by Mark Place
“No, really, you know, I’m hanged if I do.” The stockbroker sat upright again; his glance was once more shrewd. “Why you? You’re not a writer.”
“Not precisely - no. Actually I am a detective.”
The modesty of this remark had probably not been equalled before in Poirot’s conversation.
“Of course you are. We all know that. The famous Hercule Poirot!”
But his tone held a subtly mocking note. Intrinsically, Philip Blake was too much of an Englishman to take the pretensions of a foreigner seriously. To his cronies he would have said, “Quaint little mountebank. Oh, well, I expect his stuff goes down with the women, all right.”
And although that derisive, patronizing attitude was exactly the one which Hercule Poirot had aimed at inducing, nevertheless he found himself annoyed by it. This man, this successful man of affairs, was unimpressed by Hercule Poirot! It was a scandal.
“I am gratified,” said Poirot untruly, “that I am so well known to you. My success, let me tell you, has been founded on the psychology – the eternal why of human behaviour. That, M. Blake, is what interests the world in crime today. It used to be romance. Famous crimes were retold from one angle only - the love story connected with them. Nowadays it is very different. People read with interest that Dr Crippen murdered his wife because she was a big, bouncing woman and he was little and insignificant and therefore she made him feel inferior. They read of some famous woman criminal that she killed because she’d been snubbed by her father when she was three years old. It is, as I say, the why of crime that interests nowadays.”
Philip Blake said, with a slight yawn, “The why of most crimes is obvious enough, I should say. Usually money.”
“Ah, but, my dear sir,” Poirot cried, “the why must never be obvious. That is the whole point!”
“And that’s where you come in?”
“And that, as you say, is where I come in! It is proposed to rewrite the stories of certain bygone crimes - from the psychological angle. Psychology in crime, it is my specialty. I have accepted the commission.”
Philip Blake grinned. “Pretty lucrative, I suppose?”
“I hope so; I certainly hope so.”
“Congratulations. Now, perhaps, you’ll tell me where I come in?”
“Most certainly. The Crale case, monsieur.”
Philip Blake did not look startled. But he looked thoughtful. He said, “Yes, of course, the Crale case…”
Hercule Poirot said anxiously, “It is not displeasing to you, Mr Blake?”
“Oh, as to that.” Philip Blake shrugged his shoulders. “It’s no use resenting a thing that you’ve no power to stop. The trial of Caroline Crale is public property. Anyone can go ahead and write it up. It’s no use my objecting. In a way - I don’t mind telling you - I do dislike it a good deal. Amyas Crale was one of my best friends. I’m sorry the whole unsavoury business has to be raked up again. But these things happen.”
“You are a philosopher, Mr Blake.”
“No, no. I just know enough not to start kicking against the prickles. I daresay, you’ll do it less offensively than many others.”
“I hope, at least, to write with delicacy and good taste,” said Poirot. Philip Blake gave a loud guffaw but without any real amusement. “Makes me chuckle to hear you say that.”
“I assure you, Mr Blake, I am really interested. It is not just a matter of money with me. I genuinely want to recreate the past - to feel and see the events that took place, to see behind the obvious and to visualize the thoughts and feelings of the actors in the drama.”
“I don’t know that there was much subtlety about it,” Philip Blake said. “It was a pretty obvious business. Crude female jealousy, that was all there was to it.”
“It would interest me enormously, Mr Blake, if I could have your own reactions to the affair.”
Philip Blake said with sudden heat, his face deepening in colour, “Reactions! Reactions! Don’t speak so pedantically. I didn’t just stand there and react! You don’t seem to understand that my friend – my friend, I tell you - had been killed - poisoned! And that if I’d acted quicker I could have saved him.”
“How do you make that out, Mr Blake?”
“Like this. I take it that you’ve already read up the facts of the case?”
