Hercule Poirot murmured: 'You surprise me very much indeed, mademoiselle. Everybody else I have spoken to-'

She cut in sharply: 'You mustn't go by that. I've no doubt that the circ.u.mstantial evidence is overwhelming. My own conviction is based on knowledge-knowledge of my sister. I just know quite simply and definitely that Caro couldn't couldn't have killed any one.' have killed any one.'

'Can one say that with certainty of any human creature?'

'Probably not in most cases. I agree that the human animal is full of curious surprises. But in Caroline's case there were special reasons-reasons which I have a better chance of appreciating than any one else could.'

She touched her damaged cheek.

'You see this? You've probably heard about it?' Poirot nodded. 'Caroline did that. That's why I'm sure-I know know-that she didn't do murder.'

'It would not be a convincing argument to most people.'

'No, it would be the opposite. It was actually used in that way, I believe. As evidence that Caroline had a violent and ungovernable temper! Because she had injured me as a baby, learned men argued that she would be equally capable of poisoning an unfaithful husband.'

Poirot said: 'I, at least, appreciated the difference. A sudden fit of ungovernable rage does not lead you to first abstract a poison and then use it deliberately on the following day.'

Angela Warren waved an impatient hand.

'That's not what I mean at all. I must try and make it plain to you. Supposing that you are a person normally affectionate and of kindly disposition-but that you are also liable to intense jealousy. And supposing that during the years of your life when control is most difficult, you do, in a fit of rage, come near to committing what is, in effect, murder. Think of the awful shock, the horror, the remorse that seizes upon you. To a sensitive person, like Caroline, that horror and remorse will never quite leave you. It never left her. I don't suppose I was consciously aware of it at the time, but looking back I recognize it perfectly. Caro was haunted, continually haunted, by the fact that she had injured me. That knowledge never left her in peace. It coloured all her actions. It explained her att.i.tude to me. Nothing was too good for me. In her eyes, I must always come first. Half the quarrels she had with Amyas were on my account. I was inclined to be jealous of him and played all kinds of tricks on him. I pinched cat stuff to put in his drink, and once I put a hedgehog in his bed. But Caroline was always on my side.'

Miss Warren paused, then she went on: 'It was very bad for me, of course. I got horribly spoilt. But that's neither here nor there. We're discussing the effect on Caroline. The result of that impulse to violence was a life-long abhorrence of any further act of the same kind. Caro was always watching herself, always in fear that something of that kind might happen again. And she took her own ways of guarding against it. One of these ways was a great extravagance of language. She felt (and I think, psychologically quite truly) that if she were violent enough in speech she would have no temptation to violence in action. She found by experience that the method worked. That's why I've heard Caro say things like "I'd like to cut so and so in pieces and boil him slowly in oil." And she'd say to me, or to Amyas, "If you go on annoying me I shall murder you." In the same way she quarrelled easily and violently. She recognized, I think, the impulse to violence that there was in her nature, and she deliberately gave it an outlet that way. She and Amyas used to have the most fantastic and lurid quarrels.'

Hercule Poirot nodded.

'Yes, there was evidence of that. They quarrelled like cat and dog, it was said.'

Angela Warren said: 'Exactly. That's what is so stupid and misleading about evidence. Of course Caro and Amyas quarrelled! Of course they said bitter and outrageous and cruel things to each other! What n.o.body appreciates is that they enjoyed enjoyed quarrelling. But they did! Amyas enjoyed it too. They were that kind of couple. They both of them liked drama and emotional scenes. Most men don't. They like peace. But Amyas was an artist. He liked shouting and threatening and generally being outrageous. It was like letting off steam to him. He was the kind of man who when he loses his collar stud bellows the house down. It sounds very odd, I know, but living that way with continual rows and makings-up was Amyas's and Caroline's idea of fun!' quarrelling. But they did! Amyas enjoyed it too. They were that kind of couple. They both of them liked drama and emotional scenes. Most men don't. They like peace. But Amyas was an artist. He liked shouting and threatening and generally being outrageous. It was like letting off steam to him. He was the kind of man who when he loses his collar stud bellows the house down. It sounds very odd, I know, but living that way with continual rows and makings-up was Amyas's and Caroline's idea of fun!'

She made an impatient gesture.

'If they'd only not hustled me away and let me give evidence, I'd have told them that.' Then she shrugged her shoulders. 'But I don't suppose they would have believed me. And anyway then it wouldn't have been as clear in my mind as it is now. It was the kind of thing I knew but hadn't thought about and certainly had never dreamed of putting into words.'

She looked across at Poirot.

'You do see what I mean?'

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 afterwards, 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 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 any one. 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 a 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 now 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. 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 now 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, Your loving sister, Caro 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 very remarkable one.' 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 Warren said: 'No, M. Poirot-I know know Caroline wasn't guilty.' 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 what really happened?'

Angela nodded thoughtfully. She said: 'That is difficult, I agree. 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 know it is impossible?' it is impossible?'

'No, because, as I said just now, most people do 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.' 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 could have done so. In fact, he have done so. In fact, he must must have done so.' 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 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 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 see Meredith as a murderer. Too mild and too cautious. Who else was there?' Meredith as a murderer. Too mild and too cautious. Who else was there?'

Poirot suggested: 'Miss Williams? Philip Blake?'

Angela's grave face relaxed into a smile for a minute.

'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 rect.i.tude.'

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 likelihoods, he's he's the most likely person.' 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 pa.s.sed 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 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.' 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 pa.s.sage, 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 leant forward, stopping Poirot's words.

'I had no idea at the time time, you understand. I knew 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 William's room or my room. But what I 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 William's room or my room. But what I did 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.' 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 done so.'

Angela said: 'I know. 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 the 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 bitterness 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 Blake 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-in case it might have a bearing on what happened.'

Book II

Narrative of Philip Blake (Covering letter received with ma.n.u.script) 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. 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, Yours truly, Philip Blake Philip Blake Notes on Progress of Events Leading up to Murder of Amyas Crale on Sept., 19...