by Mark Place
They didn’t talk very much, of course. No painter wants to be chattering when he is working. Perhaps every ten minutes or so Elsa would make an observation and Amyas would grunt a reply. Once she said: “I think you’re right about Spain. That’s the first place we’ll go to. And you must take me to see a bullfight. It must be wonderful! Only I’d like the bull to kill the man - not the other way about. I understand how Roman women felt when they saw a man die. Men aren’t much, but animals are splendid.”
I suppose she was rather like an animal herself - young and primitive and with nothing yet of man’s sad experience and doubtful wisdom. I don’t believe Elsa had begun to think - she only felt. But she was very much alive - more alive than any person I have ever known. That was the last time I saw her radiant and assured - on top of the world. Fey is the word for it, isn’t it? The bell sounded for lunch, and I got up and went down the path and in at the Battery door, and Elsa joined me. It was dazzlingly bright there coming in out of the shady trees. I could hardly see. Amyas was sprawled back on the seat, his arms flung out. He was staring at the picture. I’ve so often seen him like that. How was I to know that already the poison was working, stiffening him as he sat? He so hated and resented illness. He would never own to it. I dare say he thought he had got a touch of the sun - the symptoms are much the same - but he’d be the last person to complain about it. Elsa said, “He won’t come up to lunch.”
Privately I thought he was wise. I said, “So long, then.”
He moved his eyes from the picture until they rested on me. There was a queer - how shall I describe it? - it looked like malevolence. A kind of malevolent glare. Naturally I didn’t understand it then - if his picture wasn’t going as he liked he often looked quite murderous. I thought that was what it was. He made a sort of grunting sound. Neither Elsa nor I saw anything unusual in him - just artistic temperament. So we left him there and she and I went up to the house laughing and talking. If she’d known - poor child - that she’d never see him alive again - Oh, well, thank God, she didn’t. She was able to be happy a little longer. Caroline was quite normal at lunch - a little preoccupied, nothing more. And doesn’t that show that she had nothing to do with it? She couldn’t have been such an actress. She and the governess went down afterward and found him. I met Miss Williams as she came up. She told me to telephone a doctor and went back to Caroline.
That poor child! Elsa, I mean. She had that frantic, unrestrained grief that children have. They can’t believe that life can do these things to them. Caroline was quite calm. Yes, she was quite calm. She was able, of course, to control herself better than Elsa. She didn’t seem remorseful - then. Just said he must have done it himself. And we couldn’t believe that. Elsa burst out and accused her to her face. Of course, she may have realized, already, that she herself would be suspected. Yes, that probably explains her manner. Philip was quite convinced that she had done it. The governess was a great help and stand-by. She made Elsa lie down and gave her a sedative and she kept Angela out of the way when the police came. Yes, she was a tower of strength, that woman. The whole thing became a nightmare. The police searching the house and asking questions, and then the reporters swarming about the place like flies and clicking cameras and wanting interviews with members of the family.
A nightmare, the whole thing…It’s still a nightmare, after all these years. Please God, once you’ve convinced little Carla what really happened, we can forget it all and never remember it again. Amyas must have committed suicide - however unlikely it seems. (End of Meredith Blake’s Narrative)
Narrative of Lady Dittisham
I have set down here the full story of my meeting with Amyas Crale, up to the time of his tragic death. I saw him first at a studio party. He was standing, I remember, by a window and I saw him as I came in at the door. I asked who he was. Someone said, “That’s Crale, the painter.” I said at once that I’d like to meet him. We talked on that occasion for perhaps ten minutes. When anyone makes the impression on you that Amyas Crale made on me, it’s hopeless to attempt to describe it. If I say that when I saw Amyas Crale everybody else seemed to grow very small and fade away, that expresses it as well as anything can. Immediately after that meeting I went to look at as many of his pictures as I could. He had a show on in Bond Street at the moment and there was one of his pictures in Manchester and one in Leeds and two in public galleries in London. I went to see them all. Then I met him again. I said, “I’ve been to see all your pictures. I think they’re wonderful.”
He just looked amused. He said, “Who said you were any judge of painting? I don’t believe you know anything about it.”
I said, “Perhaps not. But they are marvellous, all the same.”
He grinned at me and said, “Don’t be a gushing little fool.”
I said, “I’m not; I want you to paint me.”
Crale said, “If you’ve any sense at all, you’ll realize that I don’t paint portraits of pretty women.”
I said, “It needn’t be a portrait, and I’m not a pretty woman.”
He looked at me then as though he’d begun to see me. He said, “No, perhaps you’re not.”
I said, “Will you paint me, then?”
He studied me for some time with his head on one side. Then he said, “You’re a strange child, aren’t you?”
I said, “I’m quite rich, you know; I can afford to pay well for it.”
He said, “Why are you so anxious for me to paint you?”
I said, “Because I want it!”
He said, “Is that a reason?”
And I said, “Yes. I always get what I want.”
He said then, “Oh, my poor child, how young you are!”
I said, “Will you paint me?”
