Hercule Poirot 100 Years (1916 - 2016)

by Mark Place

  “No.”

  The word came sharply - with an almost anguished rapidity Meredith Blake said, his face flushing: “I abandoned the whole thing - dismantled it. I couldn’t go on with it - how could I after what had happened? The whole thing, you see, might have been said to be my fault.”

  “No, no, Mr Blake, you are too sensitive.”

  “But don t you see? If I hadn’t collected those damned drugs; if I hadn’t laid stress on them - boasted about them - forced them on those people’s notice that afternoon - But I never thought - I never dreamed - how could I -”

  “How indeed?”

  “But I went bumbling on about them. Pleased with my little bit of knowledge. Blind, conceited fool. I pointed out that damned coniine. I even - fool that I was - took them back into the library and read them out that passage from the Phaedo describing Socrates’s death. A beautiful piece of writing - I’ve always admired it - but it’s haunted me ever since.”

  Poirot said, “Did they find any fingerprints on the coniine bottle?”

  Blake answered with one poignant word: “Hers.”

  “Caroline Crale’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not yours?”

  “No, I didn’t handle the bottle, you see. Only pointed to it.”

  “But at some time, surely, you had handled it?”

  “Oh, of course, but I gave the bottles a periodic dusting from time to time - I never allowed the servants in there, of course - and I had done that about four or five days previously.”

  “You kept the room locked up?”

  “Invariably.”

  “When did Caroline Crale take the coniine from the bottle?”

  “She was the last to leave,” Meredith Blake replied reluctantly. “I called her, I remember, and she came hurrying out. Her cheeks were just a little pink, and her eyes wide and excited. I can see her now -”

  Poirot said, “Did you have any conversation with her at all that afternoon? I mean by that, did you discuss the situation as between her and her husband at all?”

  “Not directly,” Blake said slowly in a low voice. “She was looking, as I’ve told you, very upset. I said to her at a moment when we were more or less by ourselves, ‘Is anything the matter, my dear?’ She said, ‘Everything’s the matter.’ I wish you could have heard the desperation in her voice. Those words were the absolute literal truth. There’s no getting away from it - Amyas Crale was Caroline’s whole world. She said, ‘Everything’s gone - finished. I’m finished, Meredith.’ And then she laughed and turned to the others and was suddenly wild and very unnaturally gay.”

  Hercule Poirot nodded his head slowly. He looked very like a china mandarin. He said, “Yes - I see - it was like that.”

  Meredith Blake pounded suddenly with his fist. His voice rose. It was almost a shout. “And I’ll tell you this, M. Poirot - when Caroline Crale said at the trial that she took the stuff for herself, I’ll swear she was speaking the truth! There was no thought in her mind of murder at that time. I swear there wasn’t. That came later.”

  “Are you sure that it did come later?” Poirot asked.

  Blake stared. “I beg your pardon?” he said. “I don’t quite understand-” Poirot said, “I ask you whether you are sure that the thought of murder ever did come? Are you perfectly convinced in your own mind that Caroline Crale did deliberately commit murder?”

  Meredith Blake’s breath came unevenly. He said, “But if not - if not - are you suggesting an - well, accident of some kind?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “That’s a very extraordinary thing to say.”

  “Is it? You have called Caroline Crale a gentle creature. Do gentle creatures commit murder?”

  “She was a gentle creature, but all the same - well, there were very violent quarrels, you know.”

  “Not such a gentle creature, then?”

  “But she was - Oh, how difficult these things are to explain.”

  “I am trying to understand.”

  “Caroline had a quick tongue - a vehement way of speaking. She might say, “I hate you. I wish you were dead,” but it wouldn’t mean – it wouldn’t entail - action.”

  “So in your opinion, it was highly uncharacteristic of Mrs Crale to commit murder?”

  “You have the most extraordinary ways of putting things, M. Poirot. I can only say that - yes, it does seem to me uncharacteristic of her. I can only explain it by realizing that the provocation was extreme. She adored her husband. Under those circumstances a woman might - well, kill.”

  Poirot nodded. “Yes, I agree.”

  “I was dumbfounded at first. I didn’t feel it could be true. And it wasn’t true - if you know what I mean - it wasn’t the real Caroline who did that.”

  “But you are quite sure that, in the legal sense, Caroline Crale did do it?”

  Again Meredith Blake stared at him. “My dear man, if she didn’t -”

  “Well, if she didn’t?”

  “I can’t imagine any alternative solution. Accident? Surely impossible.”

  “Quite impossible, I should say.”

  “And I can’t believe in the suicide theory. It had to be brought forward, but it was quite unconvincing to anyone who knew Crale.”

  “Quite.”

  “So what remains?” asked Meredith Blake.

  Poirot said coolly, “There remains the possibility of Amyas Crale having been killed by somebody else.”

  “But that’s absurd! Nobody could have killed him but his wife. But he drove her to it. And so, in a way, it was suicide after all, I suppose.”