Poirot nodded. “Very well. Now on that morning my brother Meredith called me up. He was in a pretty good stew. One of his hell brews was missing, and it was a fairly deadly hell brew. What did I do? I told him to come along and we’d talk it over. Decide what was best to be done. ‘Decide what was best.’ It beats me now how I could have been such a hesitating fool! I ought to have gone to Amyas straight away and warned him. I ought to have said, ‘Caroline’s pinched one of Meredith’s patent poisons, and you and Elsa had better look out for yourselves.’”
Blake got up. He strode up and down in his excitement. “Do you suppose I haven’t gone over it in my mind again and again? I knew. I had the chance to save him and I dallied about - waiting for Meredith! Why hadn’t I the sense to realize that Caroline wasn’t going to have any qualms or hesitancies? She’d taken that stuff to use - and she’d use it at the very first opportunity. She wouldn’t wait till Meredith discovered his loss. I knew - of course I knew that Amyas was in deadly danger and I did nothing!”
“I think you reproach yourself unduly, monsieur. You had not much time -”
The other interrupted him.
“Time? I had plenty of time. Any amount of courses were open to me. I could have gone to Amyas, as I say; but there was the chance, of course, that he wouldn’t believe me. Amyas wasn’t the sort of man who’d believe easily in his own danger. He’d have scoffed at the notion. And he never thoroughly understood the sort of devil Caroline was. But I could have gone to her. I could have said, ‘I know what you’re up to. I know what you’re planning to do. But if Amyas or Elsa dies of coniine poisoning, you’ll be hanged by your neck!’ That would have stopped her. Or I might have rung up the police. Oh, there were things that could have been done - and, instead, I let myself be influenced by Meredith’s slow, cautious methods! ‘We must be sure - talk it over - make quite certain who could have taken it…’ Old fool - never made a quick decision in his life! A good thing for him he was the eldest son and has an estate to live on. If he’d ever tried to make money he’d have lost every penny he had.”
“You had no doubt yourself who had taken the poison?” Poirot asked.
“Of course not. I knew at once it must be Caroline. You see, I knew Caroline very well.”
“That is very interesting,” Poirot said. “I want to know, Mr Blake, what kind of a woman Caroline Crale was.”
Philip Blake said sharply, “She wasn’t the injured that innocent people thought she was at the time of the trial!”
“What was she, then?”
Blake sat down again. He said seriously, “Would you really like to know?”
“I would like to know very much indeed.”
“Caroline was a rotter. She was a rotter through and through. Mind you, she had charm. She had that kind of sweetness of manner that deceives people utterly. She had a frail, helpless look about her that appealed to people’s chivalry. Sometimes, when I’ve read a bit of history, I think Mary Queen of Scots must have been a bit like her. Always sweet and unfortunate and magnetic - and actually a cold, calculating woman, a scheming woman who planned the murder of Darnley and got away with it. Caroline was like that - a cold, calculating planner. And she, had a wicked temper. I don’t know whether they’ve told you - it isn’t a vital point of the trial, but it shows her up - what she did to her baby sister? She was jealous, you know. Her mother had married again, and all the notice and affection went to little Angela. Caroline couldn’t stand that. She tried to kill the baby - smash its head in. Luckily the blow wasn’t fatal. But it was a pretty ghastly thing to do.”
“Yes, indeed!”
“Well, that was the real Caroline. She had to be first. That was the
thing she simply could not stand - not being first. And there was a cold, egotistical devil in her that was capable of being stirred to murderous lengths.” He paused.
“You’ll say that I’m bitter - that I’m unduly prejudiced against Caroline. She had charm - I’ve felt it. But I knew - I always knew - the real woman behind. And that woman, M. Poirot, was evil. She was cruel and malignant and a grabber!”
“And yet it has been told me that Mrs Crale put up with many hard things in her married life.”
“Yes, and didn’t she let everybody know about it? Always the martyr! Poor old Amyas. His married life was one long hell - or rather it would have been if it hadn’t been for his exceptional quality. His art, you see - he always had that. It was an escape. When he was painting he didn’t care; he shook off Caroline and her nagging and all the ceaseless rows and quarrels. They were endless, you know. Not a week passed without a thundering row over one thing or another.
