person murdered?’
‘I hadn’t exactly-yes, I suppose I see what you mean.’
Poirot said:
‘Until you know exactly what sort of a person the victim was, you cannot begin to see the circumstances of a crime clearly.’
He added:
‘That is what I am seeking for-and what you and your brother have helped to give me-a reconstruction of the man Amyas Crale.’
Meredith Blake passed the main point of the remark over. His attention had been attracted by a single word. He said quickly:
‘Philip?’
‘Yes.’
‘You have talked with him also?’
‘Certainly.’
Meredith Blake said sharply:
‘You should have come to me first.’
Smiling a little, Poirot made a courteous gesture.
‘According to the laws of primogenitude, that is so,’ he said. ‘I am aware that you are the elder. But you comprehend that as your brother lives near London, it was easier to visit him first.’
Meredith Blake was still frowning. He pulled uneasily at his lip. He repeated:
‘You should have come to me first.’
This time, Poirot did not answer. He waited. And presently Meredith Blake went on:
‘Philip,’ he said, ‘is prejudiced.’
‘Yes?’
‘As a matter of fact he’s a mass of prejudices-always has been.’ He shot a quick uneasy glance at Poirot. ‘He’ll have tried to put you against Caroline.’
‘Does that matter, so long-after?’
Meredith Blake gave a sharp sigh.
‘I know. I forget that it’s so long ago-that it’s all over. Caroline is beyond being harmed. But all the same I shouldn’t like you to get a false impression.’
‘And you think your brother might give me a false impression?’
‘Frankly, I do. You see, there was always a certain-how shall I put it?-antagonism between him and Caroline.’
‘Why?’
The question seemed to irritate Blake. He said:
‘Why? 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 didn’t feel that any woman was good enough. And he probably felt that Caroline’s influence would spoil their friendship.’
‘And did it?’
‘No, of course it didn’t. Amyas was always just as fond of Philip-right up to the end. Used to twit him with being a money grabber and with growing a corporation and being a Philistine generally. Philip didn’t care. He just used to grin and say it was a good thing Amyas had one respectable friend.’
‘How did your brother react to the Elsa Greer affair?’
‘Do you know, I find it rather difficult to say. His attitude wasn’t 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 wouldn’t work and that Amyas would live to regret it. At the same time I have a feeling-yes, very definitely I have a feeling that he was just faintly pleased at seeing Caroline let down.’
Poirot’s eyebrows rose. He said:
‘He really felt like that?’
‘Oh, don’t misunderstand me. I wouldn’t go further than to say that I believe that feeling was at the back of his mind. I don’t 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.’
‘And after the tragedy?’
Meredith Blake shook his head. A spasm of pain crossed his face. He said:
‘Poor Phil. He was terribly cut up. Just broken up by it. He’d 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. Yes-it was a great blow to him. He was-he was terribly bitter against Caroline.’
‘He, at least, had no doubts, then?’
Meredith Blake said:
‘None of us had any doubts…’
There was a silence. Then Blake said with the irritable plaintiveness of a weak man:
‘It was all over-forgotten-and now you come-raking it all up…’
‘Not I. Caroline Crale.’
Meredith stared at him: ‘Caroline? What do you mean?’
Poirot said, watching him:
‘Caroline Crale the second.’
Meredith’s face relaxed.
‘Ah yes, the child. Little Carla. I-I misunderstood you for a moment.’
‘You thought I meant the original Caroline Crale? You thought that it was she who would not-how shall I say it-rest easy in her grave?’
Meredith Blake shivered.
‘Don’t, man.’
‘You know that she wrote to her daughter-the last words she ever wrote-that she was innocent?’
Meredith stared at him. He said-and his voice sounded utterly incredulous:
‘Caroline wrote that?’
‘Yes.’
Poirot paused and said:
‘It surprises you?’
‘It would surprise you if you’d seen her in court. Poor, hunted, defenceless creature. Not even struggling.’
‘A defeatist?’
‘No, no. She wasn’t that. It was, I think, the knowledge that she’d killed the man she loved-or I thought it was that.’
‘You are not so sure now?’
‘To write a thing like that-solemnly-when she was dying.’
Poirot suggested:
‘A pious lie, perhaps.’
