualityâauthority! When Miss Williams said âGo up and wash your hands, Joan,â or âI expect you to read this chapter on the Elizabethan poets and be able to answer my questions on it,â she was invariably obeyed. It had never entered Miss Williamsâ head that she would not be obeyed.

So in this case Hercule Poirot proffered no specious explanation of a book to be written on bygone crimes. Instead he narrated simply the circumstances in which Carla Lemarchant had sought him out.

The small, elderly lady in the neat shabby dress listened attentively.

She said:

âIt interests me very much to have news of that childâto know how she has turned out.â

âShe is a very charming and attractive young woman, with plenty of courage and a mind of her own.â

âGood,â said Miss Williams briefly.

âAnd she is, I may say, a very persistent person. She is not a person whom it is easy to refuse or put off.â

The ex-governess nodded thoughtfully. She asked:

âIs she artistic?â

âI think not.â

Miss Williams said drily:

âThatâs one thing to be thankful for!â

The tone of the remark left Miss Williamsâ views as to artists in no doubt whatever.

She added:

âFrom your account of her I should imagine that she takes after her mother rather than after her father.â

âVery possibly. That you can tell me when you have seen her. You would like to see her?â

âI should like to see her very much indeed. It is always interesting to see how a child you have known has developed.â

âShe was, I suppose, very young when you last saw her?â

âShe was five and a half. A very charming childâa little over-quiet, perhaps. Thoughtful. Given to playing her own little games and not inviting outside cooperation. Natural and unspoilt.â

Poirot said:

âIt was fortunate she was so young.â

âYes, indeed. Had she been older the shock of the tragedy might have had a very bad effect.â

âNevertheless,â said Poirot, âone feels that there was a handicapâhowever little the child understood or was allowed to know, there would have been an atmosphere of mystery and evasion and an abrupt uprooting. These things are not good for a child.â

Miss Williams replied thoughtfully:

âThey may have been less harmful than you think.â

Poirot said:

âBefore we leave the subject of Carla Lemarchantâlittle Carla Crale that was, there is something I would like to ask you. If anyone can explain it, I think you can.â

âYes?â

Her voice was inquiring, noncommital.

Poirot waved his hands in an effort to express his meaning.

âThere is a somethingâa nuance I cannot defineâbut it seems to me always that the child, when I mention her, is not given her full representational value. When I mention her, the response comes always with a vague surprise, as though the person to whom I speak had forgotten altogether that there was a child. Now surely, Mademoiselle, that is not natural? A child, under these circumstances, is a person of importance, not in herself, but as a pivotal point. Amyas Crale may have had reasons for abandoning his wifeâor for not abandoning her. But in the usual breakup of a marriage the child forms a very important point. But here the child seems to count for very little. That seems to meâstrange.â

Miss Williams said quickly:

âYou have put your finger on a vital point, Mr. Poirot. You are quite right. And that is partly why I said what I did just nowâthat Carlaâs transportation to different surroundings might have been in some respects a good thing for her. When she was older, you see, she might have suffered from a certain lack in her home life.â

She leaned forward and spoke slowly and carefully.

âNaturally, in the course of my work, I have seen a good many aspects of the parent and child problem. Many children, most children, I should say, suffer from overattention on the part of their parents. There is too much love, too much watching over the child. It is uneasily conscious of this brooding, and seeks to free itself, to get away and be unobserved. With an only child that is particularly the case, and of course mothers are the worst offenders. The result on the marriage is often unfortunate. The husband resents coming second, seeks consolationâor rather flattery and attentionâelsewhere, and a divorce results sooner or later. The best thing for a child, I am convinced, is to have what I should term healthy neglect on the part of both its parents. This happens naturally enough in the case of a large family of children and very little money. They are overlooked because the mother has literally no time to occupy herself with them. They realize quite well that she is fond of them, but they are not worried by too many manifestations of the fact.

âBut there is another aspect. One does occasionally find a husband and wife who are so all-sufficient to each other, so wrapped up in each other, that the child of the marriage hardly seems very real to either of them. And in those circumstances I think a child comes to resent that fact, to feel defrauded and left out in the cold. You understand that I am not speaking of neglect in any way. Mrs. Crale, for instance, was what is termed an excellent mother, always careful of Carlaâs welfare, of her healthâplaying with her at the right times and always kind and gay. But for all that, Mrs. Crale was really completely wrapped up in her husband. She existed, one might say, only in him and for him.â Miss Williams paused a minute and then said quietly: âThat, I think, is the justification for what she eventually did.â

Hercule Poirot said:

âYou mean that they were more like lovers than like husband and wife?â

Miss Williams, with a slight frown of distaste for foreign phraseology, said:

âYou could certainly put it that way.â

âHe was devoted to her as she was to him?â

âThey were a devoted couple. But he, of course, was a man.â

Miss Williams contrived to put into that last word a wholly Victorian significance.

âMenââ said Miss Williams, and stopped.

As a rich property owner says âBolsheviksââas an earnest Communist says âCapitalists!ââas a good housewife says âBlackbeetlesââso did Miss Williams say âMen!â

From her spinsterâs, governessâs life, there rose up a blast of fierce feminism. Nobody hearing her speak could doubt that to Miss Williams Men were the Enemy!

Poirot said: âYou hold no brief for men?â

She answered drily:

âMen have the best of this world. I hope that it will not always be so.â

Hercule Poirot eyed her speculatively. He could quite easily visualize Miss Williams methodically and efficiently padlocking herself to a railing, and later hunger striking with resolute endurance. Leaving the general for the particular, he said:

âYou did not like Amyas Crale?â

âI certainly did not like Mr. Crale. Nor did I approve of him. If I were his wife I should have left him. There are things that no woman should put up with.â

âBut Mrs. Crale did put up with them?â

âYes.â

âYou thought she was wrong?â

âYes, I do. A woman should have a certain respect for herself and not submit to humiliation.â

âDid you ever say anything of that kind to Mrs. Crale?â

âCertainly not. It was not my place to do so. I was engaged to educate Angela, not to offer unasked advice to Mrs. Crale. To do so would have been most impertinent.â

âYou liked Mrs. Crale?â

âI was very fond of Mrs. Crale.â The efficient voice softened, held warmth and feeling. âVery fond of her and very sorry for her.â

âAnd your pupilâAngela Warren?â

âShe was a most interesting girlâone of the most interesting pupils I have had. A really good brain. Undisciplined, quick-tempered, most difficult to manage in many ways, but really a very fine character.â

She paused and then went on:

âI always hoped that she would accomplish something worth while. And she has! You have read her bookâon the Sahara? And she excavated those very interesting tombs in the Fayum! Yes, I am proud of Angela. I was not at Alderbury very longâtwo years and a halfâbut I always cherish the belief that I helped to stimulate her mind and encourage her taste for archaeology.â

Poirot murmured: âI understand that it was decided to continue her education by sending her to school. You must have resented that decision.â

âNot at all, Mr. Poirot. I thoroughly concurred with it.â

She paused and went:

âLet me make the matter clear to you. Angela was a dear girlâreally a very dear girlâwarm-hearted and impulsiveâbut she was also what I call a difficult girl. That is, she was at a difficult age. There is always a moment where a girl feels unsure of herselfâneither child nor woman. At one minute Angela would be sensible and matureâquite grown up, in factâbut a minute later she would relapse into being a hoydenish childâplaying mischievous tricks and being rude and losing her temper. Girls, you know, feel difficult at that ageâthey are terribly sensitive. Everything that is said to them they resent. They are annoyed at being treated like a child and then they suddenly feel shy at being treated like adults. Angela was in that state. She had fits of temper, would suddenly resent teasing and flare outâand then she would be sulky for days at a time, sitting about and frowningâthen again she would be in wild spirits, climbing trees, rushing about with the garden boys, refusing to submit to any kind of authority.â

Miss Williams paused and went on:

âWhen a girl gets to that stage, school is very helpful. She needs the stimulation of other mindsâthat, and the wholesome discipline of a community, help her to become a reasonable member of society. Angelaâs home conditions were not what I would have called ideal. Mrs. Crale spoiled her, for one thing. Angela had only to appeal to her and Mrs. Crale always backed her up. The result was that Angela considered she had first claim upon her sisterâs time and attention, and it was in these moods of hers that she used to clash with Mr. Crale. Mr. Crale naturally thought that he should come firstâand intended to do so. He was really very fond of the girlâthey were good companions and used to spar together quite amiably, but there were times when Mr. Crale used suddenly to resent Mrs. Craleâs preoccupation with Angela. Like all men, he was a spoilt child; he expected everybody to make a fuss of him. Then he and Angela used to have a real set-toâand very often Mrs. Crale would take Angelaâs side. Then he would be furious. On the other hand, if she supported him, Angela would be furious. It was on these occasions that Angela used to revert to childish ways and play some spiteful trick on him. He had a habit of tossing off his drinks and she once put a lot of salt into his drink. The whole thing, of course, acted as an emetic, and he was inarticulate with fury. But what really brought things to a head was when she put a lot of slugs into his bed. He had a queer aversion for slugs. He lost his temper completely and said that the girl had got to be sent away to school. He wasnât going to put up with all this petty nonsense any more. Angela was terribly upsetâthough actually she had once or twice expressed a wish herself to go to a boarding schoolâbut she chose to make a huge grievance of it. Mrs. Crale didnât want her to go but allowed herself to be persuadedâlargely owing, I think, to what I said to her on the subject. I pointed out to her that it would be greatly to Angelaâs advantage, and that I thought it would really be a great benefit to the girl. So it was settled that she should go to Helstonâa very fine school on the south coastâin the autumn term. But Mrs. Crale was still unhappy about it all those holidays. And Angela kept up a grudge against Mr. Crale whenever she remembered. It wasnât really serious, you understand, Mr. Poirot, but it made a kind of undercurrent that summer toâwellâto everything else that was going on.â

Poirot said: âMeaningâElsa Greer?â

Miss Williams said sharply:

âExactly.â And shut her lips very tight after the word.

âWhat was your opinion of Elsa Greer?â

âI had no opinion of her at all. A thoroughly unprincipled young woman.â

âShe was very young.â

âOld enough to know better. I can see no excuse for herânone at all.â

âShe fell in love with him, I supposeââ

Miss Williams interrupted with a snort.

âFell in love with him indeed. I should hope, Mr. Poirot, that whatever our feelings, we can keep them in decent control. And we can certainly control our actions. That girl had absolutely no morals of any kind. It meant nothing to her that Mr. Crale was a married man. She was absolutely shameless about it allâcool and determined. Possibly she may have been badly brought upâbut thatâs the only excuse I can find for her.â

âMr. Craleâs death must have been a terrible shock to her.â

âOh, it was. And she herself was entirely to blame for it. I donât go as far as condoning murder, but all the same, Mr. Poirot, if ever a woman was driven to breaking point, that woman was Caroline Crale. I tell you frankly, there were moments when I would have liked to murder them both myself. Flaunting the girl in his wifeâs face, listening to her having to put up with the girlâs insolenceâand she was insolent, Mr. Poirot. Oh no, Amyas Crale deserved what he got. No man should treat his wife as he did and not be punished for it. His death was a just retribution.â

Hercule Poirot said: âYou feel stronglyâ¦.â

The small woman looked at him with those indomitable grey eyes. She said:

âI feel very strongly about the marriage tie. Unless it is respected and upheld, a country degenerates. Mrs. Crale was a devoted and faithful wife. Her husband deliberately flouted her and introduced his mistress into her home. As I say, he deserved what he got. He goaded her past endurance and I, for one, do not blame her for what she did.â

Poirot said slowly: âHe acted very badlyâthat I admitâbut he was a great artist, remember.â

Miss Williams gave a terrific snort.

âOh yes, I know. Thatâs always the excuse nowadays. An artist! An excuse for every kind of loose living, for drunkenness, for brawling, for infidelity. And what kind of an artist was Mr. Crale, when all is said and done? It may be the fashion to admire his pictures for a few years. But they wonât last. Why, he couldnât even draw! His perspective was terrible! Even his anatomy was quite incorrect. I know something of what I am talking about, Mr. Poirot. I studied painting for a time, as a girl, in Florence, and to anyone who knows and appreciates the great masters, these daubs of Mr. Craleâs are really ludicrous. Just splashing a few colours about on the canvasâno constructionâno careful drawing. No,â she shook her head, âdonât ask me to admire Mr. Craleâs painting.â

âTwo of them are in the Tate Gallery,â Poirot reminded her.

Miss Williams sniffed.

âPossibly. So is one of Mr. Epsteinâs statues, I believe.â

Poirot perceived that, according to Miss Williams, the last word had been said. He abandoned the subject of art.

He said:

âYou were with Mrs. Crale when she found the body?â

âYes. She and I went down from the house together after lunch. Angela had left her pullover on the beach after bathing, or else in the boat. She was always very careless about her things. I parted from Mrs. Crale at the door of the Battery garden, but she called me back almost at once. I believe Mr. Crale had been dead over an hour. He was sprawled on the bench near his easel.â

âWas she terribly upset at the discovery?â

âWhat exactly do you mean by that, Mr. Poirot?â

âI am asking you what your impressions were at the time.â

âOh, I see. Yes, she seemed to me quite dazed. She sent me off to telephone for the doctor. After all, we couldnât be absolutely sure he was deadâit might have been a cataleptic seizure.â

âDid she suggest such a possibility?â

âI donât remember.â

âAnd you went and telephoned?â

Miss Williamâs tone was dry and brusque.

âI had gone half up the path when I met Mr. Meredith Blake. I entrusted my errand to him and returned to Mrs. Crale. I thought, you see, she might have collapsedâand men are no good in a matter of that kind.â

âAnd had she collapsed?â

Miss Williams said drily:

âMrs. Crale was quite in command of herself. She was quite different from Miss Greer, who made a hysterical and very unpleasant scene.â

âWhat kind of a scene?â

âShe tried to attack Mrs. Crale.â

âYou mean she realized that Mrs. Crale was responsible for Mr. Craleâs death?â

Miss Williams considered for a moment or two.

âNo, she could hardly be sure of that. Thatâerâterrible suspicion had not yet arisen. Miss Greer just screamed out: âItâs all your doing, Caroline. You killed him. Itâs all your fault.â She did not actually say âYouâve poisoned him,â but I think there is no doubt that she thought so.â

âAnd Mrs. Crale?â

Miss Williams moved restlessly.

âMust we be hypocritical, Mr. Poirot? I cannot tell you what Mrs. Crale really felt or thought at that moment. Whether it was horror at what she had doneââ

âDid it seem like that?â

âN-no, n-no, I canât say it did. Stunned, yesâand, I think, frightened. Yes, I am sure, frightened. But that is natural enough.â

Hercule Poirot said in a dissatisfied tone:

âYes, perhaps that is natural enoughâ¦What view did she adopt officially as to her husbandâs death?â

âSuicide. She said, very definitely from the first, that it must be suicide.â

âDid she say the same when she was talking to you privately, or did she put forward any other theory.â

âNo. Sheâsheâtook pains to impress upon me that it must be suicide.â

Miss Williams sounded embarrassed.

âAnd what did you say to that?â

âReally, Mr. Poirot, does it matter what I said?â

âYes, I think it does.â

âI donât see whyââ

But as though his expectant silence hypnotized her, she said reluctantly:

âI think I said: âCertainly, Mrs. Crale. It must have been suicide.ââ

âDid you believe your own words?â

Miss Williams raised her head. She said firmly:

âNo, I did not. But please understand, Mr. Poirot, that I was entirely on Mrs. Craleâs side, if you like to put it that way. My sympathies were with her, not with the police.â

âYou would have liked to have seen her acquitted?â

Miss Williams said defiantly:

âYes, I would.â

Poirot said:

âThen you are in sympathy with her daughterâs feelings?â

âI have every sympathy with Carla.â

âWould you have any objection to writing out for me a detailed account of the tragedy?â

âYou mean for her to read?â

âYes.â

Miss Williams said slowly:

âNo, I have no objection. She is quite determined to go into the matter, is she?â

âYes. I dare say it would have been preferable if the truth had been kept from herââ

Miss Williams interrupted him:

âNo. It is always better to face the truth. It is no use evading unhappiness by tampering with facts. Carla has had a shock learning the truthânow she wants to know exactly how the tragedy came about. That seems to me the right attitude for a brave young woman to take. Once she knows all about it she will be able to forget it again and go on with the business of living her own life.â

âPerhaps you are right,â said Poirot.

âIâm quite sure Iâm right.â

âBut you see, there is more to it than that. She not only wants to knowâshe wants to prove her mother innocent.â

Miss Williams said: âPoor child.â

âThat is what you say, is it?â

Miss Williams said:

âI see now why you said that it might be better if she had never known. All the same, I think it is best as it is. To wish to find her mother innocent is a natural hopeâand hard though the actual revelation may be, I think from what you say of her that Carla is brave enough to learn the truth and not flinch from it.â

âYou are sure it is the truth?â

âI donât understand you?â

âYou see no loophole for believing that Mrs. Crale was innocent?â

âI donât think that possibility has ever been seriously considered.â

âAnd yet she herself clung to the theory of suicide?â

Miss Williams said drily:

âThe poor woman had to say something.â

âDo you know that when Mrs. Crale was dying she left a letter for her daughter in which she solemnly swears that she is innocent?â

Miss Williams stared.

âThat was very wrong of her,â she said sharply.

âYou think so?â

âYes, I do. Oh, I dare say you are a sentimentalist like most menââ

Poirot interrupted indignantly:

âI am not a sentimentalist.â

âBut there is such a thing as false sentiment. Why write that, a lie, at such a solemn moment? To spare your child pain? Yes, many women would do that. But I should not have thought it of Mrs. Crale. She was a brave woman and a truthful woman. I should have thought it far more like her to have told her daughter not to judge.â

Poirot said with slight exasperation:

âYou will not even consider then the possibility that what Caroline Crale wrote was the truth?â

âCertainly not!â

âAnd yet you profess to have loved her?â

âI did love her. I had a great affection and deep sympathy for her.â

âWell, thenââ

Miss Williams looked at him in a very odd way.

âYou donât understand, Mr. Poirot. It doesnât matter my saying this nowâso long afterwards. You see, I happen to know that Caroline Crale was guilty!â

âWhat?â

âItâs true. Whether I did right in withholding what I knew at the time I cannot be sureâbut I did withhold it. But you must take it from me, quite definitely, that I know Caroline Crale was guiltyâ¦.â

Ten

THIS LITTLE PIG CRIED âWEE WEE WEEâ

Angela Warrenâs flat overlooked Regentâs Park. Here, on this spring day, a soft air wafted in through the open window and one might have had the illusion that one was in the country if it had not been for the steady menacing roar of the traffic passing below.

Poirot turned from the window as the door opened and Angela Warren came into the room.

It was not the first time he had seen her. He had availed himself of the opportunity to attend a lecture she had given at the Royal Geographical. It had been, he considered, an excellent lecture. Dry, perhaps, from the view of popular appeal. Miss Warren had an excellent delivery, she neither paused nor hesitated for a word. She did not repeat herself. The tones of her voice were clear and not unmelodious. She made no concessions to romantic appeal or love of adventure. There was very little human interest in the lecture. It was an admirable recital of concise facts, adequately illustrated by excellent slides, and with intelligent deductions from the facts recited. Dry, precise, clear, lucid, highly technical.

The soul of Hercule Poirot approved. Here, he considered, was an orderly mind.

Now that he saw her at close quarters he realized that Angela Warren might easily have been a very handsome woman. Her features were regular, though severe. She had finely marked dark brows, clear intelligent brown eyes, a fine pale skin. She had very square shoulders and a slightly mannish walk.

There was certainly about her no suggestion of the little pig who cries âWee Wee.â But on the right cheek, disfiguring and puckering the skin, was that healed scar. The right eye was slightly distorted, the corner pulled downwards by it but no one would have realized that the sight of that eye was destroyed. It seemed to Hercule Poirot almost certain that she had lived with her disability so long that she was now completely unconscious of it. And it occurred to him that of the five people in whom he had become interested as a result of his investigations, those who might have been said to start with the fullest advantages were not those who had actually wrested the most success and happiness from life. Elsa, who might have been said to start with all advantagesâyouth, beauty, richesâhad done worst. She was like a flower overtaken by untimely frostâstill in budâbut without life. Cecilia Williams, to outward appearances, had no assets of which to boast. Nevertheless, to Poirotâs eye, there was no despondency there and no sense of failure. Miss Williamsâs life had been interesting to herâshe was still interested in people and events. She had that enormous mental and moral advantage of a strict Victorian upbringing denied to us in these daysâshe had done her duty in that station of life to which it had pleased God to call her, and that assurance encased her in an armour impregnable to the slings and darts of envy, discontent and regret. She had her memories, her small pleasures, made possible by stringent economies, and sufficient health and vigour to enable her still to be interested in life.

Now, in Angela Warrenâthat young creature handicapped by disfigurement and its consequent humiliation, Poirot believed he saw a spirit strengthened by its necessary fight for confidence and assurance. The undisciplined schoolgirl had given place to a vital and forceful woman, a woman of considerable mental power and gifted with abundant energy to accomplish ambitious purposes. She was a woman, Poirot felt sure, both happy and successful. Her life was full and vivid and eminently enjoyable.

