‘Perhaps.’ But Meredith was dubious. ‘That’s not-that’s not like Caroline…’
Hercule Poirot nodded. Carla Lemarchant had said that. Carla had only a child’s obstinate memory. But Meredith Blake had known Caroline well. It was the first confirmation Poirot had got that Carla’s belief was to be depended upon.
Meredith Blake looked up at him. He said slowly:
‘If-if Caroline was innocent-why, the whole thing’s madness! I don’t see-any other possible solution…’
He turned sharply on Poirot.
‘And you? What do you think?’
There was a silence.
‘As yet,’ said Poirot at last, ‘I 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.’
Meredith Blake said sharply:
‘You won’t get much from that. Philip’s a busy man. Things slip his memory once they’re past and done with. Probably he’ll remember things all wrong.’
‘There will be gaps, of course. I realize that.’
‘I tell you what-’ Meredith paused abruptly, then went on, reddening a little as he spoke. ‘If you like, I-I could do the same. I mean, it would be a kind of check, wouldn’t it?’
Hercule Poirot said warmly:
‘It would be most valuable. An idea of the first excellence!’
‘Right. I will. I’ve got some old diaries somewhere. Mind you,’ he laughed awkwardly. ‘I’m not much of a hand at literary language. Even my spelling’s not too good. You-you won’t expect too much?’
‘Ah, it is not the style I demand. Just a plain recital of everything you can remember. What every one said, how they looked-just what happened. Never mind if it doesn’t seem relevant. It all helps with the atmosphere, so to speak.’
‘Yes, I can see that. It must be difficult visualizing people and places you have never seen.’
Poirot nodded.
‘There is another thing I wanted to ask you. Alderbury is the adjoining property to this, is it not? Would it be possible to go there-to see with my own eyes where the tragedy occurred?’
Meredith Blake said slowly:
‘I can take you over there right away. But, of course, it is a good deal changed.’
‘It has not been built over?’
‘No, thank goodness-not quite so bad as that. But it’s a kind of hostel now-it 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.’
‘You must reconstruct it for me by your explanations.’
‘I’ll do my best. I wish you could have seen it in the old days. It was one of the loveliest properties I know.’
He led the way out through the window and began walking down a slope of lawn.
‘Who was responsible for selling it?’
‘The executors on behalf of the child. Everything Crale had came to her. He hadn’t made a will, so I imagine that it would be divided automatically between his wife and the child. Caroline’s will left what she had to the child also.’
‘Nothing to her half-sister?’
‘Angela had a certain amount of money of her own left her by her father.’
Poirot nodded. ‘I see.’
Then he uttered an exclamation:
‘But where is it that you take me? This is the seashore ahead of us!’
‘Ah, I must explain our geography to you. You’ll see for yourself in a minute. There’s a creek, you see, Camel Creek, they call it, runs inland-looks almost like a river mouth, but it isn’t-it’s 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 opposite-there, you can see the house through the trees.’
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 Poirot’s somewhat awkward assistance, dragged one of them down to the water and presently they were rowing across to the other side.
‘We always went this way in the old days,’ Meredith explained. ‘Unless, of course, there was a storm or it was raining, and then we’d take the car. But it’s nearly three miles if you go round that way.’
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.
‘All new, this. Used to be a boathouse-tumbledown old place-and nothing else. And one walked along the shore and bathed off those rocks over there.’
He assisted his guest to alight, made fast the boat, and led the way up a steep path.
‘Don’t suppose we’ll meet any one,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Nobody here in April-except for Easter. Doesn’t matter if we do. I’m on good terms with my neighbours. Sun’s glorious today. Might be summer. It was a wonderful day then. More like July than September. Brilliant sun-but a chilly little wind.’
The path came out of the trees and skirted an outcrop of rock. Meredith pointed up with his hand.
‘That’s what they called the Battery. We’re more or less underneath it now-skirting round it.’
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.
‘Attractive spot,’ said Meredith. He nodded contemptuously towards a kind of pavilion set back against the back wall. ‘That wasn’t there, of course-only an old tumbledown shed where Amyas kept his painting muck and some bottled beer and a few deck chairs. It wasn’t concreted then, either. There used to be a bench and a table-painted iron ones. That was all. Still-it hasn’t changed much.’
His voice held an unsteady note.
Poirot said: ‘And it was here that it happened?’
Meredith nodded.
‘The bench was there-up against the shed. He was sprawled on that. He used to sprawl there sometimes when he was painting-just fling himself down and stare and stare-and then suddenly up he’d jump and start laying the paint on the canvas like mad.’
He paused.
‘That’s why, you know, he looked-almost natural. As though he might be asleep-just have dropped off. But his eyes were open-and he’d-just stiffened up. Stuff sort of paralyses you, you know. There isn’t any pain…I’ve-I’ve always been glad of that…’
Poirot asked a thing that he already knew.
‘Who found him?’
‘She did. Caroline. After lunch. I and Elsa, I suppose, were the last ones to see him alive. It must have been coming on then. He-looked queer. I’d rather not talk about it. I’ll write it to you. Easier that way.’