He took me by the shoulders and turned me toward the light and looked me over. Then he stood away from me a little. I stood quite still, waiting. He said, “I’ve sometimes wanted to paint a flight of impossibly coloured Australian macaws alighting on St Paul’s Cathedral. If I painted you against a nice traditional bit of outdoor landscape I believe I’d get exactly the same result.”
I said, “Then you will paint me?”
He said, You’re one of the loveliest, crudest, most flamboyant bits of exotic colouring I’ve ever seen. I’ll paint you!”
I said, “Then that’s settled.”
He went on. “But I’ll warn you, Elsa Greer. If I do paint you, I shall probably make love to you.”
I said, “I hope you will…”
I said it quite steadily and quietly. I heard him catch his breath and I saw the look that came into his eyes. You see, it was as sudden as all that. A day or two later we met again. He told me that he wanted me to come down to Devonshire - he’d got the very place there that he wanted for a background. He said, “I’m married, you know, and I’m very fond of my wife.”
I said if he was fond of her she must be very nice.
He said she was extremely nice. “In fact,” he said, “she’s quite adorable - and I adore her. So put that in your pipe, young Elsa, and smoke it.”
I told him that I quite understood.
He began the picture a week later. Caroline Crale welcomed me very pleasantly. She didn’t like me much, but, after all, why should she? Amyas was very circumspect. He never said a word to me that his wife couldn’t have overheard and I was polite and formal to him. Underneath, though, we both knew. After ten days he told me I was to go back to London. I said, “The picture isn’t finished.”
He said: “It’s barely begun. The truth of the matter is that I can’t paint you, Elsa.”
I said, “Why?”
He said, “You know well enough why, Elsa. And that’s why you we got to clear out. I can’t think about the painting - I can’t think about anything but you.”
I knew it would be no good my going back to London, but I said, “Very well, I’ll go if you say so.”
Amyas said, “Good girl.”
So I went. I didn’t write to him. He held
out for ten days and then he came. He was so thin and haggard and miserable that it shocked me. He said, “I warned you, Elsa. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
I said, “I’ve been waiting for you. I knew you’d come.”
He gave a sort of groan and said, “There are things that are too strong for any man. I can’t eat or sleep or rest for wanting you.”
I said I knew that, and that it was the same with me and had been from the first moment I’d seen him. We were made for each other and we’d found each other - and we both knew we had to be together always. But something else happened, too. The unfinished picture began to haunt Amyas. He said to me, “Damned funny, I couldn’t paint you before - you yourself got in the way of it. But I want to paint you, Elsa. I want to paint you so that that picture will be the finest thing I’ve ever done. I’m itching and aching now to get at my brushes and to see you sitting there on that hoary old chestnut of a battlement wall with the conventional blue sea and the decorous English trees - and you - you - sitting there like a discordant shriek of triumph.”
He said, “And I’ve got to paint you that way! And I can’t be fussed and bothered while I’m doing it. When the picture’s finished I’ll tell Caroline the truth and we’ll get the whole messy business cleaned up.”
I said, “Will Caroline make a fuss about divorcing you?”
He said he didn’t think so. But you never knew with women. I said I was sorry if she was going to be upset; but, after all, I said, these things did happen. He said, “Very nice and reasonable, Elsa. But Caroline isn’t reasonable, never has been reasonable, and certainly isn’t going to feel reasonable. She loves me, you know.”
I said I understood that, but if she loved him she’d put his happiness first, and, at any rate, she wouldn’t want to keep him if he wanted to be free.
He said, “Life can’t really be solved by admirable maxims out of modern literature. Nature’s red in tooth and claw, remember.”
I said, “Surely we are all civilized people nowadays!” and Amyas laughed. He said, “Civilized people my foot! Caroline would probably like to take a hatchet to you. She might do it, too.”
I said, “Then don’t tell her.”
He said, “No. The break’s got to come. You’ve got to belong to me properly, Elsa. Before all the world. Openly mine.”
I said, “Suppose she won’t divorce you?”
He said, “I’m not afraid of that.”
I said, “What are you afraid of then?”
And he said slowly, “I don’t know…”
You see, he knew Caroline. While I didn’t. If I’d had any idea…We went down again to Alderbury. Things were difficult this time. Caroline had got suspicious. I didn’t like it; I didn’t like it a bit. I’ve always hated deceit and concealment. I thought we ought to tell her. Amyas wouldn’t hear of it. The funny part of it was that he didn’t really care at all. In spite of being fond of Caroline and not wanting to hurt her, he just didn’t care about the honesty or dishonesty of it all. He was painting with a kind of frenzy, and nothing else mattered. I hadn’t seen him in one of his working spells before. I realized now what a really great genius he was. It was natural for him to be so carried away that all the ordinary decencies didn’t matter. But it was different for me. I was in a horrible position. Caroline resented me - and quite rightly. The only thing to put the position quite straight was to be honest and tell her the truth. But all Amyas would say was that he wasn’t going to be bothered with scenes and fusses until he’d finished the picture. I said there probably wouldn’t be a scene. Caroline would have too much dignity and pride for that.
I said, “I want to be honest about it all. We’ve got to be honest!”
Amyas said, “To hell with honesty. I’m painting a picture!”