“She enjoyed it. Having rows stimulated her, I believe. It was an outlet. She could say all the hard, bitter, stinging things she wanted to say. She’d positively purr after one of those set-tos - go off looking as sleek and well-fed as a cat. But it took it out of him. He wanted peace, rest, a quiet life. Of course, a man like that ought never to marry; he isn’t cut out for domesticity. A man like Crale should have affairs but no binding ties. They’re bound to chafe him.”
“He confided in you?”
“Well - he knew that I was a pretty devoted pal. He let me see things. He didn’t complain. He wasn’t that kind of man. Sometimes he’d say, ‘Damn all women.’ Or he’d say, ‘Never get married, old boy. Wait for hell till after this life.’”
“You knew about his attachment to Miss Greer?”
“Oh, yes - at least I saw it coming on. He told me he’d met a marvellous girl. She was different, he said, from anything or anyone he’d ever met before. Not that I paid much attention to that. Amyas was always meeting one woman or other who was ‘different.’ Usually, a month later, he’d stare at you if you mentioned them, and wonder who you were talking about! But this Elsa Greer really was different. I realized that when I came down to Alderbury to stay. She’d got him, you know - hooked him good and proper. The poor mutt fairly ate out of her hand.”
“You did not like Elsa Greer either?”
“No, I didn’t like her. She was definitely a predatory creature. She, too, wanted to own Crale body and soul. But I think, all the same, that she’d have been better for him than Caroline. She might conceivably have let him alone once she was sure of him. Or she might have got tired of him and moved on to someone else. The best thing for Amyas would have been to be quite free of female entanglements.”
“But that, it would seem, was not to his taste.”
Philip Blake said with a sigh, “The fool was always getting himself involved with some woman or other. And yet, in a way, women really meant very little to him. The only two women who really made any impression on him at all in his life were Caroline and Elsa.”
“Was he fond of the child?” Poirot asked.
“Angela? Oh, we all liked Angela. She was such a sport. She was always game for anything. What a life she led that wretched governess of hers! Yes, Amyas liked Angela all right; but sometimes she went too far, and then he used to get really mad with her, and then Caroline would step in - Caro was always on Angela’s side and that would finish Amyas altogether. He hated it when Caro sided with Angela against him. There was a bit of jealousy all round, you know. Amyas was jealous of the way Caro always put Angela first and would do anything for her. And Angela was jealous of Amyas and rebelled against his overbearing ways.” He paused.
“In the interests of truth, Mr Blake,” Poirot said, “I am going to ask you to do something.”
“What is it?”
“I am going to beg that you will write me out an exact account of what happened on those days at Alderbury. That is to say, I am going to ask you to write me out a full account of the murder and its attendant circumstances.”
“But, my dear fellow, after all this time? I should be hopelessly inaccurate.”
“Not necessarily.”
“Surely.”
“No, Mr Blake; for one thing, with the passage of time, the mind retains a hold on essentials and rejects superficial matters.”
“Oh, you mean a mere broad outline?”
“Not at all. I mean a detailed, conscientious account of each event as it occurred and every conversation you can remember.”
“And supposing I remember them wrong?”
“You can give the wording at least to the best of your recollection. There may be gaps, but that cannot be helped.”
Blake looked at him curiously. “But what’s the idea? The police files will give you the whole thing far more accurately.”
“No, Mr Blake. We are speaking now from the psychological point of view. I do not want bare facts. I want your own selection of facts. Time and your memory are responsible for that selection. There may have been things done, words spoken, that I should seek for in vain in the police files. Things and words that you never mentioned because, maybe, you judged them irrelevant, or because you preferred not to repeat them.”
Blake said sharply, “Is this account of mine for publication?”
“Certainly not. It is for my eye only. To assist me to draw my own deductions.”
“And you won’t quote from it without my consent?”