She was not, incidentally, the type of woman that Poirot really liked. Though admiring the clear-cut precision of her mind, she had just a sufficient nuance of the femme formidable about her to alarm him as a mere man. His taste had always been for the flamboyant and extravagant.

With Angela Warren it was easy to come to the point of his visit. There was no subterfuge. He merely recounted Carla Lemarchantâs interview with him.

Angela Warrenâs severe face lighted up appreciatively.

âLittle Carla? She is over here? I would like to see her so much.â

âYou have not kept in touch with her?â

âHardly as much as I should have done. I was a schoolgirl at the time she went to Canada, and I realized, of course, that in a year or two she would have forgotten us. Of late years, an occasional present at Christmas has been the only link between us. I imagined that she would, by now, be completely immersed in the Canadian atmosphere and that her future would lie over there. Better so, in the circumstances.â

Poirot said: âOne might think so, certainly. A change of nameâa change of scene. A new life. But it was not to be so easy as that.â

And he then told of Carlaâs engagement, the discovery she had made upon coming of age and her motives in coming to England.

Angela Warren listened quietly, her disfigured cheek resting on one hand. She betrayed no emotion during the recital, but as Poirot finished, she said quietly:

âGood for Carla.â

Poirot was startled. It was the first time that he had met with this reaction. He said:

âYou approve, Miss Warren?â

âCertainly. I wish her every success. Anything I can do to help, I will. I feel guilty, you know, that I havenât attempted anything myself.â

âThen you think that there is a possibility that she is right in her views.â

Angela Warren said sharply:

âOf course sheâs right. Caroline didnât do it. Iâve always known that.â

Hercule Poirot murmured:

âYou surprise me very much indeed, mademoiselle. Everybody else I have spoken toââ

She cut in sharply:

âYou mustnât go by that. Iâve no doubt that the circumstantial evidence is overwhelming. My own conviction is based on knowledgeâknowledge of my sister. I just know quite simply and definitely that Caro couldnât have killed anyone.â

âCan one say that with certainty of any human creature?â

âProbably not in most cases. I agree that the human animal is full of curious surprises. But in Carolineâs case there were special reasonsâreasons which I have a better chance of appreciating than anyone else could.â

She touched her damaged cheek.

âYou see this? Youâve probably heard about it?â Poirot nodded. âCaroline did that. Thatâs why Iâm sureâI knowâthat she didnât do murder.â

âIt would not be a convincing argument to most people.â

âNo, it would be the opposite. It was actually used in that way, I believe. As evidence that Caroline had a violent and ungovernable temper! Because she had injured me as a baby, learned men argued that she would be equally capable of poisoning an unfaithful husband.â

Poirot said:

âI, at least, appreciated the difference. A sudden fit of ungovernable rage does not lead you to first abstract a poison and then use it deliberately on the following day.â

Angela Warren waved an impatient hand.

âThatâs not what I mean at all. I must try and make it plain to you. Supposing that you are a person normally affectionate and of kindly dispositionâbut that you are also liable to intense jealousy. And supposing that during the years of your life when control is most difficult, you do, in a fit of rage, come near to committing what is, in effect, murder. Think of the awful shock, the horror, the remorse that seizes upon you. To a sensitive person, like Caroline, that horror and remorse will never quite leave you. It never left her. I donât suppose I was consciously aware of it at the time, but looking back I recognize it perfectly. Caro was haunted, continually haunted, by the fact that she had injured me. That knowledge never left her in peace. It coloured all her actions. It explained her attitude to me. Nothing was too good for me. In her eyes, I must always come first. Half the quarrels she had with Amyas were on my account. I was inclined to be jealous of him and played all kinds of tricks on him. I pinched cat stuff to put in his drink, and once I put a hedgehog in his bed. But Caroline was always on my side.â

Miss Warren paused, then she went on:

âIt was very bad for me, of course. I got horribly spoilt. But thatâs neither here nor there. Weâre discussing the effect on Caroline. The result of that impulse to violence was a life-long abhorrence of any further act of the same kind. Caro was always watching herself, always in fear that something of that kind might happen again. And she took her own ways of guarding against it. One of these ways was a great extravagance of language. She felt (and I think, psychologically quite truly) that if she were violent enough in speech she would have no temptation to violence in action. She found by experience that the method worked. Thatâs why Iâve heard Caro say things like âIâd like to cut so and so in pieces and boil him slowly in oil.â And sheâd say to me, or to Amyas, âIf you go on annoying me I shall murder you.â In the same way she quarrelled easily and violently. She recognized, I think, the impulse to violence that there was in her nature, and she deliberately gave it an outlet that way. She and Amyas used to have the most fantastic and lurid quarrels.â

Hercule Poirot nodded.

âYes, there was evidence of that. They quarrelled like cat and dog, it was said.â

Angela Warren said:

âExactly. Thatâs what is so stupid and misleading about evidence. Of course Caro and Amyas quarrelled! Of course they said bitter and outrageous and cruel things to each other! What nobody appreciates is that they enjoyed quarrelling. But they did! Amyas enjoyed it too. They were that kind of couple. They both of them liked drama and emotional scenes. Most men donât. They like peace. But Amyas was an artist. He liked shouting and threatening and generally being outrageous. It was like letting off steam to him. He was the kind of man who when he loses his collar stud bellows the house down. It sounds very odd, I know, but living that way with continual rows and makingsup was Amyasâs and Carolineâs idea of fun!â

She made an impatient gesture.

âIf theyâd only not hustled me away and let me give evidence, Iâd have told them that.â Then she shrugged her shoulders. âBut I donât suppose they would have believed me. And anyway then it wouldnât have been as clear in my mind as it is now. It was the kind of thing I knew but hadnât thought about and certainly had never dreamed of putting into words.â

She looked across at Poirot.

âYou do see what I mean?â

He nodded vigorously.

âI see perfectlyâand I realize the absolute rightness of what you have said. There are people to whom agreement is monotony. They require the stimulant of dissension to create drama in their lives.â

âExactly.â

âMay I ask you, Miss Warren, what were your own feelings at the time?â

Angela Warren sighed.

âMostly bewilderment and helplessness, I think. It seemed a fantastic nightmare. Caroline was arrested very soonâabout three days afterwards, I think. I can still remember my indignation, my dumb furyâand, of course, my childish faith that it was just a silly mistake, that it would be all right. Caro was chiefly perturbed about meâshe wanted me kept right away from it all as far as possible. She got Miss Williams to take me away to some relations almost at once. The police had no objection. And then, when it was decided that my evidence would not be needed, arrangements were made for me to go to school abroad.

âI hated going, of course. But it was explained to me that Caro had me terribly on her mind and that the only way I could help her was by going.â

She paused. Then she said:

âSo I went to Munich. I was there whenâwhen the verdict was given. They never let me go to see Caro. Caro wouldnât have it. Thatâs the only time, I think, when she failed in understanding.â

âYou cannot be sure of that, Miss Warren. To visit someone dearly loved in a prison might make a terrible impression on a young sensitive girl.â

âPossibly.â

Angela Warren got up. She said:

âAfter the verdict, when she had been condemned, my sister wrote me a letter. I have never shown it to anyone. I think I ought to show it to you now. It may help you to understand the kind of person Caroline was. If you like you may take it to show to Carla also.â

She went to the door, then turning back she said:

âCome with me. There is a portrait of Caroline in my room.â

For a second time, Poirot stood gazing up at a portrait.

As a painting, Caroline Craleâs portrait was mediocre. But Poirot looked at it with interestâit was not its artistic value that interested him.

He saw a long oval face, a gracious line of jaw and a sweet, slightly timid expression. It was a face uncertain of itself, emotional, with a withdrawn hidden beauty. It lacked the forcefulness and vitality of her daughterâs faceâthat energy and joy of life Carla Lemarchant had doubtless inherited from her father. This was a less positive creature. Yet, looking at the painted face, Hercule Poirot understood why an imaginative man like Quentin Fogg had not been able to forget her.

Angela Warren stood at his side againâa letter in her hand.

She said quietly:

âNow that you have seen what she was likeâread her letter.â

He unfolded it carefully and read what Caroline Crale had written sixteen years ago.

My darling little Angela,

You will hear bad news and you will grieve, but what I want to impress upon you is that it is all all right. I have never told you lies and I donât now when I say that I am actually happyâthat I feel an essential rightness and a peace that I have never known before. Itâs all right, darling, itâs all right. Donât look back and regret and grieve for meâgo on with your life and succeed. You can, I know. Itâs all, all right, darling, and Iâm going to Amyas. I havenât the least doubt that we shall be together. I couldnât have lived without himâ¦Do this one thing for meâbe happy. Iâve told youâIâm happy. One has to pay oneâs debts. Itâs lovely to feel peaceful.

Your loving sister,
Caro

Hercule Poirot read it through twice. Then he handed it back. He said:

âThat is a very beautiful letter, mademoiselleâand a very remarkable one. A very remarkable one.â

âCaroline,â said Angela Warren, âwas a very remarkable person.â

âYes, an unusual mindâ¦You take it that this letter indicates innocence?â

âOf course it does!â

âIt does not say so explicitly.â

âBecause Caro would know that Iâd never dream of her being guilty!â

âPerhapsâperhapsâ¦But it might be taken another way. In the sense that she was guilty and that in expiating her crime she will find peace.â

It fitted in, he thought, with the description of her in court. And he experienced in this moment the strongest doubts he had yet felt of the course to which he had committed himself. Everything so far had pointed unswervingly to Caroline Craleâs guilt. Now, even her own words testified against her.

On the other side was only the unshaken conviction of Angela Warren. Angela had known her well, undoubtedly, but might not her certainty be the fanatical loyalty of an adolescent girl, up in arms for a dearly loved sister?

As though she had read his thoughts Angela Warren said:

âNo, Mr. PoirotâI know Caroline wasnât guilty.â

Poirot said briskly:

âThe Bon Dieu knows I do not want to shake you on that point. But let us be practical. You say your sister was not guilty. Very well, then, what really happened?â

Angela nodded thoughtfully. She said:

âThat is difficult, I agree. I suppose that, as Caroline said, Amyas committed suicide.â

âIs that likely from what you know of his character?â

âVery unlikely.â

âBut you do not say, as in the first case, that you know it is impossible?â

âNo, because, as I said just now, most people do do impossible thingsâthat is to say things that seem out of character. But I presume, if you know them intimately, it wouldnât be out of character.â

âYou knew your brother-in-law well?â

âYes, but not like I knew Caro. It seems to me quite fantastic that Amyas should have killed himselfâbut I suppose he could have done so. In fact, he must have done so.â

âYou cannot see any other explanation?â

Angela accepted the suggestion calmly, but not without a certain stirring of interest.

âOh, I see what you meanâ¦Iâve never really considered that possibility. You mean one of the other people killed him? That it was a deliberate cold-blooded murderâ¦.â

âIt might have been, might it not?â

âYes, it might have beenâ¦But it certainly seems very unlikely.â

âMore unlikely than suicide?â

âThatâs difficult to sayâ¦On the face of it, there was no reason for suspecting anybody else. There isnât now when I look backâ¦.â

âAll the same, let us consider the possibility. Who of those intimately concerned would you say wasâshall we sayâthe most likely person?â

âLet me think. Well, I didnât kill him. And the Elsa creature certainly didnât. She was mad with rage when he died. Who else was there? Meredith Blake? He was always very devoted to Caroline, quite a tame cat about the house. I suppose that might give him a motive in a way. In a book he might have wanted to get Amyas out of the way so that he himself could marry Caroline. But he could have achieved that just as well by letting Amyas go off with Elsa and then in due time consoling Caroline. Besides I really canât see Meredith as a murderer. Too mild and too cautious. Who else was there?â

Poirot suggested: âMiss Williams? Philip Blake?â

Angelaâs grave face relaxed into a smile for a minute.

âMiss Williams? One canât really make oneself believe that oneâs governess could commit a murder! Miss Williams was always so unyielding and so full of rectitude.â

She paused a minute and then went on:

âShe was devoted to Caroline, of course. Would have done anything for her. And she hated Amyas. She was a great feminist and disliked men. Is that enough for murder? Surely not.â

âIt would hardly seem so,â agreed Poirot.

Angela went on:

âPhilip Blake?â She was silent for some few moments. Then she said quietly: âI think, you know, if weâre just talking of likelihoods, heâs the most likely person.â

Poirot said:

âYou interest me very much, Miss Warren. May I ask why you say that?â

âNothing at all definite. But from what I remember of him, I should say he was a person of rather limited imagination.â

âAnd a limited imagination predisposes you to murder?â

âIt might lead you to take a crude way of settling your difficulties. Men of that type get a certain satisfaction from action of some kind or other. Murder is a very crude business, donât you think so?â

âYesâI think you are rightâ¦It is definitely a point of view, that. But all the same, Miss Warren, there must be more to it than that. What motive could Philip Blake possibly have had?â

Angela Warren did not answer at once. She stood frowning down at the floor.

Hercule Poirot said:

âHe was Amyas Craleâs best friend, was he not?â

She nodded.

âBut there is something in your mind, Miss Warren. Something that you have not yet told me. Were the two men rivals, perhaps, over the girlâover Elsa?â

Angela Warren shook her head.

âOh, no, not Philip.â

âWhat is there then?â

Angela Warren said slowly:

âDo you know the way that things suddenly come back to youâafter years perhaps. Iâll explain what I mean. Somebody told me a story once, when I was eleven. I saw no point in that story whatsoever. It didnât worry meâit just passed straight over my head. I donât believe I ever, as they say, thought of it again. But about two years ago, sitting in the stalls at a revue, that story came back to me, and I was so surprised that I actually said aloud, âOh, now I see the point of that silly story about the rice pudding.â And yet there had been no direct allusion on the same linesâonly some fun sailing rather near the wind.â

Poirot said: âI understand what you mean, mademoiselle.â

âThen you will understand what I am going to tell you. I was once staying at a hotel. As I walked along a passage, one of the bedroom doors opened and a woman I knew came out. It was not her bedroomâand she registered the fact plainly on her face when she saw me.

âAnd I knew then the meaning of the expression I had once seen on Carolineâs face when at Alderbury she came out of Philip Blakeâs room one night.â

She leant forward, stopping Poirotâs words.

âI had no idea at the time, you understand. I knew thingsâgirls of the age I was usually doâbut I didnât connect them with reality. Caroline coming out of Philip Blakeâs bedroom was just Caroline coming out of Philip Blakeâs bedroom to me. It might have been Miss Williamâs room or my room. But what I did notice was the expression on her faceâa queer expression that I didnât know and couldnât understand. I didnât understand it until, as I have told you, the night in Paris when I saw that same expression on another womanâs face.â

Poirot said slowly:

âBut what you tell me, Miss Warren, is sufficiently astonishing. From Philip Blake himself I got the impression that he disliked your sister and always had done so.â

Angela said:

âI know. I canât explain it but there it is.â

Poirot nodded slowly. Already, in his interview with Philip Blake, he had felt vaguely that something did not ring true. That overdone animosity against Carolineâit had not, somehow, been natural.

And the words and phrases from his conversation with Meredith Blake came back to him. âVery upset when Amyas marriedâdid not go near them for over a yearâ¦.â

Had Philip, then, always been in love with Caroline? And had his love, when she chose Amyas, turned to bitterness and hate?

Yes, Philip had been too vehementâtoo biased. Poirot visualized him thoughtfullyâthe cheerful prosperous man with his golf and his comfortable house. What had Philip Blake really felt sixteen years ago.

Angela Warren was speaking.

âI donât understand it. You see, Iâve no experience in love affairsâthey havenât come my way. Iâve told you this for what itâs worth in caseâin case it might have a bearing on what happened.â

BOOK TWO

Narrative of Philip Blake

(Covering letter received with manuscript)

Dear Mr. Poirot,

I am fulfilling my promise and herewith find enclosed an account of the events relating to the death of Amyas Crale. After such a lapse of time I am bound to point out that my memories may not be strictly accurate, but I have put down what occurred to the best of my recollection.

Yours truly,
Philip Blake

Notes on Progress of Events Leading up to Murder of Amyas Crale on Sept., 19â¦.

My friendship with deceased dates back to a very early period. His home and mine were next door to each other in the country, and our families were friends. Amyas Crale was a little over two years older than I was. We played together as boys, in the holidays, though we were not at the same school.

From the point of view of my long knowledge of the man I feel myself particularly qualified to testify as to his character and general outlook on life. And I will say this straight awayâto anyone who knew Amyas Crale wellâthe notion of his committing suicide is quite ridiculous. Crale would never have taken his own life. He was far too fond of living! The contention of the defence at the trial that Crale was obsessed by conscience, and took poison in a fit of remorse, is utterly absurd to anyone who knew the man. Crale, I should say, had very little conscience, and certainly not a morbid one. Moreover, he and his wife were on bad terms, and I donât think he would have had any scruples about breaking up what was, to him, a very unsatisfactory married life. He was prepared to look after her financial welfare and that of the child of the marriage, and I am sure would have done so generously. He was a very generous manâand altogether a warm-hearted and lovable person. Not only was he a great painter, but he was a man whose friends were devoted to him. As far as I know he had no enemies.

I had also known Caroline Crale for many years. I knew her before her marriage, when she used to come and stay at Alderbury. She was then a somewhat neurotic girl, subject to uncontrollable outbursts of temper, not without attraction, but unquestionably a difficult person to live with.

She showed her devotion to Amyas almost immediately. He, I do not think, was really very much in love with her. But they were frequently thrown togetherâshe was, as I say, attractive, and they eventually became engaged. Amyas Craleâs best friends were rather apprehensive about the marriage, as they felt that Caroline was quite unsuited to him.

This caused a certain amount of strain in the first few years between Craleâs wife and Craleâs friends, but Amyas was a loyal friend and was not disposed to give up his old friends at the bidding of his wife. After a few years, he and I were on the same old terms and I was a frequent visitor at Alderbury. I may add that I stood godfather to the little girl, Carla. This proves, I think, that Amyas considered me his best friend, and it gives me authority to speak for a man who can no longer speak for himself.

To come to the actual events of which I have been asked to write, I arrived down at Alderbury (so I see by an old diary) five days before the crime. That is, on Sept. 13th. I was conscious at once of a certain tension in the atmosphere. There was also staying in the house Miss Elsa Greer whom Amyas was painting at the time.

It was the first time I had seen Miss Greer in the flesh, but I had been aware of her existence for some time. Amyas had raved about her to me a month previously. He had met, he said, a marvellous girl. He talked about her so enthusiastically that I said to him jokingly: âBe careful, old boy, or youâll be losing your head again.â He told me not to be a bloody fool. He was painting the girl; heâd no personal interest in her. I said: âTell that to the marines! Iâve heard you say that before.â He said: âThis time itâs different;â to which I answered somewhat cynically: âIt always is!â Amyas then looked quite worried and anxious. He said: âYou donât understand. Sheâs just a girl. Not much more than a child.â He added that she had very modern views and was absolutely free from old-fashioned prejudices. He said: âSheâs honest and natural and absolutely fearless!â

I thought to myself, though I didnât say so, that Amyas had certainly got it badly this time. A few weeks later I heard comments from other people. It was said that the âGreer girl was absolutely infatuated.â Somebody else said that it was a bit thick of Amyas considering how young the girl was, whereupon somebody else sniggered and said that Elsa Greer knew her way about all right. Further remarks were that the girl was rolling in money and had always got everything she wanted, and also that âshe was the one who was making most of the running.â There was a question as to what Craleâs wife thought about itâand the significant reply that she must be used to that sort of thing by now, to which someone demurred by saying theyâd heard that she was jealous as hell and led Crale such an impossible life that any man would be justified in having a fling from time to time.

I mention all this because I think it is important that the state of affairs before I got down there should be fully realized.

I was interested to see the girlâshe was remarkably good-looking and very attractiveâand I was, I must admit, maliciously amused to note that Caroline was cutting up very rough indeed.

Amyas Crale himself was less light-hearted than usual. Though to anyone who did not know him well, his manner would have appeared much as usual, I who knew him so intimately noted at once various signs of strain, uncertain temper, fits of moody abstraction, general irritability of manner.

Although he was always inclined to be moody when painting, the picture he was at work upon did not account entirely for the strain he showed. He was pleased to see me and said as soon as we were alone: âThank goodness youâve turned up, Phil. Living in a house with four women is enough to send any man clean off his chump. Between them all theyâll send me into a lunatic asylum.â

It was certainly an uncomfortable atmosphere. Caroline, as I said, was obviously cutting up rough about the whole thing. In a polite, well-bred way, she was ruder to Elsa than one would believe possibleâwithout a single actually offensive word. Elsa herself was openly and flagrantly rude to Caroline. She was top dog and she knew itâand no scruples of good breeding restrained her from overt bad manners. The result was that Crale spent most of his time scrapping with the girl Angela when he wasnât painting. They were usually on affectionate terms, though they teased and fought a good deal. But on this occasion there was an edge in everything Amyas said or did, and the two of them really lost their tempers with each other. The fourth member of the party was the governess. âA sour-faced hag,â Amyas called her. âShe hates me like poison. Sits there with her lips set together, disapproving of me without stopping.â

It was then that he said:

âGod damn all women! If a man is to have any peace he must steer clear of women!â

âYou oughtnât to have married,â I said. âYouâre the sort of man who ought to have kept clear of domestic ties.â

He replied that it was too late to talk about that now. He added that no doubt Caroline would be only too glad to get rid of him. That was the first indication I had that something unusual was in the wind.