I did see his point of view, but he wouldn’t see mine. And in the end I broke down. Caroline had been talking of some plan she and Amyas were going to carry out next autumn. She talked about it quite confidently. And I suddenly felt it was too abominable what we were doing - letting her go on like this - and perhaps, too, I was angry, because she was really being very unpleasant to me in a clever sort of way that one couldn’t take hold of. And so I came out with the truth. In a way, I still think I was right. Though, of course, I wouldn’t have done it if I’d had the faintest idea what was to come of it. The clash came right away. Amyas was furious with me for telling Caroline, but he had to admit that what I had said was true. I didn’t understand Caroline at all. We all went over to Meredith Blake’s to tea, and Caroline played up marvellously - talking and laughing. Like a fool, I thought she was taking it well. It was awkward, my not being able to leave the house, but Amyas would have gone up in smoke if I had. I thought perhaps Caroline would go. It would have made it much easier for us if she had. I didn’t see her take the coniine. I want to be honest, so I think that it’s just possible that she may have taken it as she said she did - with the idea of suicide in her mind. But I don’t really think so. I think she was one of those intensely jealous and possessive women who won’t let go of anything that they think belongs to them Amyas was her property. I think she was quite prepared to kill him rather than to let him go, completely and finally, to another woman. I think she right away made up her mind to kill him. And I think that Meredith’s happening to discuss coniine so freely just gave her the means to do what she’d already made up her mind to do. She was a very bitter and revengeful woman - vindictive. Amyas knew all along that she was dangerous. I didn’t. The next morning she had a final showdown with Amyas. I heard most of it from outside on the terrace. He was splendid - very patient and calm. He implored her to be reasonable. He said he was very fond of her and the child, and always would be. He’d do everything he could to assure their future. Then he hardened up and said, “But understand this: I’m damned well going to marry Elsa, and nothing shall stop me. You and I always agreed to leave each other free. These things happen.”
Caroline said to him, “Do as you please. I’ve warned you.”
Her voice was very quiet, but there was a queer note in it.
Amyas said, “What do you mean, Caroline?”
She said, “You’re mine and I don’t mean to let you go. Sooner than let you go to that girl I’ll kill you…”
Just at that minute Philip Blake came along the terrace. I got up and went to meet him. I didn’t want him to overhear. Presently Amyas came out and said it was time to get on with the picture. We went down together to the Battery. He didn’t say much. Just said that Caroline was cutting up rough - but not to talk about it. He wanted to concentrate on what he was doing. Another day, he said, would about finish the picture. He said, “And it’ll be the best thing I’ve done, Elsa, even if it is paid for in blood and tears.”
A little later I went up to the house to get a pullover. There was a chilly wind blowing. When I came back again, Caroline was there. I suppose she had come down to make one last appeal to Amyas. Philip and Meredith Blake were there, too. It was then that Amyas said he was thirsty and wanted a drink. He said there was beer but it wasn’t iced. Caroline said she’d send him down some iced beer. She said it quite naturally, in an almost friendly tone. She was an actress, that woman. She must have known then what she meant to do. She brought it down about ten minutes later. Amyas was painting. She poured it out and set the glass down beside him. Neither of us was watching her. Amyas was intent on what he was doing and I had to keep the pose.
Amyas drank it down the way he always drank beer - just pouring it down his throat in one draught. Then he made a face and said it tasted foul; but, at any rate, it was cold. And even then, when he said that, no suspicion entered my head. I just laughed and said, “Liver.”
When she’d seen him drink it Caroline went away. It must have been about forty minutes later that Amyas complained of stiffness and pains. He said he thought he must have got a touch of muscular rheumatism. Amyas was always intolerant of any ailment, and he didn’t like being fussed over. After saying that
he turned it off with a light “Old age, I suppose. You’ve taken on a creaking old man, Elsa.”
I played up to him. But I noticed that his legs moved stiffly and queerly and that he grimaced once or twice. I never dreamed that it wasn’t rheumatism. Presently he drew the bench along and sat sprawled on that, occasionally stretching up to put a much of paint here and there on the canvas. He used to do that sometimes when he was painting. Just sit staring at me and then at the canvas. Sometimes he’d do it for half an hour at a time. So I didn’t think it specially queer.
We heard the bell go for lunch and he said he wasn’t coming up. He’d stay where he was and he didn’t want anything. That wasn’t unusual either and it would be easier for him than facing Caroline at the table. He was talking in rather a queer way - grunting out his words. But he sometimes did that when he was dissatisfied with the progress of the picture. Meredith Blake came in to fetch me. He spoke to Amyas, but Amyas only grunted at him. We went up to the house together and left him there. We left him there - to die alone. I’d never seen much illness, I didn’t know much about it; I thought Amyas was just in a painter’s mood. If I’d known - if I’d realized, perhaps a doctor could have saved him… Oh, why didn’t I - It’s no good thinking of that now. I was a blind fool, a blind, stupid fool. There isn’t much more to tell. Caroline and the governess went down there after lunch. Meredith followed them. Presently he came running up. He told us Amyas was dead. Then I knew! Knew, I mean, that it was Caroline. I still didn’t think of poison. I thought she’d gone down that minute and either shot or stabbed him.
