‘I think I’ve always had a single-track mind.’ She mused sombrely. ‘I suppose- really-one ought to put a knife into oneself-like Juliet. But-but to do that is to acknowledge that you’re done for-that life’s beaten you.’
‘And instead?’
‘There ought to be everything-just the same-once one has got over it. I did get over it. It didn’t mean anything to me any more. I thought I’d go on to the next thing.’
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 worship-a marriage to a famous aviator-then an explorer, that big giant of a man, Arnold Stevenson-possibly not unlike Amyas Crale physically-a reversion to the creative arts: Dittisham!
Elsa Dittisham said:
‘I’ve never been a hypocrite! There’s a Spanish proverb I’ve always liked. Take what you want and pay for it, says God. Well, I’ve done that. I’ve taken what I wanted-but I’ve always been willing to pay the price.’
Hercule Poirot said:
‘What you do not understand is that there are things that cannot be bought.’
She stared at him. She said:
‘I don’t mean just money.’
Poirot said:
‘No, 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.’
‘Nonsense!’
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 painted…
Elsa Dittisham said:
‘Tell me all about this book. What is the purpose of it? Whose idea is it?’
‘Oh! my dear lady, what other purpose is there but to serve up yesterday’s sensation with today’s sauce.’
‘But you’re not a writer?’
‘No, I am an expert on crime.’
‘You mean they consult you on crime books?’
‘Not always. In this case, I have a commission.’
‘From whom?’
‘I am-what do you say-vetting this publication on behalf of an interested party.’
‘What party?’
‘Miss Carla Lemarchant.’
‘Who is she?’
‘She is the daughter of Amyas and Caroline Crale.’
Elsa stared for a minute. Then she said:
‘Oh, of course, there was a child. I remember. I suppose she’s grown up now?’
‘Yes, she is twenty-one.’
‘What is she like?’
‘She is tall and dark and, I think, beautiful. And she has courage and personality.’
Elsa said thoughtfully:
‘I should like to see her.’
‘She might not care to see you.’
Elsa looked surprised.
‘Why? Oh, I see. But what nonsense! She can’t possibly remember anything about it. She can’t have been more than six.’
‘She knows that her mother was tried for her father’s murder.’
‘And she thinks it’s my fault?’
‘It is a possible interpretation.’
Elsa shrugged her shoulders. She said:
‘How stupid! If Caroline had behaved like a reasonable human being-’
‘So you take no responsibility?’
‘Why should I? I’ve nothing to be ashamed of. I loved him. I would have made him happy.’ She looked across at Poirot. Her face broke up-suddenly, incredibly, he saw the girl of the picture. She said: ‘If I could make you see. If you could see it from my side. If you knew-’
Poirot leaned forward.
‘But 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 you-’
Elsa Dittisham took a deep breath. She said contemptuously:
‘Those two! Philip was always stupid. Meredith used to trot round after Caroline-but he was quite a dear. But you won’t have any real idea from their accounts.’
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:
‘Would you like the truth? Oh, not for publication. But just for yourself-’
‘I will undertake not to publish without your consent.’
‘I’d like to write down the truth…’ 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.
‘To go back-to write it all down…To show you what she was-’
Her eyes flashed. Her breast heaved passionately.
‘She killed him. She killed Amyas. Amyas who wanted to live-who enjoyed living. Hate oughtn’t to be stronger than love-but her hate was. And my hate for her is-I hate her-I hate her-I hate her…’
She came across to him. She stooped, her hand clutched at his sleeve. She said urgently:
‘You must understand-you must -how we felt about each other. Amyas and I, I mean. There’s something-I’ll show you.’
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 treasures-a 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.
Elsa-you wonderful child! There never was anything as beautiful. And yet I’m afraid-I’m too old-a middle-aged, ugly tempered devil with no stability in me. Don’t trust me, don’t believe in me- I’m no good-apart from my work. The best of me is in that. There, don’t say you haven’t been warned.
Hell, my lovely-I’m going to have you all the same. I’d go to the devil for you and you know it. And I’ll paint a picture of you that will make the fat-headed world hold its sides and gasp! I’m crazy about you-I can’t sleep-I can’t eat. Elsa-Elsa-Elsa-I’m yours for ever-yours till death. Amyas.
Sixteen years ago. Faded ink, crumbling paper. But the words still alive-still vibrating…
He looked across at the woman to whom they had been written.
But it was no longer a woman at whom he looked.