I said: âWhatâs all this? Is this business with the lovely Elsa serious then?â He said with a sort of groan:

âShe is lovely, isnât she? Sometimes I wish Iâd never seen her.â

I said: âLook here, old boy, you must take a hold on yourself. You donât want to get tied up with any more women.â He looked at me and laughed. He said: âItâs all very well for you to talk. I canât let women aloneâsimply canât do itâand if I could, they wouldnât let me alone!â Then he shrugged those great shoulders of his, grinned at me and said: âOh well, it will all pan out in the end, I expect. And you must admit the picture is good?â

He was referring to the portrait he was doing of Elsa, and although I had very little technical knowledge of painting, even I could see that it was going to be a work of especial power.

Whilst he was painting, Amyas was a different man. Although he would growl, groan, frown, swear extravagantly, and sometimes hurl his brushes away, he was really intensely happy.

It was only when he came back to the house for meals that the hostile atmosphere between the women got him down. That hostility came to a head on Sept. 17th. We had had an embarrassing lunch. Elsa had been particularlyâreally, I think insolent is the only word for it! She had ignored Caroline pointedly, persistently addressing the conversation to Amyas as though he and she were alone in the room. Caroline had talked lightly and gaily to the rest of us, cleverly contriving so that several perfectly innocent-sounding remarks should have a sting. She hadnât got Elsa Greerâs scornful honestyâwith Caroline every thing was oblique, suggested rather than said.

Things came to a head after lunch in the drawing room just as we were finishing coffee. I had commented on a carved head in highly polished beechwoodâa very curious thing, and Caroline said: âThat is the work of a young Norwegian sculptor. Amyas and I admire his work very much. We hope to go and see him next summer.â That calm assumption of possession was too much for Elsa. She was never one to let a challenge pass. She waited a minute or two and then she spoke in her clear, rather overemphasized voice. She said: âThis would be a lovely room if it was properly fixed. Itâs got far too much furniture in it. When Iâm living here I shall take all the rubbish out and just leave one or two good pieces. And I shall have copper-coloured curtains, I thinkâso that the setting sun will just catch them through that big western window.â She turned to me and said. âDonât you think that would be rather lovely?â

I didnât have time to answer. Caroline spoke, and her voice was soft and silky and what I can only describe as dangerous. She said:

âAre you thinking of buying this place, Elsa?â

Elsa said: âIt wonât be necessary for me to buy it.â

Caroline said: âWhat do you mean?â And there was no softness in her voice now. It was hard and metallic. Elsa laughed. She said: âMust we pretend? Come now, Caroline, you know very well what I mean!â

Caroline said: âIâve no idea.â

Elsa said to that: âDonât be such an ostrich. Itâs no good pretending you donât see and know all about it. Amyas and I care for each other. This isnât your home. Itâs his. And after weâre married I shall live here with him!â

Caroline said: âI think youâre crazy.â

Elsa said: âOh no, Iâm not, my dear, and you know it. It would be much simpler if we were honest with each other. Amyas and I love each otherâyouâve seen that clearly enough. Thereâs only one decent thing for you to do. Youâve got to give him his freedom.â

Caroline said: âI donât believe a word of what you are saying.â

But her voice was unconvincing. Elsa had got under her guard all right.

And at that minute Amyas Crale came into the room and Elsa said with a laugh:

âIf you donât believe me, ask him.â

And Caroline said: âI will.â

She didnât pause at all. She said:

âAmyas, Elsa says you want to marry her. Is this true?â

Poor Amyas. I felt sorry for him. It makes a man feel a fool to have a scene of that kind forced upon him. He went crimson and started blustering. He turned on Elsa and asked her why the devil she couldnât have held her tongue?

Caroline said: âThen it is true?â

He didnât say anything, just stood there passing his finger round inside the neck of his shirt. He used to do that as a kid when he got into a jam of any kind. He saidâand he tried to make the words sound dignified and authoritativeâand of course couldnât manage it, poor devil:

âI donât want to discuss it.â

Caroline said: âBut weâre going to discuss it!â

Elsa chipped in and said:

âI think itâs only fair to Caroline that she should be told.â

Caroline said, very quietly:

âIs it true, Amyas?â

He looked a bit ashamed of himself. Men do when women pin them down in a corner.

She said:

âAnswer me, please. Iâve got to know.â

He flung up his head thenârather the way a bull does in the bullring. He snapped out:

âItâs true enoughâbut I donât want to discuss it now.â

And he turned and strode out of the room. I went after him. I didnât want to be left with the women. I caught up with him on the terrace. He was swearing. I never knew a man swear more heartily. Then he raved:

âWhy couldnât she hold her tongue? Why the devil couldnât she hold her tongue? Now the fatâs in the fire. And Iâve got to finish that pictureâdo you hear, Phil? Itâs the best thing Iâve done. The best thing Iâve ever done in my life. And a couple of damnâ fool women want to muck it up between them!â

Then he calmed down a little and said women had no sense of proportion.

I couldnât help smiling a little. I said:

âWell, dash it all, old boy, you have brought this on yourself.â

âDonât I know it,â he said, and groaned. Then he added: âBut you must admit, Phil, that a man couldnât be blamed for losing his head about her. Even Caroline ought to understand that.â

I asked him what would happen if Caroline got her back up and refused to give him a divorce.

But by now he had gone off into a fit of abstraction. I repeated the remark and he said absently:

âCaroline would never be vindictive. You donât understand, old boy.â

âThereâs the child,â I pointed out.

He took me by the arm.

âPhil, old boy, you mean wellâbut donât go on croaking like a raven. I can manage my affairs. Everything will turn out all right. Youâll see if it doesnât.â

That was Amyas all overâan absolutely unjustified optimist. He said now, cheerfully:

âTo hell with the whole pack of them!â

I donât know whether we would have said anything more, but a few minutes later Caroline swept out on the terrace. Sheâd got a hat on, a queer, flopping, dark-brown hat, rather attractive.

She said in an absolutely ordinary, everyday voice:

âTake off that paint-stained coat, Amyas. Weâre going over to Meredithâs to teaâdonât you remember?â

He stared, stammered a bit as he said:

âOh, Iâd forgotten. Yes, of c-c-course we are.â

She said:

âThen go and try and make yourself look less like a rag-and-bone man.â

Although her voice was quite natural, she didnât look at him. She moved over towards a bed of dahlias and began picking off some of the overblown flowers.

Amyas turned round slowly and went into the house.

Caroline talked to me. She talked a good deal. About the chances of the weather lasting. And whether there might be mackerel about, and if so Amyas and Angela and I might like to go fishing. She was really amazing. Iâve got to hand it to her.

But I think, myself, that that showed the sort of woman she was. She had enormous strength of will and complete command over herself. I donât know whether sheâd made up her mind to kill him thenâbut I shouldnât be surprised. And she was capable of making her plans carefully and unemotionally, with an absolutely clear and ruthless mind.

Caroline Crale was a very dangerous woman. I ought to have realized then that she wasnât prepared to take this thing lying down. But like a fool I thought that she had made up her mind to accept the inevitableâor else possibly she thought that if she carried on exactly as usual Amyas might change his mind.

Presently the others came out. Elsa looking defiantâbut at the same time triumphant. Caroline took no notice of her. Angela really saved the situation. She came out arguing with Miss Williams that she wasnât going to change her skirt for anyone. It was quite all rightâgood enough for darling old Meredith anywayâhe never noticed anything.

We got off at last. Caroline walked with Angela. And I walked with Amyas. And Elsa walked by herselfâsmiling.

I didnât admire her myselfâtoo violent a typeâbut I have to admit that she looked incredibly beautiful that afternoon. Women do when theyâve got what they want.

I canât remember the events of that afternoon clearly at all. Itâs all blurred. I remember old Merry coming out to meet us. I think we walked round the garden first. I remember having a long discussion with Angela about the training of terriers for ratting. She ate an incredible lot of apples, and tried to persuade me to do so too.

When we got back to the house, tea was going on under the big cedar tree. Merry, I remember, was looking very upset. I suppose either Caroline or Amyas had told him something. He was looking doubtfully at Caroline, and then he stared at Elsa. The old boy looked thoroughly worried. Of course Caroline liked to have Meredith on a string more or less, the devoted, platonic friend who would never, never go too far. She was that kind of woman.

After tea Meredith had a hurried word with me. He said:

âLook here, Phil, Amyas canât do this thing!â

I said:

âMake no mistake, heâs going to do it.â

âHe canât leave his wife and child and go off with this girl. Heâs years older than she is. She canât be more than eighteen.â

I said to him that Miss Greer was a fully sophisticated twenty.

He said: âAnyway, thatâs under age. She canât know what sheâs doing.â

Poor old Meredith. Always the chivalrous pukka sahib. I said:

âDonât worry, old boy. She knows what sheâs doing, and she likes it!â

Thatâs all we had the chance of saying. I thought to myself that probably Merry felt disturbed at the thought of Caroline being a deserted wife. Once the divorce was through she might expect her faithful Dobbin to marry her. I had an idea that hopeless devotion was really far more in his line. I must confess that that side of it amused me.

Curiously enough I remember very little about our visit to Meredithâs stink room. He enjoyed showing people his hobby. Personally I always found it very boring. I suppose I was in there with the rest of them when he gave a dissertation on the efficacy of coniine, but I donât remember it. And I didnât see Caroline pinch the stuff. As Iâve said, she was a very adroit woman. I do remember Meredith reading aloud the passage from Plato describing Socratesâ death. Very boring I thought it. Classics always did bore me.

Thereâs nothing much more I can remember about that day. Amyas and Angela had a first-class row, I know, and the rest of us rather welcomed it. It avoided other difficulties. Angela rushed off to bed with a final vituperative outburst. She said A, sheâd pay him out. B, she wished he were dead. C, she hoped heâd die of leprosy, it would serve him right. D, she wished a sausage would stick to his nose, like in the fairy story, and never come off. When sheâd gone we all laughed, we couldnât help it, it was such a funny mixture.

Caroline went up to bed immediately afterwards. Miss Williams disappeared after her pupil. Amyas and Elsa went off together into the garden. It was clear that I wasnât wanted. I went for a stroll by myself. It was a lovely night.

I came down late the following morning. There was no one in the dining room. Funny the things you do remember. I remember the taste of the kidneys and bacon I ate quite well. They were very good kidneys. Devilled.

Afterwards I wandered out looking for everybody. I went outside, didnât see anybody, smoked a cigarette, encountered Miss Williams running about looking for Angela, who had played truant as usual when she ought to have been mending a torn frock. I went back into the hall and realized that Amyas and Caroline were having a set-to in the library. They were talking very loud. I heard her say:

âYou and your women! Iâd like to kill you. Some day I will kill you.â Amyas said: âDonât be a fool, Caroline.â And she said: âI mean it, Amyas.â

Well, I didnât want to overhear any more. I went out again. I wandered along the terrace the other way and came across Elsa.

She was sitting on one of the long seats. The seat was directly under the library window, and the window was open. I should imagine that there wasnât much she had missed of what was going on inside. When she saw me she got up as cool as a cucumber and came towards me. She was smiling. She took my arm and said:

âIsnât it a lovely morning?â

It was a lovely morning for her all right! Rather a cruel girl. No, I think merely honest and lacking in imagination. What she wanted herself was the only thing that she could see.

Weâd been standing on the terrace talking for about five minutes, when I heard the library door bang and Amyas Crale came out. He was very red in the face.

He caught hold of Elsa unceremoniously by the shoulder.

He said: âCome on, time for you to sit. I want to get on with that picture.â

She said: âAll right. Iâll just go up and get a pullover. Thereâs a chilly wind.â

She went into the house.

I wondered if Amyas would say anything to me, but he didnât say much. Just: âThese women!â

I said: âCheer up, old boy.â

Then we neither of us said anything till Elsa came out of the house again.

They went off together down to the Battery garden. I went into the house. Caroline was standing in the hall. I donât think she even noticed me. It was a way of hers at times. Sheâd seem to go right awayâto get inside herself as it were. She just murmured something. Not to meâto herself. I just caught the words:

âItâs too cruelâ¦.â

Thatâs what she said. Then she walked past me and upstairs, still without seeming to see meâjust like a person intent on some inner vision. I think myself (Iâve no authority for saying this, you understand) that she went up to get the stuff, and that it was then she decided to do what she did do.

And just at that moment the telephone rang. In some houses one would wait for the servants to answer it, but I was so often at Alderbury that I acted more or less as one of the family. I picked up the receiver.

It was my brother Meredithâs voice that answered. He was very upset. He explained that he had been into his laboratory and that the coniine bottle was half-empty.

I donât need to go again over all the things I know now I ought to have done. The thing was so startling and I was foolish enough to be taken aback. Meredith was dithering a good bit at the other end. I heard someone on the stairs, and I just told him sharply to come over at once.

I myself went down to meet him. In case you donât know the lay of the land, the shortest way from one estate to the other was by rowing across a small creek. I went down the path to where the boats were kept by a small jetty. To do so I passed under the wall of the Battery garden. I could hear Elsa and Amyas talking as he painted. They sounded very cheerful and carefree. Amyas said it was an amazingly hot day (so it was, very hot for September), and Elsa said that sitting where she was, poised on the battlements, there was a cold wind blowing in from the sea. And then she said: âIâm horribly stiff from posing. Canât I have a rest, darling?â And I heard Amyas cry out: âNot on your life. Stick it. Youâre a tough girl. And this is going good, I tell you.â I heard Elsa say, âBruteâ and laugh, as I went out of earshot.

Meredith was just rowing himself across from the other side. I waited for him. He tied up the boat and came up the steps. He was looking very white and worried. He said to me:

âYour headâs better than mine, Philip. What ought I to do? That stuffâs dangerous.â

I said: âAre you absolutely sure about this?â Meredith, you see, was always a rather vague kind of chap. Perhaps thatâs why I didnât take it as seriously as I ought to have done. And he said he was quite sure. The bottle had been full yesterday afternoon.

I said: âAnd youâve absolutely no idea who pinched it?â

He said none whatever and asked me what I thought. Could it have been one of the servants? I said I supposed it might have been, but it seemed unlikely to me. He always kept the door locked, didnât he? Always, he said, and then began a rigmarole about having found the window a few inches open at the bottom. Someone might have got in that way.

âA chance burglar?â I asked sceptically. âIt seems to me, Meredith, that there are some very nasty possibilities.â

He said what did I really think? And I said, if he was sure he wasnât making a mistake, that probably Caroline had taken it to poison Elsa withâor that alternatively Elsa had taken it to get Caroline out of the way and straighten the path of true love.

Meredith twittered a bit. He said it was absurd and melodramatic and couldnât be true. I said: âWell, the stuffâs gone. Whatâs your explanation?â He hadnât any, of course. Actually thought just as I did, but didnât want to face the fact.

He said again: âWhat are we to do?â

I said, damned fool that I was: âWe must think it over carefully. Either youâd better announce your loss, straight out when everybodyâs there, or else youâd better get Caroline alone and tax her with it. If youâre convinced sheâs nothing to do with it, adopt the same tactics for Elsa.â He said: âA girl like that! She couldnât have taken it.â I said I wouldnât put it past her.

We were walking up to the house as we talked. After that last remark of mine neither of us spoke for some few seconds. We were rounding the Battery garden again and I heard Carolineâs voice.

I thought perhaps a three-handed row was going on, but actually it was Angela that they were discussing. Caroline was protesting. She said: âItâs very hard on the girl.â And Amyas made some impatient rejoinder. Then the door to the garden opened just as we came abreast of it. Amyas looked a little taken aback at seeing us. Caroline was just coming out. She said: âHallo, Meredith. Weâve been discussing the question of Angelaâs going to school. Iâm not at all sure itâs the right thing for her.â Amyas said: âDonât fuss about the girl. Sheâll be all right. Good riddance.â

Just then Elsa came running down the path from the house. She had some sort of scarlet jumper in her hand. Amyas growled:

âCome along. Get back into the pose. I donât want to waste time.â

He went back to where his easel was standing. I noticed that he staggered a bit and I wondered if he had been drinking. A man might easily be excused for doing so with all the fuss and the scenes.

He grumbled.

âThe beer here is red hot. Why canât we keep some ice down here?â

And Caroline Crale said:

âIâll send you down some beer just off the ice.â

Amyas grunted out:

âThanks.â

Then Caroline shut the door of the Battery garden and came up with us to the house. We sat down on the terrace and she went into the house. About five minutes later Angela came along with a couple of bottles of beer and some glasses. It was a hot day and we were glad to see it. As we were drinking it Caroline passed us. She was carrying another bottle and said she would take it down to Amyas. Meredith said heâd go, but she was quite firm that sheâd go herself. I thoughtâfool that I wasâthat it was just her jealousy. She couldnât stand those two being alone down there. That was what had taken her down there once already with the weak pretext of arguing about Angelaâs departure.

She went off down that zigzag pathâand Meredith and I watched her go. Weâd still not decided anything, and now Angela clamoured that I should come bathing with her. It seemed impossible to get Meredith alone. I just said to him: âAfter lunch.â And he nodded.

Then I went off bathing with Angela. We had a good swimâacross the creek and back, and then we lay out on the rocks sunbathing. Angela was a bit taciturn and that suited me. I made up my mind that directly after lunch Iâd take Caroline aside and accuse her point-blank of having stolen the stuff. No use letting Meredith do itâheâd be too weak. No, Iâd tax her with it outright. After that sheâd have to give it back, or even if she didnât she wouldnât dare use it. I was pretty sure it must be her on thinking things over. Elsa was far too sensible and hard-boiled a young woman to risk tampering with poisons. She had a hard head and would take care of her own skin. Caroline was made of more dangerous stuffâunbalanced, carried away by impulses and definitely neurotic. And still, you know, at the back of my mind was the feeling that Meredith might have made a mistake. Or some servant might have been poking about in there and split the stuff and then not dared to own up. You see, poison seems such a melodramatic thingâyou canât believe in it.

Not till it happens.

It was quite late when I looked at my watch, and Angela and I fairly raced up to lunch. They were just sitting downâall but Amyas, who had remained down in the Battery painting. Quite a normal thing for him to doâand privately I thought him very wise to elect to do it today. Lunch was likely to have been an awkward meal.

We had coffee on the terrace. I wish I could remember better how Caroline looked and acted. She didnât seem excited in any way. Quiet and rather sad is my impression. What a devil that woman was!

For it is a devilish thing to do, to poison a man in cold blood. If there had been a revolver about and she caught it up and shot himâwell, that might have been understandable. But this cold, deliberate, vindictive poisoningâ¦. And so calm and collected.

She got up and said sheâd take his coffee to him in the most natural way possible. And yet she knewâshe must have knownâthat by now sheâd find him dead. Miss Williams went with her. I donât remember if that was at Carolineâs suggestion or not. I rather think it was.

The two women went off together. Meredith strolled away shortly afterwards. I was just making an excuse to go after him, when he came running up the path again. His face was grey. He gasped out:

âWe must get a doctorâquickâAmyasââ

I sprang up.

âIs he illâdying?â

Meredith said:

âIâm afraid heâs deadâ¦.â

Weâd forgotten Elsa for the minute. But she let out a sudden cry. It was like the wail of a banshee.

She cried:

âDead? Dead?â¦â And then she ran. I didnât know anyone could move like thatâlike a deerâlike a stricken thing. And like an avenging Fury, too.

Meredith panted out:

âGo after her. Iâll telephone. Go after her. You donât know what sheâll do.â

I did go after herâand itâs as well I did. She might quite easily have killed Caroline. Iâve never seen such grief and such frenzied hate. All the veneer of refinement and education was stripped off. You could see her father and her fatherâs mother and father had been millhands. Deprived of her lover, she was just elemental woman. Sheâd have clawed Carolineâs face, torn her hair, hurled her over the parapet if she could. She thought for some reason or other that Caroline had knifed him. Sheâd got it all wrongânaturally.

I held her off, and then Miss Williams took charge. She was good, I must say. She got Elsa to control herself in under a minuteâtold her sheâd got to be quiet and that we couldnât have this noise and violence going on. She was a tartar, that woman. But she did the trick. Elsa was quietâjust stood there gasping and trembling.

As for Caroline, so far as I am concerned, the mask was right off. She stood there perfectly quietâyou might have said dazed. But she wasnât dazed. It was her eyes gave her away. They were watchfulâfully aware and quietly watchful. Sheâd begun, I suppose, to be afraidâ¦.

I went up to her and spoke to her. I said it quite low. I donât think either of the two women overheard.

I said:

âYou damned murderess, youâve killed my best friend.â

She shrank back. She said:

âNoâoh noâheâhe did it himselfâ¦.â

I looked her full in the eyes. I said:

âYou can tell that storyâto the police.â

She didâand they didnât believe her.

Â 

End of Philip Blakeâs Statement.

Narrative of Meredith Blake

Dear Mr. Poirot,

As I promised you, I have set down in writing an account of all I can remember relating to the tragic events that happened sixteen years ago. First of all I would like to say that I have thought over carefully all you said to me at our recent meeting. And on reflection I am more convinced than I was before that it is in the highest degree unlikely that Caroline Crale poisoned her husband. It always seemed incongruous, but the absence of any other explanation and her own attitude led me to follow, sheep-like, the opinion of other people and to say with themâthat if she didnât do it, what explanation could there be?

Since seeing you I have reflected very carefully on the alternative solution presented at the time and brought forward by the defence at the trial. That is, that Amyas Crale took his own life. Although from what I knew of him that solution seemed quite fantastic at the time, I now see fit to modify my opinion. To begin with, and highly significant, is the fact that Caroline believed it. If we are now to take it that that charming and gentle lady was unjustly convicted, then her own frequently reiterated belief must carry great weight. She knew Amyas better than anyone else. If she thought suicide possible, then suicide must have been possible in spite of the scepticism of his friends.

I will advance the theory, therefore, that there was in Amyas Crale some core of conscience, some undercurrent of remorse and even despair at the excesses to which his temperament led him, of which only his wife was aware. This, I think, is a not impossible supposition. He may have shown that side of himself only to her. Though it is inconsistent with anything I ever heard him say, yet it is nevertheless a truth that in most men there is some unsuspected and inconsistent streak which often comes as a surprise to people who have known them intimately. A respected and austere man is discovered to have had a coarser side to his life hidden. A vulgar moneymaker has, perhaps, a secret appreciation of some delicate work of art. Hard and ruthless people have been convicted of unsuspected hidden kindnesses. Generous and jovial men have been shown to have a mean and cruel side to them.

So it may be that in Amyas Crale there ran a strain of morbid self-accusation, and that the more he blustered out his egoism and his right to do as he pleased, the more strongly that secret conscience of his worked. It is improbable, on the face of it, but I now believe that it must have been so. And I repeat again, Caroline herself held steadfastly to that view. That, I repeat, is significant!

And now to examine facts, or rather my memory of facts, in the light of that new belief.

I think that I might with relevance include here a conversation I held with Caroline some weeks before the actual tragedy. It was during Elsa Greerâs first visit to Alderbury.

Caroline, as I have told you, was aware of my deep affection and friendship for her. I was, therefore, the person in whom she could most easily confide. She had not been looking very happy. Nevertheless I was surprised when she suddenly asked me one day whether I thought Amyas really cared very much for this girl he had brought down.

I said: âHeâs interested in painting her. You know what Amyas is.â

She shook her head and said:

âNo, heâs in love with her.â

âWellâperhaps a little.â

âA great deal, I think.â

I said: âShe is unusually attractive, I admit. And we both know that Amyas is susceptible. But you must know by now, my dear, that Amyas really only cares for one personâand that is you. He has these infatuationsâbut they donât last. You are the one person to him, and though he behaves badly, it does not really affect his feeling for you.â

Caroline said: âThat is what I always used to think.â

âBelieve me, Caro,â I said. âIt is so.â

She said: âBut this time, Merry, Iâm afraid. That girl is soâso terribly sincere. Sheâs so youngâand so intense. Iâve a feeling that this timeâitâs serious.â

I said: âBut the very fact that she is so young and, as you say, so sincere, will protect her. On the whole, women are fair game to Amyas, but in the case of a girl like this it will be different.â

She said: âYes, thatâs what Iâm afraid ofâit will be different.â

And she went on. âIâm thirty-four, you know, Merry. And weâve been married ten years. In looks I canât hold a candle to this Elsa child, and I know it.â

I said: âBut you know, Caroline, you knowâthat Amyas is really devoted to you?â

She said to that: âDoes one ever know with men?â And then she laughed a little ruefully and said: âIâm a very primitive woman, Merry. Iâd like to take a hatchet to that girl.â

I told her that the child probably didnât understand in the least what she was doing. She had a great admiration and hero worship for Amyas, and she probably didnât realize at all that Amyas was falling in love with her.

Caroline just said to me:

âDear Merry!â and began to talk about the garden. I hoped that she was not going to worry any more about the matter.

Shortly afterwards, Elsa went back to London. Amyas was away too for several weeks. I had really forgotten all about the business. And then I heard that Elsa was back again at Alderbury in order that Amyas might finish the picture.

I was a little disturbed by the news. But Caroline, when I saw her, was not in a communicative mood. She seemed quite her usual selfânot worried or upset in any way. I imagined that everything was all right.

Thatâs why it was such a shock to me to learn how far the thing had gone.

I have told you of my conversations with Crale and with Elsa. I had no opportunity of talking to Caroline. We were only able to exchange those few words about which I have already told you.

I can see her face now, the wide dark eyes and the restrained emotion. I can still hear her voice as she said:

âEverythingâs finishedâ¦.â

I canât describe to you the infinite desolation she conveyed in those words. They were a literal statement of truth. With Amyasâs defection, everything was finished for her. That, I am convinced, was why she took the coniine. It was a way out. A way suggested to her by my stupid dissertation on the drug. And the passage I read from the Phaedo gives a gracious picture of death.

Here is my present belief. She took the coniine, resolved to end her own life when Amyas left her. He may have seen her take itâor he may have discovered that she had it later.

That discovery acted upon him with terrific force. He was horrified at what his actions had led her to contemplate. But notwithstanding his horror and remorse, he still felt himself incapable of giving up Elsa. I can understand that. Anyone who had fallen in love with her would find it almost impossible to tear himself away.

He could not envisage life without Elsa. He realized that Caroline could not live without him. He decided there was only one way outâto use the coniine himself.

And the manner in which he did it might be characteristic of the man, I think. His painting was the dearest thing in life to him. He chose to die literally with his brush in his hand. And the last thing his eyes would see was the face of the girl he loved so desperately. He might have thought, too, that his death would be the best thing for herâ¦.

I admit that this theory leaves certain curious facts unexplained. Why, for instance, were only Carolineâs fingerprints found on the empty coniine bottle. I suggest that after Amyas had handled it, all prints got smudged or rubbed off by the soft piles of stuffs that were lying over the bottle and that, after his death, Caroline handled it to see if anyone had touched it. Surely that is possible and plausible? As to the evidence about the fingerprints on the beer bottle, the witnesses for the defence were of opinion that a manâs hand might be distorted after taking poison and so could manage to grasp a beer bottle in a wholly unnatural way.

One other thing remains to be explained. Carolineâs own attitude throughout the trial. But I think I have now seen the cause for that. It was she who actually took the poison from my laboratory. It was her determination to do away with herself that impelled her husband to take his own life instead. Surely it is not unreasonable to suppose that in a morbid excess of responsibility she considered herself responsible for his deathâthat she persuaded herself that she was guilty of murderâthough not the kind of murder of which she was being accused?

I think all that could be so. And if that is the case, then surely it will be easy for you to persuade little Carla of the fact? And she can marry her young man and rest contented that the only thing of which her mother was guilty was an impulse (no more) to take her own life.

All this, alas, is not what you asked me forâwhich was an account of the happenings as I remember them. Let me now repair that omission. I have already told you fully what happened on the day preceding Amyasâs death. We now come to the day itself.

I had slept very badlyâworried by the disastrous turn of events for my friends. After a long wakeful period whilst I vainly tried to think of something helpful I could do to avert the catastrophe, I fell into a heavy sleep about six a.m. The bringing of my early tea did not awaken me, and I finally woke up heavy-headed and unrefreshed about half past nine. It was shortly after that that I thought I heard movements in the room below me, which was the room I used as a laboratory.

I may say here that actually the sounds were probably caused by a cat getting in. I found the window sash raised a little way as it had carelessly been left from the day before. It was just wide enough to admit the passage of a cat. I merely mention the sounds to explain how I came to enter the laboratory.

I went in there as soon as I had dressed, and looking along the shelves I noticed that the bottle containing the preparation of coniine was slightly out of line with the rest. Having had my eye drawn to it in this way, I was startled to see that a considerable quantity of it had gone. The bottle had been nearly full the day beforeânow it was nearly empty.

I shut and locked the window and went out, locking the door behind me. I was considerably upset and also bewildered. When startled, my mental processes are, I am afraid, somewhat slow.

I was first disturbed, then apprehensive, and finally definitely alarmed. I questioned the household, and they all denied having entered the laboratory at all. I thought things over a little while longer, and then decided to ring up my brother and get his advice.

Philip was quicker than I was. He saw the seriousness of my discovery, and urged me to come over at once and consult with him.

I went out, encountering Miss Williams, who had come across from the other side to look for a truant pupil. I assured her that I had not seen Angela and that she had not been to the house.

I think that Miss Williams noticed there was something amiss. She looked at me rather curiously. I had no intention, however, of telling her what had happened. I suggested she should try the kitchen gardenâAngela had a favourite apple tree thereâand I myself hurried down to the shore and rowed myself across to the Alderbury side.

My brother was already there waiting for me.

We walked up to the house together by the way you and I went the other day. Having seen the topography you can understand that in passing underneath the wall of the Battery garden we were bound to overhear anything being said inside it.

Beyond the fact that Caroline and Amyas were engaged in a disagreement of some kind, I did not pay much attention to what was said.

Certainly I overheard no threat of any kind uttered by Caroline. The subject of discussion was Angela, and I presume Caroline was pleading for a respite from the fiat of school. Amyas, however, was adamant, shouting out irritably that it was all settled, heâd see to her packing.

The door of the Battery opened just as we drew abreast of it, and Caroline came out. She looked disturbedâbut not unduly so. She smiled rather absently at me, and said they had been discussing Angela. Elsa came down the path at that minute, and as Amyas clearly wanted to get on with the sitting without interruption from us, we went on up the path.

Philip blamed himself severely afterwards for the fact that we did not take immediate action. But I myself cannot see it the same way. We had no earthly right to assume that such a thing as murder was being contemplated. (Moreover I now believe that it was not contemplated.) It was clear that we should have to adopt some course of action, but I still maintain that we were right to talk the matter over carefully first. It was necessary to find the right thing to doâand once or twice I found myself wondering if I had not after all made a mistake. Had the bottle really been full the day before as I thought? I am not one of those people (like my brother Philip) who can be cock-sure of everything. Oneâs memory does play tricks on one. How often, for instance, one is convinced one has put an article in a certain place, later to find that you have put it somewhere quite different. The more I tried to recall the state of the bottle on the preceding afternoon, the more uncertain and doubtful I became. This was very annoying to Philip, who began completely to lose patience with me.

We were not able to continue our discussion at the time, and tacitly agreed to postpone it until after lunch. (I may say that I was always free to drop in for lunch at Alderbury if I chose.)

Later, Angela and Caroline brought us beer. I asked Angela what she had been up to playing truant, and told her Miss Williams was on the warpath, and she said she had been bathingâand added that she didnât see why she should have to mend her horrible old skirt when she was going to have all new things to go to school with.

Since there seemed no chance of further talk with Philip alone, and since I was really anxious to think things out by myself, I wandered off down the path towards the Battery. Just above the Battery, as I showed you, there is a clearing in the trees where there used to be an old bench. I sat there smoking and thinking, and watching Elsa as she sat posing for Amyas.

I shall always think of her as she was that day. Rigid in the pose, with her yellow shirt and dark-blue trousers and a red pullover slung round her shoulders for warmth.

Her face was so alight with life and health and radiance. And that gay voice of hers reciting plans for the future.

This sounds as though I was eavesdropping, but that is not so. I was perfectly visible to Elsa. Both she and Amyas knew I was there. She waved her hand at me and called up that Amyas was a perfect bear that morningâhe wouldnât let her rest. She was stiff and aching all over.

Amyas growled out that she wasnât as stiff as he was. He was stiff all overâmuscular rheumatism. Elsa said mockingly: âPoor old man!â And he said sheâd be taking on a creaking invalid.

It shocked me, you know, their lighthearted acquiescence in their future together whilst they were causing so much suffering. And yet I couldnât hold it against her. She was so young, so confident, so very much in love. And she didnât really know what she was doing. She didnât understand suffering. She just assumed with the naÃ¯ve confidence of a child that Caroline would be âall right,â that âsheâd soon get over it.â She saw nothing, you see, but herself and Amyasâhappy together. Sheâd already told me my point of view was old-fashioned. She had no doubts, no qualmsâno pity either. But can one expect pity from radiant youth? It is an older, wiser emotion.

They didnât talk very much, of course. No painter wants to be chattering when he is working. Perhaps every ten minutes or so Elsa would make an observation and Amyas would grunt a reply. Once she said:

âI think youâre right about Spain. Thatâs the first place weâll go to. And you must take me to see a bullfight. It must be wonderful. Only Iâd like the bull to kill the manânot the other way about. I understand how Roman women felt when they saw a man die. Men arenât much, but animals are splendid.â

I suppose she was rather like an animal herselfâyoung and primitive and with nothing yet of manâs sad experience and doubtful wisdom. I donât believe Elsa had begun to thinkâshe only felt. But she was very much aliveâmore alive than any person I have ever knownâ¦.

That was the last time I saw her radiant and assuredâon top of the world. Fey is the word for it, isnât it?

The bell sounded for lunch, and I got up and went down the path and in at the Battery door, and Elsa joined me. It was dazzlingly bright there coming in out of the shady trees. I could hardly see. Amyas was sprawled back on the seat, his arms flung out. He was staring at the picture. Iâve so often seen him like that. How was I to know that already the poison was working, stiffening him as he sat?

He so hated and resented illness. He would never own to it. I dare say he thought he had got a touch of the sunâthe symptoms are much the sameâbut heâd be the last person to complain about it.

Elsa said:

âHe wonât come up to lunch.â

Privately I thought he was wise. I said:

âSo long, then.â

He moved his eyes from the picture until they rested on me. There was a queerâhow shall I describe itâit looked like malevolence. A kind of malevolent glare.

Naturally I didnât understand it thenâif his picture wasnât going as he liked he often looked quite murderous. I thought that was what it was. He made a sort of grunting sound.

Neither Elsa nor I saw anything unusual in himâjust artistic temperament.

So we left him there and she and I went up to the house laughing and talking. If sheâd known, poor child, that sheâd never see him alive againâ¦Oh, well, thank God she didnât. She was able to be happy a little longer.

Caroline was quite normal at lunchâa little preoccupied; nothing more. And doesnât that show that she had nothing to do with it? She couldnât have been such an actress.

She and the governess went down afterwards and found him. I met Miss Williams as she came up. She told me to telephone a doctor and went back to Caroline.

That poor childâElsa, I mean! She had that frantic unrestrained grief that a child has. They canât believe that life can do these things to them. Caroline was quite calm. Yes, she was quite calm. She was able, of course, to control herself better than Elsa. She didnât seem remorsefulâthen. Just said he must have done it himself. And we couldnât believe that. Elsa burst out and accused her to her face.

Of course she may have realized, already, that she herself would be suspected. Yes, that probably explains her manner.

Philip was quite convinced that she had done it.

The governess was a great help and standby. She made Elsa lie down and gave her a sedative, and she kept Angela out of the way when the police came. Yes, she was a tower of strength, that woman.

The whole thing became a nightmare. The police searching the house and asking questions, and then the reporters, swarming about the place like flies and clicking cameras and wanting interviews with members of the family.

A nightmare, the whole thingâ¦.

Itâs a nightmare, after all these years. Please God, once youâve convinced little Carla what really happened, we can forget it all and never remember it again.

Amyas must have committed suicideâhowever unlikely it seems.

Â 

End of Meredith Blakeâs Narrative.

Narrative of Lady Dittisham

I have set down here the full story of my meeting with Amyas Crale, up to the time of his tragic death.

I saw him first at a studio party. He was standing, I remember, by a window, and I saw him as I came in at the door. I asked who he was. Someone said: âThatâs Crale, the painter.â I said at once that Iâd like to meet him.

We talked on that occasion for perhaps ten minutes. When anyone makes the impression on you that Amyas Crale made on me, itâs hopeless to attempt to describe them. If I say that when I saw Amyas Crale, everybody else seemed to grow very small and fade away, that expresses it as well as anything can.

Immediately after that meeting I went to look at as many of his pictures as I could. He had a show on in Bond Street at the moment, and there was one of his pictures in Manchester and one in Leeds and two in public galleries in London. I went to see them all. Then I met him again. I said: âIâve been to see all your pictures. I think theyâre wonderful.â

He just looked amused. He said:

âWho said you were any judge of painting? I donât believe you know anything about it.â

I said: âPerhaps not. But they are marvellous, all the same.â

He grinned at me and said: âDonât be a gushing little fool.â

I said: âIâm not. I want you to paint me.â

Crale said: âIf youâve any sense at all, youâll realize that I donât paint portraits of pretty women.â

I said: âIt neednât be a portrait and Iâm not a pretty woman.â

He looked at me then as though heâd begun to see me. He said: âNo, perhaps youâre not.â

I said: âWill you paint me then?â

He studied me for some time with his head on one side. Then he said: âYouâre a strange child, arenât you?â

I said: âIâm quite rich, you know. I can afford to pay well for it.â

He said: âWhy are you so anxious for me to paint you?â

I said: âBecause I want it!â

He said: âIs that a reason?â

And I said: âYes, I always get what I want.â

He said then: âOh, my poor child, how young you are!â

I said: âWill you paint me?â

He took me by the shoulders and turned me towards the light and looked me over. Then he stood away from me a little. I stood quite still, waiting.

He said: âIâve sometimes wanted to paint a flight of impossibly-coloured Australian Maccaws alighting on St. Paulâs Cathedral. If I painted you against a nice traditional bit of outdoor landscape, I believe Iâd get exactly the same result.â

I said: âThen you will paint me?â

He said: âYouâre one of the loveliest, crudest, most flamboyant bits of exotic colouring Iâve ever seen. Iâll paint you!â

I said: âThen thatâs settled.â

He went on: âBut Iâll warn you, Elsa Greer. If I do paint you, I shall probably make love to you.â

I said: âI hope you willâ¦.â

I said it quite steadily and quietly. I heard him catch his breath, and I saw the look that came into his eyes.

You see, it was as sudden as all that.

A day or two later we met again. He told me that he wanted me to come down to Devonshireâheâd got the very place there that he wanted for a background. He said:

âIâm married, you know. And Iâm very fond of my wife.â

I said if he was fond of her she must be very nice.

He said she was extremely nice. âIn fact,â he said, âsheâs quite adorableâand I adore her. So put that in your pipe, young Elsa, and smoke it.â

I told him that I quite understood.

He began the picture a week later. Caroline Crale welcomed me very pleasantly. She didnât like me muchâbut, after all, why should she? Amyas was very circumspect. He never said a word to me that his wife couldnât have overheard, and I was quite polite and formal to him. Underneath, though, we both knew.

After ten days he told me I was to go back to London.

I said: âThe picture isnât finished.â

He said: âItâs barely begun. The truth is, I canât paint you, Elsa.â

I said: âWhy?â

He said: âYou know well enough why, Elsa. And thatâs why youâve got to clear out. I canât think about the paintingâI canât think about anything but you.â

We were in the Battery garden. It was a hot sunny day. There were birds and humming bees. It ought to have been very happy and peaceful. But it didnât feel like that. It feltâsomehowâtragic. As thoughâas though what was going to happen was already mirrored there.

I knew it would be no good my going back to London, but I said: âVery well, Iâll go if you say so.â

Amyas said: âGood girl.â

So I went. I didnât write to him.

He held out for ten days and then he came. He was so thin and haggard and miserable that it shocked me.

He said: âI warned you, Elsa. Donât say I didnât warn you.â

I said: âIâve been waiting for you. I knew youâd come.â

He gave a sort of groan and said: âThere are things that are too strong for any man. I canât eat or sleep or rest for wanting you.â

I said I knew that and that it was the same with me, and had been from the first moment Iâd seen him. It was Fate and it was no use struggling against it.

He said: âYou havenât struggled much, have you, Elsa?â And I said I hadnât struggled at all.

He said he wished I wasnât so young, and I said that didnât matter. I suppose I might say that for the next few weeks we were very happy. But happiness isnât quite the word. It was something deeper and more frightening than that.

We were made for each other and weâd found each otherâand we both knew weâd got to be together always.

But something else happened, too. The unfinished picture began to haunt Amyas. He said to me: âDamned funny, I couldnât paint you beforeâyou yourself got in the way of it. But I want to paint you, Elsa. I want to paint you so that that picture will be the finest thing Iâve ever done. Iâm itching and aching now to get at my brushes to see you sitting there on that hoary old chestnut of a battlement wall with the conventional blue sea and the decorous English treesâand youâyouâsitting there like a discordant shriek of triumph.â

He said: âAnd Iâve got to paint you that way! And I canât be fussed and bothered while Iâm doing it. When the pictureâs finished Iâll tell Caroline the truth and weâll get the whole messy business cleared up.â

I said: âWill Caroline make a fuss about divorcing you?â

He said he didnât think so. But you never knew with women.

I said I was sorry if she was going to be upset, but after all, I said, these things did happen.

He said: âVery nice and reasonable, Elsa. But Caroline isnât reasonable, never has been reasonable, and certainly isnât going to feel reasonable. She loves me, you know.â

I said I understood that, but if she loved him, sheâd put his happiness first, and at any rate she wouldnât want to keep him if he wanted to be free.

He said: âLife canât really be solved by admirable maxims out of modern literature. Natureâs red in tooth and claw, remember.â

I said: âSurely we are all civilized people nowadays?â and Amyas laughed. He said: âCivilized people my foot! Caroline would probably like to take a hatchet to you. She might do it too. Donât you realize, Elsa, that sheâs going to sufferâsuffer? Donât you know what suffering means?â

I said: âThen donât tell her.â

He said: âNo. The breakâs got to come. Youâve got to belong to me properly, Elsa. Before all the world. Openly mine.â

I said: âSuppose she wonât divorce you?â

He said: âIâm not afraid of that.â

I said: âWhat are you afraid of then?â

And then he said slowly: âI donât knowâ¦.â

You see, he knew Caroline. I didnât.

If Iâd had any ideaâ¦.

We went down again to Alderbury. Things were difficult this time. Caroline had got suspicious. I didnât like itâI didnât like itâI didnât like it a bit. Iâve always hated deceit and concealment. I thought we ought to tell her. Amyas wouldnât hear of it.

The funny part of it was that he didnât really care at all. In spite of being fond of Caroline and not wanting to hurt her, he just didnât care about the honesty or dishonesty of it all. He was painting with a kind of frenzy, and nothing else mattered. I hadnât seen him in one of his working spells before. I realized now what a really great genius he was. It was natural for him to be so carried away that all the ordinary decencies didnât matter. But it was different for me. I was in a horrible position. Caroline resented meâand quite rightly. The only thing to put the position quite straight was to be honest and tell her the truth.

But all Amyas would say was that he wasnât going to be bothered with scenes and fusses until heâd finished the picture. I said there probably wouldnât be a scene. Caroline would have too much dignity and pride for that.

I said: âI want to be honest about it all. Weâve got to be honest!â

Amyas said: âTo hell with honesty. Iâm painting a picture, damn it.â

I did see his point of view, but he wouldnât see mine.

And in the end I broke down. Caroline had been talking of some plan she and Amyas were going to carry out next autumn. She talked about it quite confidently. And I suddenly felt it was too abominable, what we were doingâletting her go on like thisâand perhaps, too, I was angry, because she was really being very unpleasant to me in a clever sort of way that one couldnât take hold of.

And so I came out with the truth. In a way, I still think I was right. Though, of course, I wouldnât have done it if Iâd had the faintest idea what was to come of it.

The clash came right away. Amyas was furious with me, but he had to admit that what I had said was true.

I didnât understand Caroline at all. We all went over to Meredith Blakeâs to tea, and Caroline played up marvellouslyâtalking and laughing. Like a fool, I thought she was taking it well. It was awkward my not being able to leave the house, but Amyas would have gone up in smoke if I had. I thought perhaps Caroline would go. It would have made it much easier for us if she had.

I didnât see her take the coniine. I want to be honest so I think that itâs just possible that she may have taken it as she said she did, with the idea of suicide in her mind.

But I donât really think so. I think she was one of those intensely jealous and possessive women who wonât let go of anything that they think belongs to them. Amyas was her property. I think she was quite prepared to kill him rather than to let him goâcompletely and finallyâto another woman. I think she made up her mind, right away, to kill him. And I think that Meredithâs happening to discuss coniine so freely just gave her the means to do what sheâd already made up her mind to do. She was a very bitter and revengeful womanâvindictive. Amyas knew all along that she was dangerous. I didnât.

The next morning she had a final showdown with Amyas. I heard most of it from the outside on the terrace. He was splendidâvery patient and calm. He implored her to be reasonable. He said he was very fond of her and the child and always would be. Heâd do everything he could do to assure their future. Then he hardened up and said: âBut understand this. Iâm damned well going to marry Elsaâand nothing shall stop me. You and I always agreed to leave each other free. These things happen.â

Caroline said to him: âDo as you please. Iâve warned you.â

Her voice was very quiet, but there was a queer note in it.

Amyas said: âWhat do you mean, Caroline?â

She said: âYouâre mine and I donât mean to let you go. Sooner than let you go to that girl Iâll kill youâ¦.â

Just at that minute, Philip Blake came along the terrace. I got up and went to meet him. I didnât want him to overhear.

Presently Amyas came out and said it was time to get on with the picture. We went down together to the Battery. He didnât say much. Just said that Caroline was cutting up roughâbut for Godâs sake not to talk about it. He wanted to concentrate on what he was doing. Another day, he said, would about finish the picture.

He said: âAnd itâll be the best thing Iâve ever done, Elsa, even if it is paid for in blood and tears.â

A little later I went up to the house to get a pullover. There was a chilly wind blowing. When I came back again Caroline was there. I suppose she had come down to make one last appeal. Philip and Meredith Blake were there too.

It was then that Amyas said he was thirsty and wanted a drink. He said there was beer but it wasnât iced.

Caroline said sheâd send him down some iced beer. She said it quite naturally in an almost friendly tone. She was an actress, that woman. She must have known then what she meant to do.

She brought it down about ten minutes later. Amyas was painting. She poured it out and set the glass down beside him. Neither of us were watching her. Amyas was intent on what he was doing and I had to keep the pose.

Amyas drank it down the way he always drank beer, just pouring it down his throat in one draught. Then he made a face and said it tasted foulâbut at any rate it was cold.

And even then, when he said that, no suspicion entered my head, I just laughed and said: âLiver.â

When sheâd seen him drink it Caroline went away.

It must have been about forty minutes later that Amyas complained of stiffness and pains. He said he thought he must have got a touch of muscular rheumatism. Amyas was always intolerant of any ailment and he didnât like being fussed over. After saying that he turned it off with a light: âOld age, I suppose. Youâve taken on a creaking old man, Elsa.â I played up to him. But I noticed that his legs moved stiffly and queerly and that he grimaced once or twice. I never dreamt that it wasnât rheumatism. Presently he drew the bench along and sat sprawled on that, occasionally stretching up to put a touch of paint here and there on the canvas. He used to do that sometimes when he was painting. Just sit staring at me and then the canvas. Sometimes heâd do it for half an hour at a time. So I didnât think it specially queer.

We heard the bell go for lunch, and he said he wasnât coming up. Heâd stay where he was and he didnât want anything. That wasnât unusual either, and it would be easier for him than facing Caroline at the table.

He was talking in rather a queer wayâgrunting out his words. But he sometimes did that when he was dissatisfied with the progress of the picture.

Meredith Blake came in to fetch me. He spoke to Amyas, but Amyas only grunted at him.

We went up to the house together and left him there. We left him thereâto die alone. Iâd never seen much illnessâI didnât know much about itâI thought Amyas was just in a painterâs mood. If Iâd knownâif Iâd realizedâperhaps a doctor could have saved himâ¦Oh God, why didnât Iâitâs no good thinking of that now. I was a blind fool. A blind, stupid fool.

There isnât much more to tell.

Caroline and the governess went down there after lunch. Meredith followed them. Presently he came running up. He told us Amyas was dead.

Then I knew! Knew, I mean, that it was Caroline. I still didnât think of poison. I thought sheâd gone down that minute and either shot him or stabbed him.

I wanted to get at herâto kill herâ¦.

How could she do it? How could she? He was so alive, so full of life and vigour. To put all that outâto make him limp and cold. Just so that I shouldnât have him.

Horrible womanâ¦.

Horrible, scornful, cruel, vindictive womanâ¦.

I hate her. I still hate her.

They didnât even hang her.

They ought to have hanged herâ¦.

Even hanging was too good for herâ¦.

I hate herâ¦I hate herâ¦I hate herâ¦.

Â 

End of Lady Dittishamâs Narrative.

Narrative of Cecilia Williams

Dear Mr. Poirot,

I am sending you an account of those events in September, 19â¦actually witnessed by myself.

I have been absolutely frank and have kept nothing back. You may show it to Carla Crale. It may pain her, but I have always been a believer in truth. Palliatives are harmful. One must have the courage to face reality. Without that courage, life is meaningless. The people who do us most harm are the people who shield us from reality.

Believe me, yours sincerely,
Cecilia Williams

My name is Cecilia Williams. I was engaged by Mrs. Crale as governess to her half sister Angela Warren, in 19â¦I was then forty-eight.

I took up my duties at Alderbury, a very beautiful estate in south Devon which had belonged to Mr. Craleâs family for many generations. I knew that Mr. Crale was a well-known painter, but I did not meet him until I took up residence at Alderbury.

The household consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Crale, Angela Warren (then a girl of thirteen), and three servants, all of whom had been with the family many years.

I found my pupil an interesting and promising character. She had very marked abilities and it was a pleasure to teach her. She was somewhat wild and undisciplined, but these faults arose mainly through high spirits, and I have always preferred my girls to show spirit. An excess of vitality can be trained and guided into paths of real usefulness and achievement.

On the whole, I found Angela amenable to discipline. She had been somewhat spoiledâmainly by Mrs. Crale, who was far too indulgent where she was concerned. Mr. Craleâs influence was, I considered, unwise. He indulged her absurdly one day, and was unnecessarily peremptory on another occasion. He was very much a man of moodsâpossibly owing to what is styled the artistic temperament.

I have never seen, myself, why the possession of artistic ability should be supposed to excuse a man from a decent exercise of self-control. I did not myself admire Mr. Craleâs paintings. The drawing seemed to me faulty and the colouring exaggerated, but naturally I was not called upon to express any opinion on these matters.

I soon formed a deep attachment to Mrs. Crale. I admired her character and her fortitude in the difficulties of her life. Mr. Crale was not a faithful husband, and I think that that fact was the source of much pain to her. A stronger-minded woman would have left him, but Mrs. Crale never seemed to contemplate such a course. She endured his infidelities and forgave him for themâbut I may say that she did not take them meekly. She remonstratedâand with spirit!

It was said at the trial that they led a cat and dog life. I would not go as far as thatâMrs. Crale had too much dignity for that term to apply, but they did have quarrels. And I consider that that was only natural under the circumstances.

I had been with Mrs. Crale just over two years when Miss Elsa Greer appeared upon the scene. She arrived down at Alderbury in the summer of 19â¦Mrs. Crale had not met her previously. She was Mr. Craleâs friend, and she was said to be there for the purpose of having her portrait painted.

It was apparent at once that Mr. Crale was infatuated with this girl and that the girl herself was doing nothing to discourage him. She behaved, in my opinion, quite outrageously, being abominably rude to Mrs. Crale, and openly flirting with Mr. Crale.

Naturally Mrs. Crale said nothing to me, but I could see that she was disturbed and unhappy, and I did everything in my power to distract her mind and lighten her burden. Miss Greer sat every day to Mr. Crale, but I noticed that the picture was not getting on very fast. They had, no doubt, other things to talk about!

My pupil, I am thankful to say, noticed very little of what was going on. Angela was in some ways young for her age. Though her intellect was well developed, she was not at all what I may term precocious. She seemed to have no wish to read undesirable books, and showed no signs of morbid curiosity such as girls often do at her age.

She, therefore, saw nothing undesirable in the friendship between Mr. Crale and Miss Greer. Nevertheless she disliked Miss Greer and thought her stupid. Here she was quite right. Miss Greer had had, I presume, a proper education, but she never opened a book and was quite unfamiliar with current literary allusions. Moreover she could not sustain a discussion on any intellectual subject.

She was entirely taken up with her personal appearance, her clothes, and men.

Angela, I think, did not even realize that her sister was unhappy. She was not at that time a very perceptive person. She spent a lot of time in hoydenish pastimes, such as tree climbing and wild feats of bicycling. She was also a passionate reader and showed excellent taste in what she liked and disliked.

Mrs. Crale was always careful to conceal any signs of unhappiness from Angela, and exerted herself to appear bright and cheerful when the girl was about.

Miss Greer went back to Londonâat which, I can tell you, we were all very pleased! The servants disliked her as much as I did. She was the kind of person who gives a lot of unnecessary trouble and forgets to say thank you.

Mr. Crale went away shortly afterwards, and of course I knew that he had gone after the girl. I was very sorry for Mrs. Crale. She felt these things very keenly. I felt extremely bitter towards Mr. Crale. When a man has a charming, gracious, intelligent wife, heâs no business to treat her badly.

However, she and I both hoped the affair would soon be over. Not that we mentioned the subject to each otherâwe did notâbut she knew quite well how I felt about it.

Unfortunately, after some weeks, the pair of them reappeared. It seemed the sittings were to be resumed.

Mr. Crale was now painting with absolute frenzy. He seemed less preoccupied with the girl than with his picture of her. Nevertheless I realized that this was not the usual kind of thing we had gone through before. This girl had got her claws into him and she meant business. He was just like wax in her hands.

The thing came to a head on the day before he diedâthat is on Sept. 17. Miss Greerâs manner had been unbearably insolent the last few days. She was feeling sure of herself and she wanted to assert her importance. Mrs. Crale behaved like a true gentlewoman. She was icily polite, but she showed the other clearly what she thought of her.

On this day, Sept. 17, as we were sitting in the drawing room after lunch, Miss Greer came out with an amazing remark as to how she was going to redecorate the room when she was living at Alderbury.

Naturally Mrs. Crale couldnât let that pass. She challenged her, and Miss Greer had the impudence to say, before us all, that she was going to marry Mr. Crale. She actually talked about marrying a married manâand she said it to his wife!

I was very, very angry with Mr. Crale. How dared he let this girl insult his wife in her own drawing room? If he wanted to run away with the girl, he should have gone off with her, not brought her into his wifeâs house and backed her up in her insolence.

In spite of what she must have felt, Mrs. Crale did not lose her dignity. Her husband came in just then, and she immediately demanded confirmation from him.

He was, not unnaturally, annoyed with Miss Greer for her unconsidered forcing of the situation. Apart from anything else, it made him appear at a disadvantage, and men do not like appearing at a disadvantage. It upsets their vanity.

He stood there, a great giant of a man, looking as sheepish and foolish as a naughty schoolboy. It was his wife who carried off the honours of the situation. He had to mutter foolishly that it was true, but that he hadnât meant her to learn it like this.

I have never seen anything like the look of scorn she gave him. She went out of the room with her head held high. She was a beautiful womanâmuch more beautiful than that flamboyant girlâand she walked like an Empress.

I hoped, with all my heart, that Amyas Crale would be punished for the cruelty he had displayed and for the indignity he had put upon a long-suffering and noble woman.

For the first time, I tried to say something of what I felt to Mrs. Crale, but she stopped me.

She said:

âWe must try and behave as usual. Itâs the best way. Weâre all going over to Meredith Blakeâs to tea.â

I said to her then:

âI think you are wonderful, Mrs. Crale.â

She said:

âYou donât knowâ¦.â

Then, as she was going out of the room, she came back and kissed me. She said:

âYouâre such a comfort to me.â

She went to her room then and I think she cried. I saw her when they all started off. She was wearing a big-brimmed hat that shaded her faceâa hat she very seldom wore.

Mr. Crale was uneasy, but was trying to brazen things out. Mr. Philip Blake was trying to behave as usual. That Miss Greer was looking like a cat who has got at the cream jug. All self-satisfaction and purrs!

They all started off. They got back about six. I did not see Mrs. Crale again alone that evening. She was very quiet and composed at dinner, and she went to bed early. I donât think that anyone knew how she was suffering.

The evening was taken up with a kind of running quarrel between Mr. Crale and Angela. They brought up the old school question again. He was irritable and on edge, and she was unusually trying. The whole matter was settled and her outfit had been bought, and there was no sense in starting up an argument again, but she suddenly chose to make a grievance of it. I have no doubt she sensed the tension in the air and that it reacted on her as much as on everybody else. I am afraid I was too preoccupied with my own thoughts to try and check her as I should have done. It all ended with her flinging a paperweight at Mr. Crale and dashing out of the room.

I went after her and told her sharply that I was ashamed of her behaving like a baby, but she was still very uncontrolled, and I thought it best to leave her alone.

I hesitated as to whether to go to Mrs. Craleâs room, but I decided in the end that it would, perhaps, annoy her. I wish since that I had overcome my diffidence and insisted on her talking to me. If she had done so, it might possibly have made a difference. She had no one, you see, in whom she could confide. Although I admire self-control, I must regretfully admit that sometimes it can be carried too far. A natural outlet to the feelings is better.

I met Mr. Crale as I went along to my room. He said good night, but I did not answer.

The next morning was, I remember, a beautiful day. One felt when waking that surely with such peace all around even a man must come to his senses.

I went into Angelaâs room before going down to breakfast, but she was already up and out. I picked up a torn skirt which she had left lying on the floor and took it down with me for her to mend after breakfast.

She had, however, obtained bread and marmalade from the kitchen and gone out. After I had had my own breakfast I went in search of her. I mention this to explain why I was not more with Mrs. Crale on that morning as perhaps I should have been. At the time, however, I felt it was my duty to look for Angela. She was very naughty and obstinate about mending her clothes, and I had no intention of allowing her to defy me in the matter.

Her bathing dress was missing and I accordingly went down to the beach. There was no sign of her in the water or on the rocks, so I conceived it possible that she had gone over to Mr. Meredith Blakeâs. She and he were great friends. I accordingly rowed myself across and resumed my search. I did not find her and eventually returned. Mrs. Crale, Mr. Blake and Mr. Philip Blake were on the terrace.

It was very hot that morning if one was out of the wind, and the house and terrace were sheltered. Mrs. Crale suggested they might like some iced beer.

There was a little conservatory which had been built on to the house in Victorian days. Mrs. Crale disliked it, and it was not used for plants, but it had been made into a kind of bar, with various bottles of gin, vermouth, lemonade, ginger beer, etc., on shelves, and a small refrigerator which was filled with ice every morning and in which some beer and ginger beer was always kept.

Mrs. Crale went there to get the beer and I went with her. Angela was at the refrigerator and was just taking out a bottle of beer.

Mrs. Crale went in ahead of me. She said:

âI want a bottle of beer to take down to Amyas.â

It is so difficult now to know whether I ought to have suspected anything. Her voice, I feel almost convinced, was perfectly normal. But I must admit that at that moment I was intent, not on her, but on Angela. Angela was by the refrigerator and I was glad to see that she looked red and rather guilty.

I was rather sharp with her, and to my surprise she was quite meek. I asked her where she had been, and she said she had been bathing. I said: âI didnât see you on the beach.â And she laughed. Then I asked her where her jersey was, and she said she must have left it down on the beach.

I mention these details to explain why I let Mrs. Crale take the beer down to the Battery garden.

The rest of the morning is quite blank in my mind. Angela fetched her needlebook and mended her skirt without any more fuss. I rather think that I mended some of the household linen. Mr. Crale did not come up for lunch. I was glad that he had at least that much decency.

After lunch, Mrs. Crale said she was going down to the Battery. I wanted to retrieve Angelaâs jersey from the beach. We started down together. She went into the BatteryâI was going on when her cry called me back. As I told you when you came to see me, she asked me to go up and telephone. On the way up I met Mr. Meredith Blake and then went back to Mrs. Crale.

That was my story as I told it at the inquest and later at the trial.

What I am about to write down I have never told to any living soul. I was not asked any question to which I returned an untrue answer. Nevertheless I was guilty of withholding certain factsâI do not repent of that. I would do it again. I am fully aware that in revealing this I may be laying myself open to censure, but I do not think that after this lapse of time anyone will take the matter very seriouslyâespecially since Caroline Crale was convicted without my evidence.

This, then, is what happened.

I met Mr. Meredith Blake as I said, and I ran down the path again as quickly as I could. I was wearing sandshoes and I have always been light on my feet. I came to the open Battery door, and this is what I saw.

Mrs. Crale was busily polishing the beer bottle on the table with her handkerchief. Having done so, she took her dead husbandâs hand and pressed the fingers of it on the beer bottle. All the time she was listening and on the alert. It was the fear I saw on her face that told me the truth.

I knew then, beyond any possible doubt, that Caroline Crale had poisoned her husband. And I, for one, do not blame her. He drove her to a point beyond human endurance, and he brought his fate upon himself.

I never mentioned the incident to Mrs. Crale and she never knew that I had seen it.

Caroline Craleâs daughter must not bolster up her life with a lie. However much it may pain her to know the truth, truth is the only thing that matters.

Tell her, from me, that her mother is not to be judged. She was driven beyond what a loving woman can endure. It is for her daughter to understand and forgive.

Â 

End of Cecilia Williamsâs Narrative.

