‘No, no, Mr Blake, you are too sensitive.’
‘But don’t you see? If I hadn’t collected those damned drugs? If I hadn’t laid stress on them-boasted about them-forced them on those people’s notice that afternoon? But I never thought-I never dreamed-how could I-’
‘How indeed.’
‘But 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 Socrates’ death. A beautiful piece of writing-I’ve always admired it. But it’s haunted me ever since.’
Poirot said:
‘Did they find any fingerprints on the coniine bottle?’
‘Hers.’
‘Caroline Crale’s?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not yours?’
‘No. I didn’t handle the bottle, you see. Only pointed to it.’
‘But at the same time, surely, you had handled it?’
‘Oh, of course, but I gave the bottles a periodic dusting from time to time-I never allowed the servants in there, of course-and I had done that about four or five days previously.’
‘You kept the room locked up?’
‘Invariably.’
‘When did Caroline Crale take the coniine from the bottle?’
Meredith Blake replied reluctantly:
‘She was the last to leave the room. I called her, I remember, and she came hurrying out. Her cheeks were just a little pink-and her eyes wide and excited. Oh, God, I can see her now.’
Poirot said: ‘Did 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?’
Blake said slowly in a low voice:
‘Not directly. She was looking as I’ve told you-very upset. I said to her at a moment when we were more or less by ourselves: “Is anything the matter, my dear?” she said: “Everything’s the matter…” I wish you could have heard the desperation in her voice. Those words were the absolute literal truth. There’s no getting away from it- Amyas Crale was Caroline’s whole world. She said, “Everything’s gone-finished. I’m finished, Meredith.” And then she laughed and turned to the others and was suddenly wildly and very unnaturally gay.’
Hercule Poirot nodded his head slowly. He looked very like a china mandarin. He said:
‘Yes-I see-it was like that…’
Meredith Blake pounded suddenly with his fist. His voice rose. It was almost a shout.
‘And I’ll tell you this M. Poirot-when Caroline Crale said at the trial that she took the stuff for herself, I’ll swear she was speaking the truth! There was no thought in her mind of murder at that time. I swear there wasn’t. That came later.’
Hercule Poirot asked:
‘Are you sure that it did come later?’
Blake stared. He said:
‘I beg your pardon? I don’t quite understand-’
Poirot said:
‘I 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?’
Meredith Blake’s breath came unevenly. He said: ‘But if not-if not-are you suggesting an-well, accident of some kind?’
‘Not necessarily.’
‘That’s a very extraordinary thing to say.’
‘Is it? You have called Caroline Crale a gentle creature. Do gentle creatures commit murder?’
‘She was a gentle creature-but all the same-well, there were very violent quarrels, you know.’
‘Not such a gentle creature, then?’
‘But she was -Oh, how difficult these things are to explain.’
‘I am trying to understand.’
‘Caroline had a quick tongue-a vehement way of speaking. She might say “I hate you. I wish you were dead.” But it wouldn’t mean-it wouldn’t entail-action.’
‘So in your opinion, it was highly uncharacteristic of Mrs Crale to commit murder?’
‘You have the most extraordinary ways of putting things, M. Poirot. I can only say that-yes-it 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 might-well-kill.’
Poirot nodded. ‘Yes, I agree…’
‘I was dumbfounded at first. I didn’t feel it could be true. And it wasn’t true-if you know what I mean-it wasn’t the real Caroline who did that.’
‘But you are quite sure that-in the legal sense-Caroline Crale did do it?’
Again Meredith Blake stared at him.
‘My dear man-if she didn’t-’
‘Well, if she didn’t?’
‘I can’t imagine any alternative solution. Accident? Surely impossible.’
‘Quite impossible, I should say.’
‘And I can’t believe in the suicide theory. It had to be brought forward, but it was quite unconvincing to any one who knew Crale.’
‘Quite.’
‘So what remains?’ asked Meredith Blake.
Poirot said coolly: ‘There remains the possibility of Amyas Crale having been killed by somebody else.’
‘But that’s absurd!’
‘You think so?’
‘I’m sure of it. Who would have wanted to kill him? Who could have killed him?’
‘You are more likely to know than I am.’
‘But you don’t seriously believe-’
‘Perhaps not. It interests me to examine the possibility. Give it your serious consideration. Tell me what you think.’
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:
‘I can’t 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 don’t want to think she did it. I couldn’t believe it at first. But who else is there? Who else was there. Philip? Crale’s best friend. Elsa? Ridiculous. Myself? Do I look like a murderer? A respectable governess? A couple of old faithful servants? Perhaps you’d suggest that the child Angela did it? No, M. Poirot, there’s 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.’
‘Meaning that he died by the result of his own actions, though not by his own hand?’
‘Yes, it’s a fanciful point of view, perhaps. But-well-cause and effect, you know.’
Hercule Poirot said:
‘Have you ever reflected, Mr Blake, that the reason for murder is nearly always to be found by a study of the
