The two women went off together. Meredith strolled away shortly afterwards. I was just making an excuse to go after him, when he came running up the path again. His face was grey. He gasped out:
“We must get a doctor—quick—Amyas—”
I sprang up.
“Is he ill—dying?”
Meredith said:
“I’m afraid he’s dead….”
We’d forgotten Elsa for the minute. But she let out a sudden cry. It was like the wail of a banshee.
She cried:
“Dead? Dead?…” And then she ran. I didn’t know anyone could move like that—like a deer—like a stricken thing. And like an avenging Fury, too.
Meredith panted out:
“Go after her. I’ll telephone. Go after her. You don’t know what she’ll do.”
I did go after her—and it’s as well I did. She might quite easily have killed Caroline. I’ve never seen such grief and such frenzied hate. All the veneer of refinement and education was stripped off. You could see her father and her father’s mother and father had been millhands. Deprived of her lover, she was just elemental woman. She’d have clawed Caroline’s face, torn her hair, hurled her over the parapet if she could. She thought for some reason or other that Caroline had knifed him. She’d got it all wrong—naturally.
I held her off, and then Miss Williams took charge. She was good, I must say. She got Elsa to control herself in under a minute—told her she’d got to be quiet and that we couldn’t have this noise and violence going on. She was a tartar, that woman. But she did the trick. Elsa was quiet—just stood there gasping and trembling.
As for Caroline, so far as I am concerned, the mask was right off. She stood there perfectly quiet—you might have said dazed. But she wasn’t dazed. It was her eyes gave her away. They were watchful—fully aware and quietly watchful. She’d begun, I suppose, to be afraid….
I went up to her and spoke to her. I said it quite low. I don’t think either of the two women overheard.
I said:
“You damned murderess, you’ve killed my best friend.”
She shrank back. She said:
“No—oh no—he—he did it himself….”
I looked her full in the eyes. I said:
“You can tell that story—to the police.”
She did—and they didn’t believe her.
End of Philip Blake’s Statement.
Narrative of Meredith Blake
Dear Mr. Poirot,
As I promised you, I have set down in writing an account of all I can remember relating to the tragic events that happened sixteen years ago. First of all I would like to say that I have thought over carefully all you said to me at our recent meeting. And on reflection I am more convinced than I was before that it is in the highest degree unlikely that Caroline Crale poisoned her husband. It always seemed incongruous, but the absence of any other explanation and her own attitude led me to follow, sheep-like, the opinion of other people and to say with them—that if she didn’t do it, what explanation could there be?
Since seeing you I have reflected very carefully on the alternative solution presented at the time and brought forward by the defence at the trial. That is, that Amyas Crale took his own life. Although from what I knew of him that solution seemed quite fantastic at the time, I now see fit to modify my opinion. To begin with, and highly significant, is the fact that Caroline believed it. If we are now to take it that that charming and gentle lady was unjustly convicted, then her own frequently reiterated belief must carry great weight. She knew Amyas better than anyone else. If she thought suicide possible, then suicide must have been possible in spite of the scepticism of his friends.
I will advance the theory, therefore, that there was in Amyas Crale some core of conscience, some undercurrent of remorse and even despair at the excesses to which his temperament led him, of which only his wife was aware. This, I think, is a not impossible supposition. He may have shown that side of himself only to her. Though it is inconsistent with anything I ever heard him say, yet it is nevertheless a truth that in most men there is some unsuspected and inconsistent streak which often comes as a surprise to people who have known them intimately. A respected and austere man is discovered to have had a coarser side to his life hidden. A vulgar moneymaker has, perhaps, a secret appreciation of some delicate work of art. Hard and ruthless people have been convicted of unsuspected hidden kindnesses. Generous and jovial men have been shown to have a mean and cruel side to them.
So it may be that in Amyas Crale there ran a strain of morbid self-accusation, and that the more he blustered out his egoism and his right to do as he pleased, the more strongly that secret conscience of his worked. It is improbable, on the face of it, but I now believe that it must have been so. And I repeat again, Caroline herself held steadfastly to that view. That, I repeat, is significant!
And now to examine facts, or rather my memory of facts, in the light of that new belief.
I think that I might with relevance include here a conversation I held with Caroline some weeks before the actual tragedy. It was during Elsa Greer’s first visit to Alderbury.
Caroline, as I have told you, was aware of my deep affection and friendship for her. I was, therefore, the person in whom she could most easily confide. She had not been looking very happy. Nevertheless I was surprised when she suddenly asked me one day whether I thought Amyas really cared very much for this girl he had brought down.
I said: “He’s interested in painting her. You know what Amyas is.”
She shook her head and said:
“No, he’s in love with her.”
“Well—perhaps a little.”
“A great deal, I think.”
I said: “She is unusually attractive, I admit. And we both know that Amyas is susceptible. But you must know by now, my dear, that Amyas really only cares for one person—and that is you. He has these infatuations—but they don’t last. You are the one person to him, and though he behaves badly, it does not really affect his feeling for you.”
Caroline said: “That is what I always used to think.”
“Believe me, Caro,” I said. “It is so.”
She said: “But this time, Merry, I’m afraid. That girl is so—so terribly sincere. She’s so young—and so intense. I’ve a feeling that this time—it’s serious.”
I said: “But the very fact that she is so young and, as you say, so sincere, will protect her. On the whole, women are fair game to Amyas, but in the case of a girl like this it will be different.”
She said: “Yes, that’s what I’m afraid of—it will be different.”
And she went on. “I’m thirty-four, you know, Merry. And we’ve been married ten years. In looks I can’t hold a candle to this Elsa child, and I know it.”
I said: “But you know, Caroline, you know—that Amyas is really devoted to you?”
She said to that: “Does one ever know with men?” And then she laughed a little ruefully and said: “I’m a very primitive woman, Merry. I’d like to take a hatchet to that girl.”
I told her that the child probably didn’t understand in the least what she was doing. She had a great admiration and hero worship for Amyas, and she probably didn’t realize at all that Amyas was falling in love with her.
Caroline just said to me:
“Dear Merry!” and began to talk about the garden. I hoped that she was not going to worry any more about the matter.
Shortly afterwards, Elsa went back to London. Amyas was away too for several weeks. I had really forgotten all about the business. And then I heard that Elsa was back again at Alderbury in order that Amyas might finish the picture.
I was a little disturbed by the news. But Caroline, when I saw her, was not in a communicative mood. She seemed quite her usual self—not worried or upset in any way. I imagined that everything was all right.
That’s why it was such a shock to me to learn how far the thing had gone.
I have told you of my conver
sations with Crale and with Elsa. I had no opportunity of talking to Caroline. We were only able to exchange those few words about which I have already told you.
I can see her face now, the wide dark eyes and the restrained emotion. I can still hear her voice as she said:
“Everything’s finished….”
I can’t describe to you the infinite desolation she conveyed in those words. They were a literal statement of truth. With Amyas’s defection, everything was finished for her. That, I am convinced, was why she took the coniine. It was a way out. A way suggested to her by my stupid dissertation on the drug. And the passage I read from the Phaedo gives a gracious picture of death.
Here is my present belief. She took the coniine, resolved to end her own life when Amyas left her. He may have seen her take it—or he may have discovered that she had it later.
That discovery acted upon him with terrific force. He was horrified at what his actions had led her to contemplate. But notwithstanding his horror and remorse, he still felt himself incapable of giving up Elsa. I can understand that. Anyone who had fallen in love with her would find it almost impossible to tear himself away.
He could not envisage life without Elsa. He realized that Caroline could not live without him. He decided there was only one way out—to use the coniine himself.
And the manner in which he did it might be characteristic of the man, I think. His painting was the dearest thing in life to him. He chose to die literally with his brush in his hand. And the last thing his eyes would see was the face of the girl he loved so desperately. He might have thought, too, that his death would be the best thing for her….
I admit that this theory leaves certain curious facts unexplained. Why, for instance, were only Caroline’s fingerprints found on the empty coniine bottle. I suggest that after Amyas had handled it, all prints got smudged or rubbed off by the soft piles of stuffs that were lying over the bottle and that, after his death, Caroline handled it to see if anyone had touched it. Surely that is possible and plausible? As to the evidence about the fingerprints on the beer bottle, the witnesses for the defence were of opinion that a man’s hand might be distorted after taking poison and so could manage to grasp a beer bottle in a wholly unnatural way.
One other thing remains to be explained. Caroline’s own attitude throughout the trial. But I think I have now seen the cause for that. It was she who actually took the poison from my laboratory. It was her determination to do away with herself that impelled her husband to take his own life instead. Surely it is not unreasonable to suppose that in a morbid excess of responsibility she considered herself responsible for his death—that she persuaded herself that she was guilty of murder—though not the kind of murder of which she was being accused?
I think all that could be so. And if that is the case, then surely it will be easy for you to persuade little Carla of the fact? And she can marry her young man and rest contented that the only thing of which her mother was guilty was an impulse (no more) to take her own life.
All this, alas, is not what you asked me for—which was an account of the happenings as I remember them. Let me now repair that omission. I have already told you fully what happened on the day preceding Amyas’s death. We now come to the day itself.
I had slept very badly—worried by the disastrous turn of events for my friends. After a long wakeful period whilst I vainly tried to think of something helpful I could do to avert the catastrophe, I fell into a heavy sleep about six a.m. The bringing of my early tea did not awaken me, and I finally woke up heavy-headed and unrefreshed about half past nine. It was shortly after that that I thought I heard movements in the room below me, which was the room I used as a laboratory.
I may say here that actually the sounds were probably caused by a cat getting in. I found the window sash raised a little way as it had carelessly been left from the day before. It was just wide enough to admit the passage of a cat. I merely mention the sounds to explain how I came to enter the laboratory.
I went in there as soon as I had dressed, and looking along the shelves I noticed that the bottle containing the preparation of coniine was slightly out of line with the rest. Having had my eye drawn to it in this way, I was startled to see that a considerable quantity of it had gone. The bottle had been nearly full the day before—now it was nearly empty.
I shut and locked the window and went out, locking the door behind me. I was considerably upset and also bewildered. When startled, my mental processes are, I am afraid, somewhat slow.
I was first disturbed, then apprehensive, and finally definitely alarmed. I questioned the household, and they all denied having entered the laboratory at all. I thought things over a little while longer, and then decided to ring up my brother and get his advice.
Philip was quicker than I was. He saw the seriousness of my discovery, and urged me to come over at once and consult with him.
I went out, encountering Miss Williams, who had come across from the other side to look for a truant pupil. I assured her that I had not seen Angela and that she had not been to the house.
I think that Miss Williams noticed there was something amiss. She looked at me rather curiously. I had no intention, however, of telling her what had happened. I suggested she should try the kitchen garden—Angela had a favourite apple tree there—and I myself hurried down to the shore and rowed myself across to the Alderbury side.
My brother was already there waiting for me.
We walked up to the house together by the way you and I went the other day. Having seen the topography you can understand that in passing underneath the wall of the Battery garden we were bound to overhear anything being said inside it.
Beyond the fact that Caroline and Amyas were engaged in a disagreement of some kind, I did not pay much attention to what was said.
Certainly I overheard no threat of any kind uttered by Caroline. The subject of discussion was Angela, and I presume Caroline was pleading for a respite from the fiat of school. Amyas, however, was adamant, shouting out irritably that it was all settled, he’d see to her packing.
The door of the Battery opened just as we drew abreast of it, and Caroline came out. She looked disturbed—but not unduly so. She smiled rather absently at me, and said they had been discussing Angela. Elsa came down the path at that minute, and as Amyas clearly wanted to get on with the sitting without interruption from us, we went on up the path.
Philip blamed himself severely afterwards for the fact that we did not take immediate action. But I myself cannot see it the same way. We had no earthly right to assume that such a thing as murder was being contemplated. (Moreover I now believe that it was not contemplated.) It was clear that we should have to adopt some course of action, but I still maintain that we were right to talk the matter over carefully first. It was necessary to find the right thing to do—and once or twice I found myself wondering if I had not after all made a mistake. Had the bottle really been full the day before as I thought? I am not one of those people (like my brother Philip) who can be cock-sure of everything. One’s memory does play tricks on one. How often, for instance, one is convinced one has put an article in a certain place, later to find that you have put it somewhere quite different. The more I tried to recall the state of the bottle on the preceding afternoon, the more uncertain and doubtful I became. This was very annoying to Philip, who began completely to lose patience with me.
We were not able to continue our discussion at the time, and tacitly agreed to postpone it until after lunch. (I may say that I was always free to drop in for lunch at Alderbury if I chose.)
Later, Angela and Caroline brought us beer. I asked Angela what she had been up to playing truant, and told her Miss Williams was on the warpath, and she said she had been bathing—and added that she didn’t see why she should have to mend her horrible old skirt when she was going to have all new things to go to school with.
Since there seemed no chance of further talk with Philip alone, and since I was really anxious to thin
k things out by myself, I wandered off down the path towards the Battery. Just above the Battery, as I showed you, there is a clearing in the trees where there used to be an old bench. I sat there smoking and thinking, and watching Elsa as she sat posing for Amyas.
I shall always think of her as she was that day. Rigid in the pose, with her yellow shirt and dark-blue trousers and a red pullover slung round her shoulders for warmth.
Her face was so alight with life and health and radiance. And that gay voice of hers reciting plans for the future.
This sounds as though I was eavesdropping, but that is not so. I was perfectly visible to Elsa. Both she and Amyas knew I was there. She waved her hand at me and called up that Amyas was a perfect bear that morning—he wouldn’t let her rest. She was stiff and aching all over.
Amyas growled out that she wasn’t as stiff as he was. He was stiff all over—muscular rheumatism. Elsa said mockingly: “Poor old man!” And he said she’d be taking on a creaking invalid.
It shocked me, you know, their lighthearted acquiescence in their future together whilst they were causing so much suffering. And yet I couldn’t hold it against her. She was so young, so confident, so very much in love. And she didn’t really know what she was doing. She didn’t understand suffering. She just assumed with the naïve confidence of a child that Caroline would be “all right,” that “she’d soon get over it.” She saw nothing, you see, but herself and Amyas—happy together. She’d already told me my point of view was old-fashioned. She had no doubts, no qualms—no pity either. But can one expect pity from radiant youth? It is an older, wiser emotion.
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.”