Hercule Poirot 100 Years (1916 - 2016)

by Mark Place

  He nodded vigorously. “I see perfectly, and I realize the absolute rightness of what you have said. There are people to whom agreement is monotony. They require the stimulant of dissension to create drama in their lives.”

  “Exactly.”

  “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 afterward, 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 anyone. 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 the 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 It was a face uncertain of itself, emotional, with a withdrawn, hidden beauty.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 know 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 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. “That is difficult, I agree,” she said. “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?”

  “Miss Williams? Philip Blake?” Poirot suggested.

  Angela’s grave face relaxed into a smile. “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. “She was devoted to Caroline, of course. Would have done anything for her. And she hated Amyas. She was a great feminist and disliked men. Is that enough for murder? Surely not.”

  “It would hardly seem so,” agreed Poirot.

  Angela went on. “Philip Blake?” She was silent for some few moments. Then she said quietly, “I think, you know, if we’re just talking of likelihoods, he’s the most likely person.”

  Poirot said, “You interest me very much, Miss Warren. May I ask why you say that?”

  “Nothing at all definite. But from what I remember of him, I should say he was a person of rather limited imagination.”

  “And a limited imagination predisposes
you to murder?”

  “It might lead you to take a crude way of settling your difficulties. Men of that type get a certain satisfaction from action of some kind or other. Murder is a very crude business, don’t you think so?”

  “Yes - I think you are right… It is definitely a point of view, that. But, all the same, Miss Warren, there must be more to it than that. What motive could Philip Blake possibly have had?”

  Angela Warren did not answer at once. She stood frowning down at the floor.

  Hercule Poirot said, “He was Amyas Crale’s best friend, was he not?” She nodded.

  “But there is something in your mind, Miss Warren. Something that you have not yet told me. Were the two men rivals, perhaps, over the girl - over Elsa?”

  Angela Warren shook her head. “Oh, no, not Philip.”

  “What is there, then?”

  Angela Warren said slowly, “Do you know the way that things suddenly come back to you - after years, perhaps. I’ll explain what I mean. Somebody told me a story once, when I was eleven. I saw no point in that story whatsoever. It didn’t worry me - it just passed straight over my head. I don’t believe I ever, as they say, thought of it again. But about two years ago, sitting in the stalls at a revue, that story came back to me, and I was so surprised that I actually said aloud, ‘Oh, now I see the point of that silly story about the rice pudding.’ And yet there had been no direct allusion on the same lines - only some fun sailing rather near the wind.”

  Poirot said, “I understand what you mean, mademoiselle.”

  “Then you will understand what I am going to tell you. I was once staying at a hotel. As I walked along a passage one of the bedroom doors opened and a woman I knew came out. It was not her bedroom - and she registered the fact plainly on her face when she saw me. And I knew then the meaning of the expression I had once seen on Caroline’s face when at Alderbury she came out of Philip Blake’s room one night.”

  She leaned forward, stopping Poirot’s words. “I had no idea at the time, you understand. I knew things - girls of the age I was usually do - but I didn’t connect them with reality. Caroline coming out of Philip Blake’s bedroom was just Caroline coming out of Philip Blake’s

  bedroom to me. It might have been Miss Williams’s room or my room. But what I did notice was the expression on her face - a queer expression that I didn’t know and couldn’t understand.

  I didn’t understand it until, as I have told you, the night in Paris when I saw that same expression on another woman’s face.”

  Poirot said slowly: “But what you tell me, Miss Warren, is sufficiently astonishing. From Philip Blake himself I got the impression that he disliked your sister and always had.”

  “I know,” Angela said. “I can’t explain it, but there it is.”

  Poirot nodded slowly. Already, in his interview with Philip Blake, he had felt vaguely that something did not ring true. That overdone animosity against Caroline; it had not, somehow, been natural. And words and phrases from his conversation with Meredith Blake came back to him: “Very upset when Amyas married - did not go near them for over a year.”

  Had Philip, then, always been in love with Caroline? And had his love, when she chose Amyas, turned to bitter and hate? Yes, Philip had been too vehement, too biased. Poirot visualized him thoughtfully - the cheerful, prosperous man with his golf and his comfortable house. What had Philip really felt sixteen years ago? Angela Warren was speaking:

  “I don’t understand it. You see, I’ve no experience in love affairs – they haven’t come my way. I’ve told you this for what it’s worth in case it might have a bearing on what happened.”

  Chapter 7

  The Narrative of Philip Blake

  (Covering letter received with manuscript)

  Dear M. Poirot:

  I am fulfilling my promise and herewith find enclosed an account of the events relating to the death of Amyas Crale. After such a lapse of time I am bound to point out that my memories may not be strictly accurate, but I have put down what occurred to the best of my recollection.

  Yours truly,

  Philip Blake.

  Notes on Progress of Events leading up to Murder of Amyas Crale on 18th Sept. 19—

  My friendship with deceased dates back to a very early period. His home and mine were next door to each other in the country and our families were friends. Amyas Crale was a little over two years older than I was. We played together as boys, in the holidays, though we were not at the same school. From the point of view of my long knowledge of the man I feel myself particularly qualified to testify as to his character and general outlook on life. And I will say this straightaway - to anyone who knew Amyas Crale well, the notion of his committing suicide is quite ridiculous. Crale would never have taken his own life. He was far too fond of living! The contention of the defence at the trial that Crale was obsessed by conscience, and took poison in a fit of remorse is utterly absurd.

  Crale, I should say, had very little conscience, and certainly not a morbid one. Moreover, he and his wife were on bad terms and I don’t think he would have had any undue scruples about breaking up what was, to him, a very unsatisfactory married life. He was prepared to look after her financial welfare and that of the child of the marriage, and I am sure would have done so generously. He was a very generous man, and altogether a warm-hearted and to lovable person. Not only was he a great painter, but he was also a man whose friends were devoted to him. As far as I know he had no enemies. I had also known Caroline Crale for many years. I knew her before her marriage, when she used to come and stay at Alderbury. She was then a somewhat neurotic girl, subject to uncontrollable outbursts of temper, not without attraction, but unquestionably a difficult person to live with.

  She showed her devotion to Amyas almost immediately. He, I think, was not really very much in love with her. But they were frequently thrown together. She was, as I say, attractive, and they eventually became engaged. Crale’s friends were apprehensive about the marriage, as they felt that Caroline was quite unsuited to him. This caused a certain amount of strain in the first few years between Crale’s wife and Crale’s friends, but Amyas was a loyal friend and was not disposed to give up his old friends at the bidding of his wife. After a few years he and I were on the same old terms and I was a frequent visitor at Alderbury. I may add that I stood godfather to the little girl, Carla. This proves, I think, that Amyas considered me his best friend, and it gives me authority to speak for a man who can no longer speak for himself.

  To come to the actual events of which I have been asked to write, I arrived down at Alderbury (so I see by an old diary) five days before the crime. That is, on September 13th. I was conscious at once of a certain tension in the atmosphere. There was also staying in the house Miss Elsa Greer, whom Amyas was painting at the time. It was the first time I had seen Miss Greer in the flesh, but I had been aware of her existence for some time. Amyas had raved about her to me a month previously. He had met, he said, a marvellous girl. He talked about her so enthusiastically that I said to him jokingly, “Be careful, old boy, or you’ll be losing your head again.” He told me not to be a bloody fool. He was painting the girl; he’d no personal interest in her. I said, “Tell that to the marines! I’ve heard you say that before.” He said, “This time it’s different,” to which I answered somewhat cynically, ‘It always is!” Amyas then looked quite worried and anxious. He said, “You don’t understand. She’s just a girl. Not much more than a child.” He added that she had very modern views and was absolutely free from old-fashioned prejudices. He said, “She’s honest and natural and absolutely fearless!”

  I thought to myself, though I didn’t say so, that Amyas had certainly got it badly this time. A few weeks later I heard comments from other people. It was said that the Greer girl was absolutely infatuated. Somebody else said that it was a bit thick of Amyas, considering how young the girl was, whereupon somebody else snickered and said that Elsa Greer knew her way about, all right. There was a question as
to what Crale’s wife thought about it, and the significant reply that she must be used to that sort of thing by now, to which someone demurred by saying they’d heard that she was jealous as hell and led Crale such an impossible life that any man would be justified in having a fling from time to time. I mention all this because I think it is important that the state of affairs before I got down there should be fully realized.

  I was interested to see the girl. She was remarkably good-looking and very attractive, and I was, I must admit, maliciously amused to note that Caroline was cutting up very rough indeed. Amyas Crale himself was less light-hearted than usual. Though to anyone who did not know him well, his manner would have appeared much as usual, I, who knew him so intimately, noted at once various signs of strain, uncertain temper, fits of moody abstraction, general irritability of manner. Although he was always inclined to be moody when painting, the picture he was at work upon did not account entirely for the strain he showed. He was pleased to see me and said as soon as we were alone, “Thank goodness you’ve turned up, Phil. Living in a house with four women is enough to send any man clean off his chump. Between them all, they’ll send me into a lunatic asylum.”

  It was certainly an uncomfortable atmosphere. Caroline, as I said, was obviously cutting up rough about the whole thing. In a polite, well-bred way, she was ruder to Elsa than one would believe possible - without a single actually offensive word. Elsa herself was openly and flagrantly rude to Caroline. She was top dog and she knew it, and no scruples of good breeding restrained her from overt bad manners. The result was that Crale spent most of his time scrapping with the girl Angela when he wasn’t painting. They were usually on affectionate terms, though they teased and fought a good deal. But on this occasion there was an edge in everything Amyas said or did, and the two of them really lost their tempers with each other. The fourth member of the party was the governess. “A sour-faced hag,” Amyas called her. “She hates me like poison. Sits there with her lips set together, disapproving of me without stopping.”