‘May I ask you, Miss Warren, what were your own feelings at the time?’
Angela Warren sighed.
‘Mostly bewilderment and helplessness, I think. It seemed a fantastic nightmare. Caroline was arrested very soon-about three days afterwards, I think. I can still remember my indignation, my dumb fury-and, of course, my childish faith that it was just a silly mistake, that it would be all right. Caro was chiefly perturbed about me -she wanted me kept right away from it all as far as possible. She got Miss Williams to take me away to some relations almost at once. The police had no objection. And then, when it was decided that my evidence would not be needed, arrangements were made for me to go to school abroad.
‘I hated going, of course. But it was explained to me that Caro had me terribly on her mind and that the only way I could help her was by going.’
She paused. Then she said:
‘So I went to Munich. I was there when-when the verdict was given. They never let me go to see Caro. Caro wouldn’t have it. That’s the only time, I think, when she failed in understanding.’
‘You cannot be sure of that, Miss Warren. To visit someone dearly loved in a prison might make a terrible impression on a young sensitive girl.’
‘Possibly.’
Angela Warren got up. She said:
‘After the verdict, when she had been condemned, my sister wrote me a letter. I have never shown it to any one. I think I ought to show it to you now. It may help you to understand the kind of person Caroline was. If you like you may take it to show to Carla also.’
She went to the door, then turning back she said:
‘Come with me. There is a portrait of Caroline in my room.’
For a second time, Poirot stood gazing up at a portrait.
As a painting, Caroline Crale’s portrait was mediocre. But Poirot looked at it with interest-it was not its artistic value that interested him.
He saw a long oval face, a gracious line of jaw and a sweet, slightly timid expression. It was a face uncertain of itself, emotional, with a withdrawn hidden beauty. It lacked the forcefulness and vitality of her daughter’s face- that energy and joy of life Carla Lemarchant had doubtless inherited from her father. This was a less positive creature. Yet, looking at the painted face, Hercule Poirot understood why an imaginative man like Quentin Fogg had not been able to forget her.
Angela Warren stood at his side again-a letter in her hand.
She said quietly:
‘Now that you have seen what she was like-read her letter.’
He unfolded it carefully and read what Caroline Crale had written sixteen years ago.
My darling little Angela,
You will hear bad news and you will grieve, but what I want to impress upon you is that it is all all right. I have never told you lies and I don’t now when I say that I am actually happy-that I feel an essential rightness and a peace that I have never known before. It’s all right, darling, it’s all right. Don’t look back and regret and grieve for me-go on with your life and succeed. You can, I know. It’s all, all right, darling, and I’m going to Amyas. I haven’t the least doubt that we shall be together. I couldn’t have lived without him…Do this one thing for me-be happy. I’ve told you-I’m happy. One has to pay one’s debts. It’s lovely to feel peaceful.
Your loving sister,
Caro
Hercule Poirot read it through twice. Then he handed it back. He said:
‘That is a very beautiful letter, mademoiselle-and a very remarkable one. A very remarkable one.’
‘Caroline,’ said Angela Warren, ‘was a very remarkable person.’
‘Yes, an unusual mind…You take it that this letter indicates innocence?’
‘Of course it does!’
‘It does not say so explicitly.’
‘Because Caro would know that I’d never dream of her being guilty!’
‘Perhaps-perhaps…But it might be taken another way. In the sense that she was guilty and that in expiating her crime she will find peace.’
It fitted in, he thought, with the description of her in court. And he experienced in this moment the strongest doubts he had yet felt of the course to which he had committed himself. Everything so far had pointed unswervingly to Caroline Crale’s guilt. Now, even her own words testified against her.
On the other side was only the unshaken conviction of Angela Warren. Angela had known her well, undoubtedly, but might not her certainty be the fanatical loyalty of an adolescent girl, up in arms for a dearly loved sister?
As though she had read his thoughts Angela Warren said:
‘No, M. Poirot-I know Caroline wasn’t guilty.’
Poirot said briskly:
‘The Bon Dieu knows I do not want to shake you on that point. But let us be practical. You say your sister was not guilty. Very well, then, what really happened?’
Angela nodded thoughtfully. She said:
‘That is difficult, I agree. I suppose that, as Caroline said, Amyas committed suicide.’
‘Is that likely from what you know of his character?’
‘Very unlikely.’
‘But you do not say, as in the first case, that you know it is impossible?’
‘No, because, as I said just now, most people do do impossible things-that is to say things that seem out of character. But I presume, if you know them intimately, it wouldn’t be out of character.’
‘You knew your brother-in-law well?’
‘Yes, but not like I knew Caro. It seems to me quite fantastic that Amyas should have killed himself-but I suppose he could have done so. In fact, he must have done so.’
‘You cannot see any other explanation?’
Angela accepted the suggestion calmly, but not without a certain stirring of interest.
‘Oh, I see what you mean…I’ve never really considered that possibility. You mean one of the other people killed him? That it was a deliberate cold-blooded murder…’
‘It might have been, might it not?’
‘Yes, it might have been…But it certainly seems very unlikely.’
‘More unlikely than suicide?’
‘That’s difficult to say…On the face of it, there was no reason for suspecting anybody else. There isn’t now when I look back…’
‘All the same, let us consider the possibility. Who of those intimately concerned would you say was-shall we say-the most likely person?’
‘Let me think. Well, I didn’t kill him. And the Elsa creature certainly didn’t. She was mad with rage when he died. Who else was there? Meredith Blake? He was always very devoted to Caroline, quite a tame cat about the house. I suppose that might give him a motive in a way. In a book he might have wanted to get Amyas out of the way so that he himself could marry Caroline. But he could have achieved that just as well by letting Amyas go off with Elsa and then in due time consoling Caroline. Besides I really can’t see Meredith as a murderer. Too mild and too cautious. Who else was there?’
Poirot suggested: ‘Miss Williams? Philip Blake?’
Angela’s grave face relaxed into a smile for a minute.
‘Miss Williams? One can’t really make oneself believe that one’s governess could commit a murder! Miss Williams was always so unyielding and so full of rectitude.’
She paused a minute and then went on:
