woman who had wrought the havoc in her parents’ lives. There was no animosity in her young earnest face, only curiosity.
Elsa said: ‘I am sorry if I am late, M. Poirot.’
‘It was very good of you to come, madame.’
Cecilia Williams snorted ever so slightly. Elsa met the animosity in her eyes with a complete lack of interest. She said:
‘I wouldn’t have known you, Angela. How long is it? Sixteen years?’
Hercule Poirot seized his opportunity.
‘Yes, it is sixteen years since the events of which we are to speak, but let me first tell you why we are here.’
And in a few simple words he outlined Carla’s appeal to him and his acceptance of the task.
He went on quickly, ignoring the gathering storm visible on Philip’s face, and the shocked distaste on Meredith’s.
‘I accepted that commision-I set to work to find out-the truth.’
Carla Lemarchant, in the big grandfather chair, heard Poirot’s words dimly, from a distance.
With her hand shielding her eyes she studied five faces, surreptitiously. Could she see any of these people committing murder? The exotic Elsa, the red-faced Philip, dear, nice, kind Mr Meredith Blake, that grim tartar of a governess, the cool, competent Angela Warren?
Could she-if she tried hard-visualize one of them killing someone? Yes, perhaps-but it wouldn’t be the right kind of murder. She could picture Philip Blake, in an outburst of fury, strangling some women-yes, she could picture that…And she could picture Meredith Blake, threatening a burglar with a revolver-and letting it off by accident…And she could picture Angela Warren, also firing a revolver, but not by accident. With no personal feeling in the matter-the safety of the expedition depended on it! And Elsa, in some fantastic castle, saying from her couch of oriental silks: ‘Throw the wretch over the battlements!’ All wild fancies-and not even in the wildest flight of fancy could she imagine little Miss Williams killing anybody at all! Another fantastic picture: ‘Did you ever kill anybody, Miss Williams?’ ‘Go on with your arithmetic, Carla, and don’t ask silly questions. To kill anybody is very wicked.’
Carla thought: ‘I must be ill-and I must stop this. Listen, you fool, listen to that little man who says he knows.’
Hercule Poirot was talking.
‘That was my task-to put myself in reverse gear, as it were, and go back through the years and discover what really happened.’
Philip Blake said: ‘We all know what happened. To pretend anything else is a swindle-that’s what it is, a bare- faced swindle. You’re getting money out of this girl on false pretences.’
Poirot did not allow himself to be angered. He said:
‘You say, we all know what happened. You speak without reflection. The accepted version of certain facts is not necessarily the true one. On the face of it, for instance, you, Mr Blake, disliked Caroline Crale. That is the accepted version of your attitude. But anyone with the least flair for psychology can perceive at once that the exact opposite was the truth. You were always violently attracted towards Caroline Crale. You resented the fact, and tried to conquer it by steadfastly telling yourself her defects and reiterating your dislike. In the same way, Mr Meredith Blake had a tradition of devotion to Caroline Crale lasting over many years. In his story of the tragedy he represents himself as resenting Amyas Crale’s conduct onher account, but you have only to read carefully between the lines and you will see that the devotion of a lifetime had worn itself thin and that it was the young, beautiful Elsa Greer that was occupying his mind and thoughts.’
There was a splutter from Meredith, and Lady Dittisham smiled.
Poirot went on.
‘I mention these matters only as illustrations, though they have their bearing on what happened. Very well, then, I start on my backward journey-to learn everything I can about the tragedy. I will tell you how I set about it. I talked to the Counsel who defended Caroline Crale, to the Junior Counsel for the Crown, to the old solicitor who had known the Crale family intimately, to the lawyer’s clerk who had been in court during the trial, to the police officer in charge of the case-and I came finally to the five eye-witnesses who had been upon the scene. And from all of these I put together a picture-a composite picture of a woman. And I learned these facts:
‘That at no time did Caroline Crale protest her innocence(except in that one letter written to her daughter).
‘That Caroline Crale showed no fear in the dock, that she showed, in fact, hardly any interest, that she adopted throughout a thoroughly defeatist attitude. That in prison she was quiet and serene. That in a letter she wrote to her sister immediately after the verdict, she expressed herself as acquiescent in the fate that had overtaken her. And in the opinion of everyone I talked to (with one notable exception)Caroline Crale was guilty.’
Philip Blake nodded his head. ‘Of course she was!’
Hercule Poirot said:
‘But it was not my part to accept the verdict of others. I had to examine the evidence for myself. To examine the facts and to satisfy myself that the psychology of the case accorded itself with them. To do this I went over the police files carefully, and I also succeeded in getting five people who were on the spot to write me out their own accounts of the tragedy. These accounts were very valuable for they contained certain matter which the police files could not give me-that is to say: A, certain conversations and incidents which, from the police point of view, were not relevant; B, the opinions of the people themselves as to what Caroline Crale was thinking and feeling (not admissible legally as evidence); C, certain facts which had been deliberately withheld from the police.
‘I was in a position now to judge the case for myself. There seems no doubt whatever that Caroline Crale had ample motive for the crime. She loved her husband, he had publicly admitted that he was about to leave her for another woman, and by her own admission she was a jealous woman.
‘To come from motives to means, an empty scent bottle that had contained coniine was found in her bureau drawer. There were no fingerprints upon it but hers. When asked about it by the police, she admitted taking it from this room we are in now. The coniine bottle here also had her fingerprints upon it. I questioned Mr Meredith Blake as to the order in which the five people left this room on that day-for it seemed to me hardly conceivable that any one should be able to help themselves to the poison whilst five people were in the room. The people left the room in this order-Elsa Greer, Meredith Blake, Angela Warren and Philip Blake, Amyas Crale, and lastly Caroline Crale. Moreover, Mr Meredith Blake has his back to the room whilst he was waiting for Mrs Crale to come out, so that it was impossible for him to see what she was doing. She had, that is to say, the opportunity. I am therefore satisfied that she did take the coniine. There is indirect confirmation of it. Mr Meredith Blake said to me the other day: ‘I can remember standing here and smelling the jasmine through the open window.’ But the month was September, and the jasmine creeper outside that window would have finished flowering. It is the ordinary jasmine which blooms in June and July. But the scent bottle found in her room and which contained the dregs of coniine had originally contained jasmine scent. I take it as certain, then, that Mrs Crale decided to steal the coniine, and surreptitiously emptied out the scent from a bottle she had in her bag.
‘I tested that a second time the other day when I asked Mr Blake to shut his eyes and try and remember the order of leaving the room. A whiff of jasmine scent stimulated his memory immediately. We are all more influenced by smell than we know.
‘So we come to the morning of the fatal day. So far the facts are not in dispute. Miss Greer’s sudden revealing of the fact that she and Mr Crale contemplate marriage, Amyas Crale’s confirmation of that, and Caroline Crale’s deep distress. None of these things depend on the evidence of one witness only.
‘On the following morning there is a scene between husband and wife in the library. The first thing that is overheard is Caroline Crale saying: ‘You and your women!’ in a bitter voice, and finally going on to say, ‘Some day
