his Hell brews was missing-and it was a fairly deadly Hell brew. What did I do? I told him to come along and we’d talk it over. Decide what was best to be done. “Decide what was best.” 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: “Caroline’s pinched one of Meredith’s patent poisons, and you and Elsa had better look out for yourselves.” ’
Blake got up. He strode up and down in his excitement.
‘Good God, man. Do you suppose I haven’t gone over it in my mind again and again? I knew. I had the chance to save him-and I dallied about-waiting for Meredith! Why hadn’t I the sense to realize that Caroline wasn’t going to have any qualms or hesitancies. She’d taken that stuff to use-and, by God, she’d used it at the very first opportunity. She wouldn’t wait till Meredith discovered his loss. I knew-of course I knew-that Amyas was in deadly danger-and I did nothing!’
‘I think you reproach yourself unduly, Monsieur. You had not much time-’
The other interrupted him:
‘Time? I had plenty of time. Any amount of courses open to me. I could have gone to Amyas, as I say-but there was the chance, of course, that he wouldn’t believe me. Amyas wasn’t the sort of man who’d believe easily in his own danger. He’d 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: “I know what you’re up to. I know what you’re planning to do. But if Amyas or Elsa die of coniine poisoning, you’ll be hanged by your neck!” That would have stopped her. Or I might have rung up the police. Oh! there were things that could have been done-and instead, I let myself be influenced by Meredith’s slow, cautious methods. “We must be sure-talk it over-make quite certain who could have taken it…” Damned old fool-never 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 he’d ever tried to smake money he’d have lost every penny he had.’
Poirot asked:
‘You had no doubt yourself who had taken the poison?’
‘Of course not. I knew at once it must be Caroline. You see, I knew Caroline very well.’
Poirot said:
‘That is very interesting. I want to know, Mr Blake, what kind of a woman Caroline Crale was?’
Philip Blake said sharply:
‘She wasn’t the injured innocent people thought she was at the time of the trial!’
‘What was she, then?’
Blake sat down again. He said seriously:
‘Would you really like to know?’
‘I would like to know very much indeed.’
‘Caroline 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 people’s chivalry. Sometimes, when I’ve read a bit of history, I think Mary Queen of Scots must have been a bit like her. Always sweet and unfortunate and magnetic-and actually a cold calculating woman, a scheming woman who planned the murder of Darnley and got away with it. Caroline was like that-a cold, calculating planner. And she had a wicked temper.
‘I don’t know whether they’ve told you-it isn’t a vital point of the trial, but it shows her up-what 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 couldn’t stand that. She tried to kill the baby with a crowbar-smash its head in. Luckily the blow wasn’t fatal. But it was a pretty ghastly thing to do.’
‘Yes, indeed.’
‘Well, that was the real Caroline. She had to be first. That was the thing she simply could not stand-not being first. And there was a cold, egotistical devil in her that was capable of being stirred to murderous lengths.
‘She 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. She’d no money of her own. I was never in the running-a younger son with his way to make. (Funny, that, I could probably buy up Meredith and Crale, if he’d lived, nowadays!) She considered Meredith for a bit, but she finally fixed on Amyas. Amyas would have Alderbury, and though he wouldn’t 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.
‘And she won. Recognition came to Amyas early. He wasn’t a fashionable painter exactly-but his genius was recognized and his pictures were bought. Have you seen any of his paintings? There’s one here. Come and look at it.’
He led the way into the dining-room and pointed to the left-hand wall.
‘There you are. That’s Amyas.’
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:
‘Yes-it is all there.’
Blake led the way back. He mumbled:
‘Never have understood anything about art myself. Don’t know why I like looking at that thing so much, but I do. It’s-oh, damn it all, it’s good.’
Poirot nodded emphatically.
Blake offered his guest a cigarette and lit one himself. He said:
‘And that’s the man-the man who painted those roses-the man who painted the “Woman with a Cocktail Shaker”-the man who painted that amazing painful “Nativity”, that’s the man who was cut short in his prime, deprived of his vivid forceful life all because of a vindictive mean-natured woman!’
He paused:
‘You’ll say that I’m bitter-that I’m unduly prejudiced against Caroline. She had charm-I’ve felt it. But I knew-I always knew-the real woman behind. And that woman, M. Poirot, was evil. She was cruel and malignant and a grabber!’
‘And yet it has been told me that Mrs Crale put up with many hard things in her married life?’
‘Yes, and didn’t she let everybody know about it! Always the martyr! Poor old Amyas. His married life was one long hell-or rather it would have been if it hadn’t been for his exceptional quality. His art, you see-he always had that. It was an escape. When he was painting he didn’t 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. She’d positively purr after one of those set-tos-go off looking as sleek and well-fed as a cat. But it took it out of him. He wanted peace-rest-a quiet life. Of course a man like that ought never to marry-he isn’t out for domesticity. A man like Crale should have affairs but no binding ties. They’re bound to chafe him.’
‘He confided in you?’
‘Well-he knew that I was a pretty devoted pal. He let me see things. He didn’t complain. He wasn’t that kind of man. Sometimes he’d say, “Damn all women.” Or he’d say, “Never get married,