Narrative of Angela Warren

Dear Mr. Poirot,

I am keeping my promise to you and have written down all I can remember of that terrible time sixteen years ago. But it was not until I started that I realized how very little I did remember. Until the thing actually happened, you see, there is nothing to fix anything by.

Iâve just a vague memory of summer daysâand isolated incidents, but I couldnât say for certain what summer they happened even! Amyasâs death was just a thunderclap coming out of the blue. Iâd had no warning of it, and I seem to have missed everything that led up to it.

Iâve been trying to think whether that was to be expected or not. Are most girls of fifteen as blind and deaf and obtuse as I seem to have been? Perhaps they are. I was quick, I think, to gauge peopleâs moods, but I never bothered my head about what caused those moods.

Besides, just at that time, Iâd suddenly begun to discover the intoxication of words. Things that I read, scraps of poetryâof Shakespeareâwould echo in my head. I remember now walking along the kitchen garden path repeating to myself in a kind of ecstatic delirium âunder the glassy green translucent waveââ¦It was just so lovely I had to say it over and over again.

And mixed up with these new discoveries and excitements there were all the things Iâd liked doing ever since I could remember. Swimming and climbing trees and eating fruit and playing tricks on the stable boy and feeding the horses.

Caroline and Amyas I took for granted. They were the central figures in my world, but I never thought about them or about their affairs or what they thought and felt.

I didnât notice Elsa Greerâs coming particularly. I thought she was stupid and I didnât even think she was good-looking. I accepted her as someone rich but tiresome, whom Amyas was painting.

Actually, the very first intimation I had of the whole thing was what I overheard from the terrace where I had escaped after lunch one dayâElsa said she was going to marry Amyas! It struck me as just ridiculous. I remember tackling Amyas about it. In the garden at Handcross it was. I said to him:

âWhy does Elsa say sheâs going to marry you? She couldnât. People canât have two wivesâitâs bigamy and they go to prison.â

Amyas got very angry and said: âHow the devil did you hear that?â

I said Iâd heard it through the library window.

He was angrier than ever then, and said it was high time I went to school and got out of the habit of eavesdropping.

I still remember the resentment I felt when he said that. Because it was so unfair. Absolutely and utterly unfair.

I stammered out angrily that I hadnât been listeningâand anyhow, I said, why did Elsa say a silly thing like that?

Amyas said it was just a joke.

That ought to have satisfied me. It didâalmost. But not quite.

I said to Elsa when we were on the way back: âI asked Amyas what you meant when you said you were going to marry him, and he said it was just a joke.â

I felt that ought to snub her. But she only smiled.

I didnât like that smile of hers. I went up to Carolineâs room. It was when she was dressing for dinner. I asked her then outright if it were possible for Amyas to marry Elsa.

I remember Carolineâs answer as though I heard it now. She must have spoken with great emphasis.

âAmyas will only marry Elsa after I am dead,â she said.

That reassured me completely. Death seemed ages away from us all. Nevertheless, I was still very sore with Amyas about what he had said in the afternoon, and I went for him violently all through dinner, and I remember we had a real flaming row, and I rushed out of the room and went up to bed and howled myself to sleep.

I donât remember much about the afternoon at Meredith Blakeâs, although I do remember his reading aloud the passage from the Phaedo describing Socratesâ death. I had never heard it before. I thought it was the loveliest, most beautiful thing I had ever heard. I remember thatâbut I donât remember when it was. As far as I can recall now, it might have been any time that summer.

I donât remember anything that happened the next morning either, though I have thought and thought. Iâve a vague feeling that I must have bathed, and I think I remember being made to mend something.

But itâs all very vague and dim till the time when Meredith came panting up the path from the terrace, and his face was all grey and queer. I remember a coffee cup falling off the table and being brokenâElsa did that. And I remember her runningâsuddenly running for all she was worth down the pathâand the awful look there was on her face.

I kept saying to myself: âAmyas is dead.â But it just didnât seem real.

I remember Dr. Faussett coming and his grave face. Miss Williams was busy looking after Caroline. I wandered about rather forlornly, getting in peopleâs way. I had a nasty sick feeling. They wouldnât let me go down and see Amyas. But by and by the police came and wrote down things in notebooks, and presently they brought his body up on a stretcher covered with a cloth.

Miss Williams took me into Carolineâs room later. Caroline was on the sofa. She looked very white and ill.

She kissed me and said she wanted me to go away as soon as I could, and it was all horrible, but I wasnât to worry or think about it any more than I could help. I was to join Carla at Lady Tressillianâs because this house was to be kept as empty as possible.

I clung to Caroline and said I didnât want to go away. I wanted to stay with her. She said she knew I did, but it was better for me to go away and would take a lot of worry off her mind. And Miss Williams chipped in and said:

âThe best way you can help your sister, Angela, is to do what she wants you to do without making a fuss about it.â

So I said I would do whatever Caroline wished. And Caroline said: âThatâs my darling Angela.â And she hugged me and said there was nothing to worry about, and to talk about it and think about it all as little as possible.

I had to go down and talk to a Police Superintendent. He was very kind, asked me when I had last seen Amyas and a lot of other questions which seemed to me quite pointless at the time, but which, of course, I see the point of now. He satisfied himself that there was nothing that I could tell him which he hadnât already heard from the others. So he told Miss Williams that he saw no objection to my going over to Ferriby Grange to Lady Tressillianâs.

I went there, and Lady Tressillian was very kind to me. But of course I soon had to know the truth. They arrested Caroline almost at once. I was so horrified and dumbfounded that I became quite ill.

I heard afterwards that Caroline was terribly worried about me. It was at her insistence that I was sent out of England before the trial came on. But that I have told you already.

As you see, what I have to put down is pitiably meagre. Since talking to you I have gone over the little I remember painstakingly, racking my memory for details of this or that personâs expression or reaction. I can remember nothing consistent with guilt. Elsaâs frenzy. Meredithâs grey worried face. Philipâs grief and furyâthey all seem natural enough. I suppose, though, someone could have been playing a part?

I only know this, Caroline did not do it.

I am quite certain on this point, and always shall be, but I have no evidence to offer except my own intimate knowledge of her character.

Â 

End of Angela Warrenâs Narrative.

BOOK THREE

One

CONCLUSIONS

Carla Lemarchant looked up. Her eyes were full of fatigue and pain. She pushed back the hair from her forehead in a tired gesture.

She said:

âItâs so bewildering all this.â She touched the pile of manuscripts. âBecause the angleâs different every time! Everybody sees my mother differently. But the facts are the same. Everyone agrees on the facts.â

âIt has discouraged you, reading them?â

âYes. Hasnât it discouraged you?â

âNo, I have found those documents very valuableâvery informative.â

Poirot spoke slowly and reflectively.

Carla said:

âI wish Iâd never read them!â

Poirot looked across at her.

âAhâso it makes you feel that way?â

Carla said bitterly:

âThey all think she did itâall of them except Aunt Angela and what she thinks doesnât count. She hasnât got any reason for it. Sheâs just one of those loyal people whoâll stick to a thing through thick and thin. She just goes on saying: âCaroline couldnât have done it.â

âIt strikes you like that?â

âHow else should it strike me? Iâve realized, you know, that if my mother didnât do it, then one of these five people must have done it. Iâve even had theories as to why.â

âAh! That is interesting. Tell me.â

âOh, they were only theories. Philip Blake, for instance. Heâs a stockbroker, he was my fatherâs best friendâprobably my father trusted him. And artists are usually careless about money matters. Perhaps Philip Blake was in a jam and used my fatherâs money. He may have got my father to sign something. Then the whole thing may have been on the point of coming outâand only my fatherâs death could have saved him. Thatâs one of the things I thought of.â

âNot badly imagined at all. What else?â

âWell, thereâs Elsa. Philip Blake says here she had her head screwed on too well to meddle with poison, but I donât think thatâs true at all. Supposing my mother had gone to her and told her that she wouldnât divorce my fatherâthat nothing would induce her to divorce him. You may say what you like, but I think Elsa had a bourgeois mindâshe wanted to be respectably married. I think that then Elsa would have been perfectly capable of pinching the stuffâshe had just as good a chance that afternoonâand might have tried to get my mother out of the way by poisoning her. I think that would be quite like Elsa. And then, possibly, by some awful accident, Amyas got the stuff instead of Caroline.â

âAgain it is not badly imagined. What else?â

Carla said slowly:

âWell, I thoughtâperhapsâMeredith!â

âAhâMeredith Blake?â

âYes. You see, he sounds to me just the sort of person who would do a murder. I mean, he was the slow dithering one the others laughed at, and underneath, perhaps, he resented that. Then my father married the girl he wanted to marry. And my father was successful and rich. And he did make all those poisons! Perhaps he really made them because he liked the idea of being able to kill someone one day. He had to call attention to the stuff being taken, so as to divert suspicion from himself. But he himself was far the most likely person to have taken it. He might, even, have liked getting Caroline hangedâbecause she turned him down long ago. I think, you know, itâs rather fishy what he says in his account of it allâhow people do things that arenât characteristic of them. Supposing he meant himself when he wrote that?â

Hercule Poirot said:

âYou are at least right in thisânot to take what has been written down as necessarily a true narrative. What has been written may have been written deliberately to mislead.â

âOh, I know. Iâve kept that in mind.â

âAny other ideas?â

Carla said slowly:

âI wonderedâbefore Iâd read thisâabout Miss Williams. She lost her job, you see, when Angela went to school. And if Amyas had died suddenly, Angela probably wouldnât have gone after all. I mean if it passed off as a natural deathâwhich it easily might have done, I suppose, if Meredith hadnât missed the coniine. I read up coniine, and it hasnât got any distinctive postmortem appearances. It might have been thought to be sunstroke. I know that just losing a job doesnât sound a very adequate motive for murder. But murders have been committed again and again for what seem ridiculously inadequate motives. Tiny sums of money sometimes. And a middle-aged, perhaps rather incompetent governess might have got the wind up and just seen no future ahead of her.

âAs I say, thatâs what I thought before I read this. But Miss Williams doesnât sound like that at all. She doesnât sound in the least incompetentââ

âNot at all. She is still a very efficient and intelligent woman.â

âI know. One can see that. And she sounds absolutely trustworthy too. Thatâs what has upset me really. Oh, you knowâyou understand. You donât mind, of course. All along youâve made it clear it was the truth you wanted. I suppose now weâve got the truth! Miss Williams is quite right. One must accept truth. Itâs no good basing your life on a lie because itâs what you want to believe. All right thenâI can take it! My mother wasnât innocent! She wrote me that letter because she was weak and unhappy and wanted to spare me. I donât judge her. Perhaps I should feel like that too. I donât know what prison does to you. And I donât blame her eitherâif she felt so desperately about my father, I suppose she couldnât help herself. But I donât blame my father altogether either. I understandâjust a littleâhow he felt. So aliveâand so full of wanting everythingâ¦He couldnât help itâhe was made that way. And he was a great painter. I think that excuses a lot.â

She turned her flushed excited face to Hecule Poirot with her chin raised defiantly.

Hercule Poirot said:

âSoâyou are satisfied?â

âSatisfied?â said Carla Lemarchant. Her voice broke on the word.

Poirot leant forward and patted her paternally on the shoulder.

âListen,â he said. âYou give up the fight at the moment when it is most worth fighting. At the moment when I, Hercule Poirot, have a very good idea of what really happened.â

Carla stared at him. She said:

âMiss Williams loved my mother. She saw herâwith her own eyesâfaking that suicide evidence. If you believe what she saysââ

Hercule Poirot got up. He said:

âMademoiselle, because Cecilia Williams says she saw your mother faking Amyas Craleâs fingerprints on the beer bottleâon the beer bottle, mindâthat is the only thing I need to tell me definitely, once for all, that your mother did not kill your father.â

He nodded his head several times and went out of the room, leaving Carla staring after him.

Two

POIROT ASKS FIVE QUESTIONS

I

âWell, Mr. Poirot?â

Philip Blakeâs tone was impatient.

Poirot said:

âI have to thank you for your admirable and lucid account of the Crale tragedy.â

Philip Blake looked rather self-conscious.

âVery kind of you,â he murmured. âReally surprising how much I remembered when I got down to it.â

Poirot said:

âIt was an admirably clear narrative, but there were certain omissions, were there not?â

âOmissionsâ Philip Blake frowned.

Hercule Poirot said:

âYour narrative, shall we say, was not entirely frank.â His tone hardened. âI have been informed, Mr. Blake, that on at least one night during the summer, Mrs. Crale was seen coming out of your room at a somewhat compromising hour.â

There was a silence broken only by Philip Blakeâs heavy breathing. He said at last: âWho told you that?â

Hercule Poirot shook his head.

âIt is no matter who told me. That I know, that is the point.â

Again there was a silence; then Philip Blake made up his mind. He said:

âBy accident, it seems, you have stumbled upon a purely private matter. I admit that it does not square with what I have written down. Nevertheless, it squares better than you might think. I am forced now to tell you the truth.

âI did entertain a feeling of animosity toward Caroline Crale. At the same time I was always strongly attracted by her. Perhaps the latter fact induced the former. I resented the power she had over me and tried to stifle the attraction she had for me by constantly dwelling on her worst points. I never liked her, if you understand. But it would have been easy at any moment for me to make love to her. I had been in love with her as a boy and she had taken no notice of me. I did not find that easy to forgive.

âMy opportunity came when Amyas lost his head so completely over the Greer girl. Quite without meaning to I found myself telling Caroline I loved her. She said quite calmly: âYes, I have always known that.â The insolence of the woman!

âOf course I knew that she didnât love me, but I saw that she was disturbed and disillusioned by Amyasâs present infatuation. That is a mood when a woman can very easily be won. She agreed to come to me that night. And she came.â

Blake paused. He found now a difficulty in getting the words out.

âShe came to my room. And then, with my arms round her, she told me quite coolly that it was no good! After all, she said, she was a one-man woman. She was Amyas Craleâs, for better or worse. She agreed that she had treated me very badly, but said she couldnât help it. She asked me to forgive her.

âAnd she left me. She left me! Do you wonder, Mr. Poirot, that my hatred of her was heightened a hundredfold? Do you wonder that I have never forgiven her? For the insult she did meâas well as for the fact that she killed the friend I loved better than anyone in the world!â

Trembling violently, Philip Blake exclaimed:

âI donât want to speak of it, do you hear? Youâve got your answer. Now go! And never mention the matter to me again!â

II

âI want to know, Mr. Blake, the order in which your guests left the laboratory that day?â

Meredith Blake protested.

âBut, my dear Mr. Poirot. After sixteen years! How can I possibly remember? Iâve told you that Caroline came out last.â

âYou are sure of that?â

âYesâat leastâI think soâ¦.â

âLet us go there now. We must be quite sure, you see.â

Still protesting, Meredith Blake led the way. He unlocked the door and swung back the shutters. Poirot spoke to him authoritatively.

âNow then, my friend. You have showed your visitors your interesting preparations of herbs. Shut your eyes now and thinkââ

Meredith Blake did so obediently. Poirot drew a handkerchief from his pocket and gently passed it to and fro. Blake murmured, his nostrils twitching slightly:

âYes, yesâextraordinary how things come back to one. Caroline, I remember, had on a pale coffee-coloured dress. Phil was looking boredâ¦He always thought my hobby was quite idiotic.â

Poirot said:

âReflect now, you are about to leave the room. You are going to the library where you are going to read the passage about the death of Socrates. Who leaves the room firstâdo you?â

âElsa and Iâyes. She passed through the door first. I was close behind her. We were talking. I stood there waiting for the others to come so that I could lock the door again. Philipâyes, Philip came out next. And Angelaâshe was asking him what bulls and bears were. They went on through the hall. Amyas followed them. I stood there waiting stillâfor Caroline, of course.â

âSo you are quite sure Caroline stayed behind. Did you see what she was doing?â

Blake shook his head.

âNo, I had my back to the room, you see. I was talking to Elsaâboring her, I expectâtelling her how certain plants must be gathered at the full of the moon according to old superstition. And then Caroline came outâhurrying a littleâand I locked the door.â

He stopped and looked at Poirot, who was replacing a handkerchief in his pocket. Meredith Blake sniffled disgustedly and thought: âWhy, the fellow actually uses scent!â

Aloud he said:

âI am quite sure of it. That was the order. Elsa, myself, Philip, Angela and Caroline. Does that help you at all?â

Poirot said:

âIt all fits in. Listen. I want to arrange a meeting here. It will not, I think, be difficultâ¦.â

III

âWell?â

Elsa Dittisham said it almost eagerlyâlike a child.

âI want to ask you a question, madame.â

âYes?â

Poirot said:

âAfter it was all overâthe trial, I meanâdid Meredith Blake ask you to marry him?â

Elsa stared. She looked contemptuousâalmost bored.

âYesâhe did. Why?â

âWere you surprised?â

âWas I? I donât remember.â

âWhat did you say?â

Elsa laughed. She said:

âWhat do you think I said? After AmyasâMeredith? It would have been ridiculous! It was stupid of him. He always was rather stupid.â

She smiled suddenly.

âHe wanted, you know, to protect meâto âlook after meââthatâs how he put it! He thought like everybody else that the Assizes had been a terrible ordeal for me. And the reporters! And the booing crowds! And all the mud that was slung at me.â

She brooded a minute. Then said:

âPoor old Meredith! Such an ass!â And laughed again.

IV

Once again Hercule Poirot encountered the shrewd penetrating glance of Miss Williams, and once again felt the years falling away and himself a meek and apprehensive little boy.

There was, he explained, a question he wished to ask.

Miss Williams intimated her willingness to hear what the question was.

Poirot said slowly, picking his words carefully:

âAngela Warren was injured as a very young child. In my notes I find two references to that fact. In one of them it is stated that Mrs. Crale threw a paperweight at the child. In the other that she attacked the baby with a crowbar. Which of those versions is the right one?â

Miss Williams replied briskly:

âI never heard anything about a crowbar. The paperweight is the correct story.â

âWho was your own informant?â

âAngela herself. She volunteered the information quite early.â

âWhat did she say exactly?â

âShe touched her cheek and said: âCaroline did this when I was a baby. She threw a paperweight at me. Never refer to it, will you, because it upsets her dreadfully.ââ

âDid Mrs. Crale herself ever mention the matter to you?â

âOnly obliquely. She assumed that I knew the story. I remember her saying once: âI know you think I spoil Angela, but you see, I always feel there is nothing I can do to make up to her for what I did.â And on another occasion she said: âTo know you have permanently injured another human being is the heaviest burden anyone could have to bear.ââ

âThank you, Miss Williams. That is all I wanted to know.â

Cecilia Williams said sharply:

âI donât understand you, Mr. Poirot. You showed Carla my account of the tragedy?â

Poirot nodded.

âAnd yet you are stillââ She stopped.

Poirot said:

âReflect a minute. If you were to pass a fishmongerâs and saw twelve fish laid out on his slab, you would think they were all real fish, would you not? But one of them might be stuffed fish.â

Miss Williams replied with spirit:

âMost unlikely and anywayââ

âAh, unlikely, yes, but not impossibleâbecause a friend of mine once took down a stuffed fish (it was his trade, you comprehend) to compare it with the real thing! And if you saw a bowl of zinnias in a drawing room in December you would say that they were falseâbut they might be real ones flown home from Baghdad.â

âWhat is the meaning of all this nonsense?â demanded Miss Williams.

âIt is to show you that it is the eyes of the mind with which one really seesâ¦.â

V

Poirot slowed up a little as he approached the big block of flats overlooking Regentâs Park.

Really, when he came to think of it, he did not want to ask Angela Warren any questions at all. The only question he did want to ask her could waitâ¦.

No, it was really only his insatiable passion for symmetry that was bringing him here. Five peopleâthere should be five questions! It was neater so. It rounded off the thing better.

Ah wellâhe would think of something.

Angela Warren greeted him with something closely approaching eagerness. She said:

âHave you found out anything? Have you got anywhere?â

Slowly Poirot nodded his head in his best China mandarin manner. He said:

âAt last I make progress.â

âPhilip Blake?â It was halfway between statement and a question.

âMademoiselle, I do not wish to say anything at present. The moment has not yet come. What I will ask of you is to be so good as to come down to Handcross Manor. The others have consented.â

She said with a slight frown:

âWhat do you propose to do? Reconstruct something that happened sixteen years ago?â

âSee it, perhaps, from a clearer angle. You will come?â

Angela Warren said slowly:

âOh, yes, Iâll come. It will be interesting to see all those people again. I shall see them now, perhaps, from a clearer angle (as you put it) than I did then.â

âAnd you will bring with you the letter that you showed me?â

Angela Warren frowned.

âThat letter is my own. I showed it to you for a good and sufficient reason, but I have no intention of allowing it to be read by strange and unsympathetic persons.â

âBut you will allow yourself to be guided by me in this matter?â

âI will do nothing of the kind. I will bring the letter with me, but I shall use my own judgement which I venture to think is quite as good as yours.â

Poirot spread out his hands in a gesture of resignation. He got up to go. He said:

âYou permit that I ask one little question?â

âWhat is it?â

âAt the time of the tragedy, you had lately read, had you not, Somerset Maughamâs The Moon and Sixpence?â

Angela stared at him. Then she said:

âI believeâwhy, yes, that is quite true.â She looked at him with frank curiosity. âHow did you know?â

âI want to show you, mademoiselle, that even in a small unimportant matter, I am something of a magician. There are things I know without having to be told.â

Three

RECONSTRUCTION

The afternoon sun shone into the laboratory at Handcross Manor. Some easy chairs and a settee had been brought into the room, but they served more to emphasize its forlorn aspect than to furnish it.

Slightly embarrassed, pulling at his moustache, Meredith Blake talked to Carla in a desultory way. He broke off once to say: âMy dear, you are very like your motherâand yet unlike her, too.â

Carla asked: âHow am I like her and how unlike?â

âYou have her colouring and her way of moving, but you areâhow shall I put itâmore positive than she ever was.â

Philip Blake, a scowl creasing over his forehead, looked out of the window and drummed impatiently on the pane. He said:

âWhatâs the sense of all this? A perfectly fine Saturday afternoonââ

Hercule Poirot hastened to pour oil on troubled waters.

âAh, I apologizeâit is, I know, unpardonable to disarrange the golf. Mais voyons, Mr. Blake, this is the daughter of your best friend. You will stretch a point for her, will you not?â

The butler announced: âMiss Warren.â

Meredith went to welcome her. He said: âItâs good of you to spare the time, Angela. Youâre busy, I know.â

He led her over to the window.

Carla said: âHallo, Aunt Angela. I read your article in The Times this morning. Itâs nice to have a distinguished relative.â She indicated the tall, square-jawed young man with the steady grey eyes. âThis is John Rattery. He and Iâhopeâto be married.â

Angela Warren said: âOh!âI didnât knowâ¦.â

Meredith went to greet the next arrival.

âWell, Miss Williams, itâs a good many years since we met.â

Thin, frail and indomitable, the elderly governess advanced up the room. Her eyes rested thoughtfully on Poirot for a minute, then they went to the tall, square-shouldered figure in the well-cut tweeds.

Angela Warren came forward to meet her and said with a smile: âI feel like a schoolgirl again.â

âIâm very proud of you, my dear,â said Miss Williams. âYouâve done me credit. This is Carla, I suppose? She wonât remember me. She was too youngâ¦.â

Philip Blake said fretfully: âWhat is all this? Nobody told meââ

Hercule Poirot said: âI call itâmeâan excursion into the past. Shall we not all sit down? Then we shall be ready when the last guest arrives. And when she is here we can proceed to our businessâto lay the ghosts.â

Philip Blake exclaimed: âWhat tomfoolery is this? Youâre not going to hold a sÃ©ance, are you?â

âNo, no. We are only going to discuss some events that happened long agoâto discuss them and, perhaps, to see more clearly the course of them. As to the ghosts, they will not materialize, but who is to say they are not here, in this room, although we cannot see them. Who is to say that Amyas and Caroline Crale are not hereâlistening?â

Philip Blake said: âAbsurd nonsenseââ and broke off as the door opened again and the butler announced Lady Dittisham.

Elsa Dittisham came in with that faint, bored insolence that was a characteristic of her. She gave Meredith a slight smile, stared coldly at Angela and Philip, and went over to a chair by the window a little apart from the others. She loosened the rich pale furs round her neck and let them fall back. She looked for a minute or two about the room, then at Carla, and the girl stared back, thoughtfully appraising the woman who had wrought the havoc in her parentsâ lives. There was no animosity in her young earnest face, only curiosity.

Elsa said: âI am sorry if I am late, Mr. Poirot.â

âIt was very good of you to come, madame.â

Cecilia Williams snorted ever so slightly. Elsa met the animosity in her eyes with a complete lack of interest. She said:

âI wouldnât have known you, Angela. How long is it? Sixteen years?â

Hercule Poirot seized his opportunity.

âYes, it is sixteen years since the events of which we are to speak, but let me first tell you why we are here.â

And in a few simple words he outlined Carlaâs appeal to him and his acceptance of the task.

He went on quickly, ignoring the gathering storm visible on Philipâs face, and the shocked distaste on Meredithâs.

âI accepted that commisionâI set to work to find outâthe truth.â

Carla Lemarchant, in the big grandfather chair, heard Poirotâs words dimly, from a distance.

With her hand shielding her eyes she studied five faces, surreptitiously. Could she see any of these people committing murder? The exotic Elsa, the red-faced Philip, dear, nice, kind Mr. Meredith Blake, that grim tartar of a governess, the cool, competent Angela Warren?

Could sheâif she tried hardâvisualize one of them killing someone? Yes, perhapsâbut it wouldnât be the right kind of murder. She could picture Philip Blake, in an outburst of fury, strangling some womenâyes, she could picture thatâ¦And she could picture Meredith Blake, threatening a burglar with a revolverâand letting it off by accident. And she could picture Angela Warren, also firing a revolver, but not by accident. With no personal feeling in the matterâthe safety of the expedition depended on it! And Elsa, in some fantastic castle, saying from her couch of oriental silks: âThrow the wretch over the battlements!â All wild fanciesâand not even in the wildest flight of fancy could she imagine little Miss Williams killing anybody at all! Another fantastic picture: âDid you ever kill anybody, Miss Williams?â âGo on with your arithmetic, Carla, and donât ask silly questions. To kill anybody is very wicked.â

Carla thought: âI must be illâand I must stop this. Listen, you fool, listen to that little man who says he knows.â

Hercule Poirot was talking.

âThat was my taskâto put myself in reverse gear, as it were, and go back through the years and discover what really happened.â

Philip Blake said: âWe all know what happened. To pretend anything else is a swindleâthatâs what it is, a bare-faced swindle. Youâre getting money out of this girl on false pretences.â

Poirot did not allow himself to be angered. He said:

âYou say, we all know what happened. You speak without reflection. The accepted version of certain facts is not necessarily the true one. On the face of it, for instance, you, Mr. Blake, disliked Caroline Crale. That is the accepted version of your attitude. But anyone with the least flair for psychology can perceive at once that the exact opposite was the truth. You were always violently attracted towards Caroline Crale. You resented the fact, and tried to conquer it by steadfastly telling yourself her defects and reiterating your dislike. In the same way, Mr. Meredith Blake had a tradition of devotion to Caroline Crale lasting over many years. In his story of the tragedy he represents himself as resenting Amyas Craleâs conduct on her account, but you have only to read carefully between the lines and you will see that the devotion of a lifetime had worn itself thin and that it was the young, beautiful Elsa Greer that was occupying his mind and thoughts.â

There was a splutter from Meredith, and Lady Dittisham smiled.

Poirot went on.

âI mention these matters only as illustrations, though they have their bearing on what happened. Very well, then, I start on my backward journeyâto learn everything I can about the tragedy. I will tell you how I set about it. I talked to the Counsel who defended Caroline Crale, to the Junior Counsel for the Crown, to the old solicitor who had known the Crale family intimately, to the lawyerâs clerk who had been in court during the trial, to the police officer in charge of the caseâand I came finally to the five eyewitnesses who had been upon the scene. And from all of these I put together a pictureâa composite picture of a woman. And I learned these facts:

âThat at no time did Caroline Crale protest her innocence (except in that one letter written to her daughter).

âThat Caroline Crale showed no fear in the dock, that she showed, in fact, hardly any interest, that she adopted throughout a thoroughly defeatist attitude. That in prison she was quiet and serene. That in a letter she wrote to her sister immediately after the verdict, she expressed herself as acquiescent in the fate that had overtaken her. And in the opinion of everyone I talked to (with one notable exception) Caroline Crale was guilty.â

Philip Blake nodded his head. âOf course she was!â

Hercule Poirot said:

âBut it was not my part to accept the verdict of others. I had to examine the evidence for myself. To examine the facts and to satisfy myself that the psychology of the case accorded itself with them. To do this I went over the police files carefully, and I also succeeded in getting five people who were on the spot to write me out their own accounts of the tragedy. These accounts were very valuable for they contained certain matter which the police files could not give meâthat is to say: A, certain conversations and incidents which, from the police point of view, were not relevant; B, the opinions of the people themselves as to what Caroline Crale was thinking and feeling (not admissible legally as evidence); C, certain facts which had been deliberately withheld from the police.

âI was in a position now to judge the case for myself. There seems no doubt whatever that Caroline Crale had ample motive for the crime. She loved her husband, he had publicly admitted that he was about to leave her for another woman, and by her own admission she was a jealous woman.

âTo come from motives to means, an empty scent bottle that had contained coniine was found in her bureau drawer. There were no fingerprints upon it but hers. When asked about it by the police, she admitted taking it from this room we are in now. The coniine bottle here also had her fingerprints upon it. I questioned Mr. Meredith Blake as to the order in which the five people left this room on that dayâfor it seemed to me hardly conceivable that anyone should be able to help themselves to the poison whilst five people were in the room. The people left the room in this orderâElsa Greer, Meredith Blake, Angela Warren and Philip Blake, Amyas Crale, and lastly Caroline Crale. Moreover, Mr. Meredith Blake has his back to the room whilst he was waiting for Mrs. Crale to come out, so that it was impossible for him to see what she was doing. She had, that is to say, the opportunity. I am therefore satisfied that she did take the coniine. There is indirect confirmation of it. Mr. Meredith Blake said to me the other day: âI can remember standing here and smelling the jasmine through the open window.â But the month was September, and the jasmine creeper outside that window would have finished flowering. It is the ordinary jasmine which blooms in June and July. But the scent bottle found in her room and which contained the dregs of coniine had originally contained jasmine scent. I take it as certain, then, that Mrs. Crale decided to steal the coniine, and surreptitiously emptied out the scent from a bottle she had in her bag.

âI tested that a second time the other day when I asked Mr. Blake to shut his eyes and try and remember the order of leaving the room. A whiff of jasmine scent stimulated his memory immediately. We are all more influenced by smell than we know.

âSo we come to the morning of the fatal day. So far the facts are not in dispute. Miss Greerâs sudden revealing of the fact that she and Mr. Crale contemplate marriage, Amyas Craleâs confirmation of that, and Caroline Craleâs deep distress. None of these things depend on the evidence of one witness only.

âOn the following morning there is a scene between husband and wife in the library. The first thing that is overheard is Caroline Crale saying: âYou and your women!â in a bitter voice, and finally going on to say, âSome day Iâll kill you.â Philip Blake overheard this from the hall. And Miss Greer overheard it from the terrace outside.

âShe then heard Mr. Crale ask his wife to be reasonable. And she heard Mrs. Crale say: âSooner than let you go to that girlâIâll kill you.â Soon after this Amyas Crale comes out and brusquely tells Elsa Greer to come down and pose for him. She gets a pullover and accompanies him.

âThere is nothing so far that seems psychologically incorrect. Every one has behaved as they might be expected to behave. But we come now to something that is incongruous.

âMeredith Blake discovers his loss, telephones his brother; they meet down at the landing stage and they come up past the Battery garden, where Caroline Crale is having a discussion with her husband on the subject of Angelaâs going to school. Now that does strike me as very odd. Husband and wife have a terrific scene, ending in a distinct threat on Carolineâs part, and yet, twenty minutes or so later, she goes down and starts a trivial domestic argument.â

Poirot turned to Meredith Blake.

âYou speak in your narrative of certain words you overheard Crale say. These were: âItâs all settledâIâll see to her packing.â That is right?â

Meredith Blake said: âIt was something like thatâyes.â

Poirot turned to Philip Blake.

âIs your recollection the same?â

The latter frowned.

âI didnât remember it till you say soâbut I do remember now. Something was said about packing!â

âSaid by Mr. Craleânot Mrs. Crale?â

âAmyas said it. All I heard Caroline say was something about its being very hard on the girl. Anyway, what does all this matter? We all know Angela was off to school in a day or two.â

Poirot said: âYou do not see the force of my objection. Why should Amyas Crale pack for the girl? It is absurd, that! There was Mrs. Crale, there was Miss Williams, there was a housemaid. It is a womanâs job to packânot a manâs.â

Philip Blake said impatiently:

âWhat does it matter? Itâs nothing to do with the crime.â

âYou think not? For me, it was the first point that struck me as suggestive. And it is immediately followed by another. Mrs. Crale, a desperate woman, broken-hearted, who has threatened her husband a short while before and who is certainly contemplating either suicide or murder, now offers in the most amicable manner to bring her husband down some iced beer.â

Meredith Blake said slowly: âThat isnât odd if she was contemplating murder. Then, surely, it is just what she would do. Dissimulate!â

âYou think so? She has decided to poison her husband, she has already got the poison. Her husband keeps a supply of beer down in the Battery garden. Surely if she has any intelligence at all, she will put the poison in one of those bottles at a moment when there is no one about.â

Meredith Blake objected.

âShe couldnât have done that. Somebody else might have drunk it.â

âYes, Elsa Greer. Do you tell me that having made up her mind to murder her husband, Caroline Crale would have scruples against killing the girl too?

âBut let us not argue the point. Let us confine ourselves to facts. Caroline Crale says she will send her husband down some iced beer. She goes up to the house, fetches a bottle from the conservatory where it was kept and takes it down to him. She pours it out and gives it to him.

âAmyas Crale drinks it off and says: âEverything tastes foul today.â

âMrs. Crale goes up again to the house. She has lunch and appears much as usual. It has been said of her that she looks a little worried and preoccupied. That does not help usâfor there is no criterion of behaviour for a murderer. There are calm murderers and excited murderers.

âAfter lunch she goes down again to the Battery. She discovers her husband dead and does, shall we say, the obviously expected things. She registers emotion and she sends the governess to telephone for a doctor. We now come to a fact which has previously not been known.â He looked at Miss Williams. âYou do not object?â

Miss Williams was rather pale. She said: âI did not pledge you to secrecy.â

Quietly, but with telling effect, Poirot recounted what the governess had seen.

Elsa Dittisham moved her position. She stared at the drab little woman in the big chair. She said incredibly:

âYou actually saw her do that?â

Philip Blake sprang up.

âBut that settles it!â he shouted. âThat settles it once and for all.â

Hercule Poirot looked at him mildly. He said: âNot necessarily.â

Angela Warren said sharply: âI donât believe it.â There was a quick hostile glint in the glance she shot at the little governess.

Meredith Blake was pulling at his moustache, his face dismayed. Alone, Miss Williams remained undisturbed. She sat very upright and there was a spot of colour in each cheek.

She said: âThat is what I saw.â

Poirot said slowly: âThere is, of course, only your word for itâ¦.â

âThere is only my word for it.â The indomitable grey eyes met his. âI am not accustomed, Mr. Poirot, to having my word doubted.â

Hercule Poirot bowed his head. He said:

âI do not doubt your word, Miss Williams. What you saw took place exactly as you say it didâand because of what you saw I realized that Caroline Crale was not guiltyâcould not possibly be guilty.â

For the first time, that tall, anxious-faced young man, John Rattery, spoke. He said: âIâd be interested to know why you say that, Mr. Poirot.â

Poirot turned to him.

âCertainly. I will tell you. What did Miss Williams seeâshe saw Caroline Crale very carefully and anxiously wiping off fingerprints and subsequently imposing her dead husbandâs fingerprints on the beer bottle. On the beer bottle, mark. But the coniine was in the glassânot in the bottle. The police found no traces of coniine in the bottle. There had never been any coniine in the bottle. And Caroline Crale didnât know that.

âShe who is supposed to have poisoned her husband didnât know how he had been poisoned. She thought the poison was in the bottle.â

Meredith objected: âBut whyââ

Poirot interrupted him in a flash.

âYesâwhy? Why did Caroline Crale try so desperately to establish the theory of suicide? The answer isâmust beâquite simple. Because she knew who had poisoned him and she was willing to do anythingâendure anythingârather than let that person be suspected.

âThere is not far to go now. Who could that person be? Would she have shielded Philip Blake? Or Meredith? Or Elsa Greer? Or Cecilia Williams? No, there is only one person whom she would be willing to protect at all costs.â

He paused: âMiss Warren, if you have brought your sisterâs last letter with you, I should like to read it aloud.â

Angela Warren said: âNo.â

âBut, Miss Warrenââ

Angela got up. Her voice rang out, cold as steel.

âI realize very well what you are suggesting. You are saying, are you not, that I killed Amyas Crale and that my sister knew it. I deny that allegation utterly.â

Poirot said: âThe letterâ¦.â

âThat letter was meant for my eyes alone.â

Poirot looked to where the two youngest people in the room stood together.

Carla Lemarchant said: âPlease, Aunt Angela, wonât you do as Mr. Poirot asks?â

Angela Warren said bitterly: âReally, Carla! Have you no sense of decency? She was your motherâyouââ

Carlaâs voice rang out clear and fierce.

âYes, she was my mother. Thatâs why Iâve a right to ask you. Iâm speaking for her. I want that letter read.â

Slowly, Angela Warren took out the letter from her bag and handed it to Poirot. She said bitterly:

âI wish I had never shown it to you.â

Turning away from them she stood looking out of the window.

As Hercule Poirot read aloud Caroline Craleâs last letter, the shadows were deepening in the corners of the room. Carla had a sudden feeling of someone in the room, gathering shape, listening, breathing, waiting. She thought: âSheâs hereâmy motherâs here. CarolineâCaroline Crale is here in this room!â

Hercule Poirotâs voice ceased. He said:

âYou will all agree, I think, that that is a very remarkable letter. A beautiful letter, too, but certainly remarkable. For there is one striking omission in itâit contains no protestation of innocence.â

Angela Warren said without turning her head: âThat was unnecessary.â

âYes, Miss Warren, it was unnecessary. Caroline Crale had no need to tell her sister that she was innocentâbecause she thought her sister knew that fact alreadyâknew it for the best of all reasons. All Caroline Crale was concerned about was to comfort and reassure and to avert the possibility of a confession from Angela. She reiterates again and againâItâs all right, darling, itâs all right.â

Angela Warren said: âCanât you understand? She wanted me to be happy, thatâs all.â

âYes, she wanted you to be happy, that is abundantly clear. It is her one preoccupation. She has a child, but it is not that child of whom she is thinkingâthat is to come later. No, it is her sister who occupies her mind to the exclusion of everything else. Her sister must be reassured, must be encouraged to live her life, to be happy and successful. And so that the burden of acceptance may not be too great, Caroline includes that one very significant phrase: âOne must pay oneâs debts.â

âThat one phrase explains everything. It refers explicitly to the burden that Caroline has carried for so many years ever since, in a fit of uncontrolled adolescent rage, she hurled a paperweight at her baby sister and injured that sister for life. Now, at last, she has the opportunity to pay the debt she owes. And if it is any consolation, I will say to you all that I earnestly believe that in the payment of that debt, Caroline Crale did achieve a peace and serenity greater than any she had ever known. Because of her belief that she was paying that debt, the ordeal of trial and condemnation could not touch her. It is a strange thing to say of a condemned murderessâbut she had everything to make her happy. Yes, more than you imagine, as I will show you presently.

âSee how, by this explanation, everything falls into its place where Carolineâs own reactions are concerned. Look at the series of events from her point of view. To begin with, on the preceding evening, an event occurs which reminds her forcibly of her own undisciplined girlhood. Angela throws a paperweight at Amyas Crale. That, remember, is what she herself did many years ago. Angela shouts out that she wishes Amyas was dead. Then, on the next morning, Caroline comes into the little conservatory and finds Angela tampering with the beer. Remember Miss Williamsâs words: âAngela was there. She looked guiltyâ¦â Guilty of playing truant, was what Miss Williams meant, but to Caroline, Angelaâs guilty face, as she was caught unawares, would have a different meaning. Remember that on at least one occasion before Angela had put things in Amyasâs drink. It was an idea which might readily occur to her.

âCaroline takes the bottle that Angela gives her and goes down with it to the Battery. And there she pours it out and gives it to Amyas, and he makes a face as he tosses it off and utters those significant words: âEverything tastes foul today.â

âCaroline has no suspicions thenâbut after lunch she goes down to the Battery and finds her husband deadâand she has no doubt at all but that he has been poisoned. She had not done it. Who, then, has? And the whole thing comes over her with a rushâAngelaâs threats, Angelaâs face stooping over the beer and caught unawaresâguiltyâguiltyâguilty. Why has the child done it? As a revenge on Amyas, perhaps not meaning to kill, just to make him ill or sick? Or has she done it for her, Carolineâs sake? Has she realized and resented Amyasâs desertion of her sister? Caroline remembersâoh, so wellâher own undisciplined violent emotions at Angelaâs age. And only one thought springs to her mind. How can she protect Angela? Angela handled that bottleâAngelaâs fingerprints will be on it. She quickly wipes it and polishes it. If only everybody can be got to believe it is suicide. If Amyasâs fingerprints are the only ones found. She tries to fit his dead fingers round the bottleâworking desperatelyâlistening for someone to comeâ¦.