  “Meaning that he died by the result of his own actions, though not by his own hand?”

  “Yes, it’s a fanciful point of view, perhaps. But - well, cause and effect, you know.”

  Hercule Poirot said, “Have you ever reflected, Mr Blake, that the reason for murder is nearly always to be found by a study of the person murdered?”

  “I hadn’t exactly - yes, I suppose I see what you mean.”

  Poirot said, “Until you know exactly what sort of a person the victim was, you cannot begin to see the circumstances of a crime clearly.”

  He added, “That is what I am seeking for - and what you and your brother have helped to give me - a reconstruction of the man Amyas Crale.”

  Meredith Blake passed the main point of the remark over. His attention had been attracted by a single word.

  He said quickly, “Philip?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have talked with him, also?”

  “Certainly.”

  Meredith Blake said sharply, “You should have come to me first.”

  Smiling a little, Poirot made a courteous gesture. “As your brother lives near London, it was easier to visit him first.”

  Meredith Blake repeated, “You should have come to me first.”

  This time Poirot did not answer. He waited. And presently Meredith Blake went on. “Philip,” he said, “is prejudiced.”

  “Yes?”

  “As a matter of fact, he’s a mass of prejudices - always has been.” He shot a quick, uneasy glance at Poirot. “He’ll have tried to put you against Caroline.”

  “Does that matter, so long - after?”

  Meredith Blake gave a sharp sigh. “I know. I forget that it’s so long ago - that it’s all over. Caroline is beyond being harmed. But, all the same, I shouldn’t like you to get a false impression.”

  “And you think your brother might give me a false impression?”

  “Frankly, I do. You see, there was always a certain - how shall I put it? - antagonism between him and Caroline.”

  “Why?”

  The question seemed to irritate Blake. He said, “Why? How should I know why? These things are so. Philip always crabbed her whenever he could. He was annoyed, I think, when Amyas married her. He never went near them for over a year. And yet Amyas was almost his best friend. That was the reason really, I suppose. He didn’t feel that any woman was good enough. And he pr
obably felt that Caroline’s influence would spoil their friendship.”

  “And did it?”

  “No, of course it didn’t. Amyas was always just as fond of Philip – right up to the end. Used to twit him with being a moneygrubber and with growing a corporation and being a Philistine generally. Philip didn’t care. He just used to grin and say it was a good thing Amyas had one respectable friend.”

  “How did your brother react to the Elsa Greer affair?”

  “Do you know, I find it rather difficult to say. His attitude wasn’t really easy to define. He was annoyed, I think, with Amyas for making a fool of himself over the girl. He said more than once that it wouldn’t work and that Amyas would live to regret it. At the same time I have a feeling - yes, very definitely I have a feeling that he was just faintly pleased at seeing Caroline let down.”

  There was a silence. Then Blake said with the irritable plaintiveness of a weak man, “It was all over - forgotten - and now you come, raking it all up.”

  “Not I. Caroline Crale.”

  Meredith stared at him. “Caroline? What do you mean?”

  Poirot said, watching him, “Caroline Crale the second.”

  Meredith’s face relaxed. “Ah, yes, the child. Little Carla. I – I misunderstood you for a moment.”

  “You thought I meant the original Caroline Crale? You thought that it was she who would not - how shall I say it? - rest easy in her grave.”

  Blake shivered. “Don’t, man.”

  “You know that she wrote to her daughter - the last words she ever wrote - that she was innocent?”

  Meredith stared at him. He said - and his voice sounded utterly incredulous, “Caroline wrote that?”

  “Yes.” Poirot paused and said, “It surprises you?”

  “It would surprise you if you’d seen her in court. Poor, hunted, defenceless creature. Not even struggling.”

  “A defeatist?”

  “No, no. She wasn’t that. It was, I think, the knowledge that she’d killed the man she loved - or I thought it was that.”

  “You are not so sure now?”

  “To write a thing like that - solemnly - when she was dying.”

  Poirot said, “A pious lie, perhaps?”

  “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.”

  “You won’t get much from that,” Meredith Blake said sharply. “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 everyone 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. “That 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’s 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 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 right 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 around 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 among 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 there was a storm or it was raining, and then we’d take the car. But it’s nearly three miles if you go around 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 - tumble-down 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 anyone,” 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 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 upward, 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 overh
anging 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 toward a kind of pavilion set back against the back wall. “That wasn’t there, of course - only an old tumble-down 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 paralyzes you, you know. There isn’t any pain… I’ve - I’ve always been glad of that…”

  Poirot asked a thing he already knew: “Who found him here?”

  “She did. Caroline. After lunch. Elsa and I, 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.”

  He turned abruptly and went out of the Battery. Poirot flowed him without speaking. The two men went on up the zigzag path. At a higher left-brace than the Battery, there was another small plateau. It was overshadowed with trees and there was a bench there and a table. Meredith said, “They haven’t changed this much. But the bench used not to be Ye Olde Rustic. It was just a painted iron business. A bit hard for sitting, a lovely view.”