“Certainly not.”
“H’m,” said Philip Blake. “I’m a very busy man, M. Poirot.”
“I appreciate that there will be time and trouble involved. I should be happy to agree to a - reasonable fee.”
There was a moment’s pause. Then Philip Blake said suddenly, “No, if I do it I’ll do it for nothing.”
“And you will do it?”
Philip Blake said warningly, “Remember, I can’t vouch for the accuracy of my memory.”
“That is perfectly understood.”
“Then I think,” said Philip Blake, “that I should like to do it. I feel I owe it - in a way - to Amyas Crale.”
Hercule Poirot was not a man to neglect details. His advance toward Meredith Blake was carefully thought out. Meredith Blake was, he already felt sure, a very different proposition from Philip Blake. Rush tactics would not succeed here. The assault must be leisurely. Hercule Poirot knew that there was only one way to penetrate the stronghold. He must approach Meredith Blake with the proper credentials. Those credentials must be social, not professional. Fortunately, in the course of his career, Hercule Poirot had made friends in many counties. Devonshire was no exception. He sat down to review what resources he had in Devonshire. As a result he discovered two people who were acquaintances or friends of Mr Meredith Blake. He descended upon him, therefore, armed with two letters - one from Lady Mary Lytton-Gore, a gentle widow lady of restricted means, the most retiring of creatures; and the other from a retired admiral, whose family had been settled in the county for four generations. Meredith Blake received Poirot in a state of some perplexity. As he had often felt lately, things were not what they used to be. Dash it all, private detectives used to be private detectives - fellows you got to guard wedding presents at country receptions, fellows you went to, rather shamefacedly, when there was some dirty business afoot and you had to get the hang of it. But here was Lady Mary Lytton-Gore writing: “Hercule Poirot is a very old and valued friend of mine. Please do all you can to help him, won’t you?” And Mary Lytton-Gore wasn’t - no, decidedly she wasn’t – the sort of woman you associate with private detectives and all that they stand for. And Admiral Cronshaw wrote: “Very good chap – absolutely sound. Grateful if you will do what you can for him. Most entertaining fellow - can tell you lots of good stories.”
And now here was the man himself. Really a most impossible person - the wrong clothes, button boots, an incredible moustache! Not his, Meredith Blake’s, kind of fellow at all. Didn’t look as though he’d ever hunted or shot - or even playe
d a decent game. A foreigner. Slightly amused, Hercule Poirot read accurately these thoughts passing through the other’s head. He had felt his own interest rising considerably as the train brought him into the west country. He would see now, with his eyes, the actual place where these long-past events happened. It was here, at Handcross Manor, that two young brothers had lived and gone over to Alderbury and joked and played tennis and fraternized with a young Amyas Crale and a girl called Caroline. It was from here that Meredith had started out to Alderbury on that fatal morning. That had been sixteen years ago. Hercule Poirot looked with interest at the man who was confronting him with somewhat uneasy politeness.
Very much what he had expected. Meredith Blake resembled superficially every other English country gentleman of straitened means and outdoor tastes. A shabby old coat of tweed, a weather-beaten, pleasant, middle-aged face with somewhat faded blue eyes, rather a weak mouth, half hidden by a rather straggly moustache. Poirot found Meredith Blake a great contrast to his brother. He had a hesitating manner; his mental processes were obviously leisurely. It was as though his tempo had slowed down with the years just as his brother Philip’s had been accelerated. As Poirot had already guessed, he was a man whom you could not hurry. The leisurely life of the English countryside was in his bones. He looked, the detective thought, a good deal older than his brother, though, from what Mr Johnathan had said, it would seem that only a couple of years separated them. Hercule Poirot prided himself on knowing how to handle an “old-school tie.” It was no moment for trying to seem English. No, one must be a foreigner - frankly a foreigner - and be magnanimously forgiven for the fact. “Of course these foreigners don’t quite know the ropes. Will shake hands at breakfast. Still, a decent fellow really…”