âOnce take that assumption as true, and everything from then on fits in. Her anxiety about Angela all along, her insistence on getting her away, keeping her out of touch with what was going on. Her fear of Angelaâs being questioned unduly by the police. Finally, her overwhelming anxiety to get Angela out of England before the trial comes on. Because she is always terrified that Angela might break down and confess.â

Four

TRUTH

Slowly, Angela Warren swung round. Her eyes, hard and contemptuous, ranged over the faces turned towards her.

She said:

âYouâre blind foolsâall of you. Donât you know that if I had done it I would have confessed! Iâd never have let Caroline suffer for what Iâd done. Never!â

Poirot said:

âBut you did tamper with the beer.â

âI? Tamper with the beer?â

Poirot turned to Meredith Blake.

âListen, monsieur. In your account here of what happened, you describe having heard sounds in this room, which is below your bedroom, on the morning of the crime.â

Blake nodded.

âBut it was only a cat.â

âHow do you know it was a cat?â

âIâI canât remember. But it was a cat. I am quite sure it was a cat. The window was open just wide enough for a cat to get through.â

âBut it was not fixed in that position. The sash moves freely. It could have been pushed up and a human being could have got in and out.â

âYes, but I know it was a cat.â

âYou did not see a cat?â

Blake said perplexedly and slowly:

âNo, I did not see itââ He paused, frowning. âAnd yet I know.â

âI will tell you why you know presently. In the meantime I put this point to you. Someone could have come up to the house that morning, have got into your laboratory, taken something from the shelf and gone again without your seeing them. Now if that someone had come over from Alderbury it could not have been Philip Blake, nor Elsa Greer, nor Amyas Crale nor Caroline Crale. We know quite well what all those four were doing. That leaves Angela Warren and Miss Williams. Miss Williams was over hereâyou actually met her as you went out. She told you then that she was looking for Angela. Angela had gone bathing early, but Miss Williams did not see her in the water, nor anywhere on the rocks. She could swim across to this side easilyâin fact she did so later in the morning when she was bathing with Philip Blake. I suggest that she swam across here, came up to the house, got in through the window, and took something from the shelf.â

Angela Warren said: âI did nothing of the kindânotâat leastââ

âAh!â Poirot gave a yelp of triumph. âYou have remembered. You told me, did you not, that to play a malicious joke on Amyas Crale you pinched some of what you called âthe cat stuffââthat is how you put itââ

Meredith Blake said sharply:

âValerian! Of course.â

âExactly. That is what made you sure in your mind that it was a cat who had been in the room. Your nose is very sensitive. You smelled the faint, unpleasant odour of valerian without knowing, perhaps, that you did soâbut it suggested to your subconscious mind âCat.â Cats love valerian and will go anywhere for it. Valerian is particularly nasty to taste, and it was your account of it the day before which made mischievous Miss Angela plan to put some in her brother-in-lawâs beer, which she knew he always tossed down his throat in a draught.â

Angela Warren said wonderingly: âWas it really that day? I remember taking it perfectly. Yes, and I remember getting out the beer and Caroline coming in and nearly catching me! Of course I rememberâ¦But Iâve never connected it with that particular day.â

âOf course notâbecause there was no connection in your mind. The two events were entirely dissimilar to you. One was on a par with other mischievous pranksâthe other was a bombshell of tragedy arriving without warning and succeeding in banishing all lesser incidents from your mind. But me, I noticed when you spoke of it that you said: âI pinched, etc., etc., to put it in Amyasâs drink.â You did not say you had actually done so.â

âNo, because I never did. Caroline came in just when I was unscrewing the bottle. Oh!â It was a cry. âAnd Caroline thoughtâshe thought it was meâ!â

She stopped. She looked round. She said quietly in her usual cool tones: âI suppose you all think so, too.â

She paused and then said: âI didnât kill Amyas. Not as the result of a malicious joke nor in any other way. If I had I would never have kept silence.â

Miss Williams said sharply:

âOf course you wouldnât, my dear.â She looked at Hercule Poirot. âNobody but a fool would think so.â

Hercule Poirot said mildly:

âI am not a fool and I do not think so. I know quite well who killed Amyas Crale.â

He paused.

âThere is always a danger of accepting facts as proved which are really nothing of the kind. Let us take the situation at Alderbury. A very old situation. Two women and one man. We have taken it for granted that Amyas Crale proposed to leave his wife for the other woman. But I suggest to you now that he never intended to do anything of the kind.

âHe had had infatuations for women before. They obsessed him while they lasted, but they were soon over. The women he had fallen in love with were usually women of a certain experienceâthey did not expect too much of him. But this time the woman did. She was not, you see, a woman at all. She was a girl, and in Caroline Craleâs words, she was terribly sincereâ¦She may have been hard-boiled and sophisticated in speech, but in love she was frighteningly single-minded. Because she herself had a deep and overmastering passion for Amyas Crale she assumed that he had the same for her. She assumed without any question that their passion was for life. She assumed without asking him that he was going to leave his wife.

âBut why, you will say, did Amyas Crale not undeceive her? And my answer isâthe picture. He wanted to finish his picture.

âTo some people that sounds incredibleâbut not to anybody who knows about artists. And we have already accepted that explanation in principle. That conversation between Crale and Meredith Blake is more intelligible now. Crale is embarrassedâpats Blake on the back, assures him optimistically the whole thing is going to pan out all right. To Amyas Crale, you see, everything is simple. He is painting a picture, slightly encumbered by what he describes as a couple of jealous, neurotic womenâbut neither of them is going to be allowed to interfere with what to him is the most important thing in life.

âIf he were to tell Elsa the truth it would be all up with the picture. Perhaps in the first flush of his feelings for her he did talk about leaving Caroline. Men do say these things when they are in love. Perhaps he merely let it be assumed, as he is letting it be assumed now. He doesnât care what Elsa assumes. Let her think what she likes. Anything to keep her quiet for another day or two.

âThenâhe will tell her the truthâthat things between them are over. He has never been a man to be troubled with scruples.

âHe did, I think, make an effort not to get embroiled with Elsa to begin with. He warned her what kind of a man he wasâbut she would not take warning. She rushed on her Fate. And to a man like Crale women were fair game. If you had asked him he would have said easily that Elsa was youngâsheâd soon get over it. That was the way Amyas Craleâs mind worked.

âHis wife was actually the only person he cared about at all. He wasnât worrying much about her. Sheâd only got to put up with things for a few days longer. He was furious with Elsa for blurting out things to Caroline, but he still optimistically thought it would be âall right.â Caroline would forgive him as she had done so often before, and ElsaâElsa would just have to âlump it.â So simple are the problems of life to a man like Amyas Crale.

âBut I think that that last evening he became really worried. About Caroline, not about Elsa. Perhaps he went to her room and she refused to speak with him. At any rate, after a restless night, he took her aside after breakfast and blurted out the truth. He had been infatuated with Elsa, but it was all over. Once heâd finished the picture heâd never see her again.

âAnd it was in answer to that that Caroline Crale cried out indignantly: âYou and your women!â That phrase, you see, put Elsa in a class with othersâthose others who had gone their way. And she added indignantly: âSome day Iâll kill you.â

âShe was angry, revolted by his callousness and by his cruelty to the girl. When Philip Blake saw her in the hall and heard her murmur to herself, âItâs too cruel!â it was of Elsa she was thinking.

âAs for Crale, he came out of the library, found Elsa with Philip Blake, and brusquely ordered her down to go on with the sitting. What he did not know was that Elsa Greer had been sitting just outside the library window and had overheard everything. And the account she gave later of that conversation was not the true one. There is only her word for it, remember.

âImagine the shock it must have been to her to hear the truth, brutally spoken!

âOn the previous afternoon Meredith Blake has told us that whilst he was waiting for Caroline to leave this room he was standing in the doorway with his back to the room. He was talking to Elsa Greer. That means that she would have been facing him and that she could see exactly what Caroline was doing over his shoulderâand that she was the only person who could do so.

âShe saw Caroline take that poison. She said nothing, but she remembered it as she sat outside the library window.

âWhen Amyas Crale came out she made the excuse of wanting a pullover, and went up to Caroline Craleâs room to look for that poison. Women know where other women are likely to hide things. She found it, and being careful not to obliterate any fingerprints or to leave her own, she drew off the fluid into a fountain-pen filler.

âThen she came down again and went off with Crale to the Battery garden. And presently, no doubt, she poured him out some beer and he tossed it down in his usual way.

âMeanwhile, Caroline Crale was seriously disturbed. When she saw Elsa come up to the house (this time really to fetch a pullover), Caroline slipped quickly down to the Battery garden and tackled her husband. What he is doing is shameful! She wonât stand for it! Itâs unbelievably cruel and hard on the girl! Amyas, irritable at being interrupted, says itâs all settledâwhen the picture is done heâll send the girl packing! âItâs all settledâIâll send her packing. I tell you.â

âAnd then they hear the footsteps of the two Blakes, and Caroline comes out and, slightly embarrassed, murmurs something about Angela and school and having a lot to do, and by a natural association of ideas the two men judge the conversation they have overheard refers to Angela, and âIâll send her packingâ becomes âIâll see to her packing.â

âAnd Elsa, pullover in hand, comes down the path, cool and smiling, and takes up the pose once more.

âShe has counted, no doubt, upon Carolineâs being suspected and the coniine bottle being found in her room. But Caroline now plays into her hands completely. She brings down some iced beer and pours it out for her husband.

âAmyas tosses it off, making a face and says: âEverything tastes foul today.â

âDo you not see how significant that remark is? Everything tastes foul? Then there has been something else before that beer that has tasted unpleasant and the taste of which is still in his mouth. And one other point. Philip Blake speaks of Craleâs staggering a little and wonders âif he has been drinking.â But that slight stagger was the first sign of the coniine working, and that means that it had already been administered to him some time before Caroline brought him the iced bottle of beer.

âAnd so Elsa Greer sat on the grey wall and posed and, since she must keep him from suspecting until it was too late, she talked to Amyas Crale brightly and naturally. Presently she saw Meredith on the bench above and waved her hand to him and acted her part even more thoroughly for his behalf.

âAnd Amyas Crale, a man who detested illness and refused to give in to it, painted doggedly on till his limbs failed and his speech thickened, and he sprawled there on that bench, helpless, but with his mind still clear.

âThe bell sounded from the house and Meredith left the bench to come down to the Battery. I think in that brief moment Elsa left her place and ran across to the table and dropped the last few drops of the poison into the beer glass that held that last innocent drink. (She got rid of the dropper on the path up to the houseâcrushing it to powder.) Then she met Meredith in the doorway.

âThere is a glare there coming in out of the shadows. Meredith did not see very clearlyâonly his friend sprawled in a familiar position and saw his eyes turn from the picture in what he described as a malevolent glare.

âHow much did Amyas know or guess? How much his conscious mind knew we cannot tell, but his hand and his eye were faithful.â

Hercule Poirot gestured towards the picture on the wall.

âI should have known when I first saw that picture. For it is a very remarkable picture. It is the picture of a murderess painted by her victimâit is the picture of a girl watching her lover dieâ¦.â

Five

AFTERMATH

In the silence that followedâa horrified, appalled silence, the sunset slowly flickered away, the last gleam left the window where it had rested on the dark head and pale furs of the woman sitting there.

Elsa Dittisham moved and spoke. She said:

âTake them away, Meredith. Leave me with Mr. Poirot.â

She sat there motionless until the door shut behind them. Then she said: âYou are very clever, arenât you?â

Poirot did not answer.

She said: âWhat do you expect me to do? Confess?â

He shook his head.

Elsa said:

âBecause I shall do nothing of the kind! And I shall admit nothing. But what we say here, together, does not matter. Because it is only a question of your word against mine.â

âExactly.â

âI want to know what you are going to do?â

Hercule Poirot said:

âI shall do everything I can to induce the authorities to grant a posthumous free pardon to Caroline Crale.â

Elsa laughed. She said: âHow absurd! To be given a free pardon for something you didnât do.â Then she said: âWhat about me?â

âI shall lay my conclusion before the necessary people. If they decide there is the possibility of making out a case against you then they may act. I will tell you in my opinion there is not sufficient evidenceâthere are only inferences, not facts. Moreover, they will not be anxious to proceed against anyone in your position unless there is ample justification for such a course.â

Elsa said:

âI shouldnât care. If I were standing in the dock, fighting for my lifeâthere might be something in thatâsomething aliveâexciting. I mightâenjoy it.â

âYour husband would not.â

She stared at him.

âDo you think I care in the least what my husband would feel?â

âNo, I do not. I do not think you have ever in your life cared about what any other person would feel. If you had, you might be happier.â

She said sharply:

âWhy are you sorry for me?â

âBecause, my child, you have so much to learn.â

âWhat have I got to learn?â

âAll the grown-up emotionsâpity, sympathy, understanding. The only things you knowâhave ever knownâare love and hate.â

Elsa said:

âI saw Caroline take the coniine. I thought she meant to kill herself. That would have simplified things. And then, the next morning, I found out. He told her that he didnât care a button about meâhe had cared, but it was all over. Once heâd finished the picture heâd send me packing. Sheâd nothing to worry about, he said.

âAnd sheâwas sorry for meâ¦Do you understand what that did to me? I found the stuff and I gave it to him and I sat there watching him die. Iâve never felt so alive, so exultant, so full of power. I watched him dieâ¦.â

She flung out her hands.

âI didnât understand that I was killing myselfânot him. Afterwards I saw her caught in a trapâand that was no good either. I couldnât hurt herâshe didnât careâshe escaped from it allâhalf the time she wasnât there. She and Amyas both escapedâthey went somewhere where I couldnât get at them. But they didnât die. I died.â

Elsa Dittisham got up. She went across to the door. She said again:

âI diedâ¦.â

In the hall she passed two young people whose life together was just beginning.

The chauffeur held open the door of the car. Lady Dittisham got in and the chauffeur wrapped the fur rug round her knees.

The Agatha Christie Collection

THE HERCULE POIROT MYSTERIES

Match your wits with the famous Belgian detective.

Â 

The Mysterious Affair at Styles

The Murder on the Links

Poirot Investigates

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd

The Big Four

The Mystery of the Blue Train

Peril at End House

Lord Edgware Dies

Murder on the Orient Express

Three Act Tragedy

Death in the Clouds

The A.B.C. Murders

Murder in Mesopotamia

Cards on the Table

Murder in the Mews and Other Stories

Dumb Witness

Death on the Nile

Appointment with Death

Hercule Poirotâ€™s Christmas

Sad Cypress

One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

Evil Under the Sun

Five Little Pigs

The Hollow

The Labors of Hercules

Taken at the Flood

The Underdog and Other Stories

Mrs. McGintyâ€™s Dead

After the Funeral

Hickory Dickory Dock

Dead Manâ€™s Folly

Cat Among the Pigeons

The Clocks

Third Girl

Halloweâ€™en Party

Elephants Can Remember

Curtain: Poirotâ€™s Last Case

Â 

Explore more at www.AgathaChristie.com

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The Agatha Christie Collection

THE MISS MARPLE MYSTERIES

Join the legendary spinster sleuth from it. Mary Mead in solving murders far and wide.

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The Murder at the Vicarage

The Body in the Library

The Moving Finger

A Murder Is Announced

They Do It with Mirrors

A Pocket Full of Rye

4:50 From Paddington

The Mirror Crackâ€™d

A Caribbean Mystery

At Bertramâ€™s Hotel

Nemesis

Sleeping Murder

Miss Marple: The Compl Short Story Collection

Â 

THE TOMMY AND TUPPENCE MYSTERIES

Jump on board with the entertaining crime-solving couple from Young Adventurers Ltd.

Â 

The Secret Adversary

Partners in Crime

N or M?

By the Pricking of My Thumbs

Postern of Fate

Â 

Explore more at www.AgathaChristie.com

Â 

The Agatha Christie Collection

Donâ€™t miss a single one of Agatha Christieâ€™s stand-alone novels and short-story collections.

Â 

The Man in the Brown Suit

The Secret of Chimneys

The Seven Dials Mystery

The Mysterious Mr. Quin

The Sittaford Mystery

Parker Pyne Investigates

Why Didnâ€™t They Ask Evans?

Murder Is Easy

The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories

And Then There Were None

Towards Zero

Death Comes as the End

Sparkling Cyanide

The Witness for the Prosecution and Other Stories

Crooked House

Three Blind Mice and Other Stories

They Came to Baghdad

Destination Unknown

Ordeal by Innocence

Double Sin and Other Stories

The Pale Horse

Star over Bethlehem: Poems and Holiday Stories

Endless Night

Passenger to Frankfurt

The Golden Ball and Other Stories

The Mousetrap and Other Plays

The Harlequin Tea Set

Â 

Explore more at www.AgathaChristie.com

About the Author

Agatha Christie is the most widely published author of all time and in any language, outsold only by the Bible and Shakespeare. Her books have sold more than a billion copies in English and another billion in a hundred foreign languages. She is the author of eighty crime novels and short-story collections, nineteen plays, two memoirs, and six novels written under the name Mary Westmacott.

She first tried her hand at detective fiction while working in a hospital dispensary during World War I, creating the now legendary Hercule Poirot with her debut novel The Mysterious Affair at Styles. With The Murder in the Vicarage, published in 1930, she introduced another beloved sleuth, Miss Jane Marple. Additional series characters include the husband-and-wife crime-fighting team of Tommy and Tuppence Beresford, private investigator Parker Pyne, and Scotland Yard detectives Superintendent Battle and Inspector Japp.

Many of Christieâ€™s novels and short stories were adapted into plays, films, and television series. The Mousetrap, her most famous play of all, opened in 1952 and is the longest-running play in history. Among her best-known film adaptations are Murder on the Orient Express (1974) and Death on the Nile (1978), with Albert Finney and Peter Ustinov playing Hercule Poirot, respectively. On the small screen Poirot has been most memorably portrayed by David Suchet, and Miss Marple by Joan Hickson and subsequently Geraldine McEwan and Julia McKenzie.

Christie was first married to Archibald Christie and then to archaeologist Sir Max Mallowan, whom she accompanied on expeditions to countries that would also serve as the settings for many of her novels. In 1971 she achieved one of Britainâ€™s highest honors when she was made a Dame of the British Empire. She died in 1976 at the age of eighty-five. Her one hundred and twentieth anniversary was celebrated around the world in 2010.

www.AgathaChristie.com

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THE AGATHA CHRISTIE COLLECTION

The Man in the Brown Suit

The Secret of Chimneys

The Seven Dials Mystery

The Mysterious Mr. Quin

The Sittaford Mystery

Parker Pyne Investigates

Why Didnâ€™t They Ask Evans?

Murder Is Easy

The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories

And Then There Were None

Towards Zero

Death Comes as the End

Sparkling Cyanide

The Witness for the Prosecution and
Â Â Â  Other Stories

Crooked House

Three Blind Mice and Other Stories

They Came to Baghdad

Destination Unknown

Ordeal by Innocence

Double Sin and Other Stories

The Pale Horse

Star over Bethlehem: Poems and
Â Â Â  Holiday Stories

Endless Night

Passenger to Frankfurt

The Golden Ball and Other Stories

The Mousetrap and Other Plays

The Harlequin Tea Set

The Hercule Poirot Mysteries

The Mysterious Affair at Styles

The Murder on the Links

Poirot Investigates

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd

The Big Four

The Mystery of the Blue Train

Peril at End House

Lord Edgware Dies

Murder on the Orient Express

Three Act Tragedy

Death in the Clouds

The A.B.C. Murders

Murder in Mesopotamia

Cards on the Table

Murder in the Mews and Other Stories

Dumb Witness

Death on the Nile

Appointment with Death

Hercule Poirotâ€™s Christmas

Sad Cypress

One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

Evil Under the Sun

Five Little Pigs

The Hollow

The Labors of Hercules

Taken at the Flood

The Underdog and Other Stories

Mrs. McGintyâ€™s Dead

After the Funeral

Hickory Dickory Dock

Dead Manâ€™s Folly

Cat Among the Pigeons

The Clocks

Third Girl

Halloweâ€™en Party

Elephants Can Remember

Curtain: Poirotâ€™s Last Case

The Miss Marple Mysteries

The Murder at the Vicarage

The Body in the Library

The Moving Finger

A Murder Is Announced

They Do It with Mirrors

A Pocket Full of Rye

4:50 from Paddington

The Mirror Crackâ€™d

A Caribbean Mystery

At Bertramâ€™s Hotel

Nemesis

Sleeping Murder

Miss Marple: The Complete Short
Â Â Â  Story Collection

The Tommy and Tuppence Mysteries

The Secret Adversary

Partners in Crime

N or M?

By the Pricking of My Thumbs

Postern of Fate

Credits

Cover design by Sara Wood

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the authorâ€™s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

This title was previously published as Murder in Retrospect.

AGATHA CHRISTIEÂ® POIROTÂ® FIVE LITTLE PIGSâ„¢. Copyright Â© 2011 Agatha Christie Limited (a Chorion company). All rights reserved. Five Little Pigs was first published in 1943.

FIVE LITTLE PIGS Â© 1942. Published by permission of G.P. Putnamâ€™s Sons, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

ISBN 978-0-06-207357-0

EPub Edition Â© MAY 2011 ISBN: 978-0-06-174368-9

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