‘I, too, should not wonder,’ said Hercule Poirot.
He looked sharply at the wrinkled, shrewd face of Mr Alfred Edmunds. It was quite bland and impassive. But Hercule Poirot wondered if he had been vouchsafed a hint.
Chapter 4
The Old Solicitor
Mr Caleb Jonathan lived in Essex. After a courteous exchange of letters, Poirot received an invitation, almost royal in its character, to dine and sleep. The old gentleman was decidedly a character. After the insipidity of young George Mayhew, Mr Jonathan was like a glass of his own vintage port.
He had his own methods of approach to a subject, and it was not until well on towards midnight, when sipping a glass of fragrant old brandy, that Mr Jonathan really unbent. In oriental fashion he had appreciated Hercule Poirot’s courteous refusal to rush him in any way. Now, in his own good time, he was willing to elaborate the theme of the Crale family.
‘Our firm, of course, has known many generations of the Crales. I knew Amyas Crale and his father, Richard Crale, and I can remember Enoch Crale—the grandfather. Country squires, all of them, thought more of horses than human beings. They rode straight, liked women, and had no truck with ideas. They distrusted ideas. But Richard Crale’s wife was cram full of ideas—more ideas than sense. She was poetical and musical—she played the harp, you know. She enjoyed poor health and looked very picturesque on her sofa. She was an admirer of Kingsley. That’s why she called her son Amyas. His father scoffed at the name—but he gave in.
‘Amyas Crale profited by his mixed inheritance. He got his artistic trend from his weakly mother, and his driving power and ruthless egoism from his father. All the Crales were egoists. They never by any chance saw any point of view but their own.’
Tapping with a delicate finger on the arm of his chair, the old man shot a shrewd glance at Poirot.
‘Correct me if I am wrong, M. Poirot, but I think you are interested in—character, shall we say?’
Poirot replied.
‘That, to me, is the principal interest of all my cases.’
‘I can conceive of it. To get under the skin, as it were, of your criminal. How interesting. How absorbing. Our firm, of course, have never had a criminal practice. We should not have been competent to act for Mrs Crale, even if taste had allowed. Mayhews, however, were a very adequate firm. They briefed Depleach—they didn’t perhaps show much imagination there—still, he was very expensive and, of course, exceedingly dramatic! What they hadn’t the wits to see was that Caroline would never play up in the way he wanted her to. She wasn’t a dramatic woman.’
‘What was she?’ asked Poirot. ‘It is that that I am chiefly anxious to know.’
‘Yes, yes—of course. How did she come to do what she did? That is the really vital question. I knew her, you know, before she married. Caroline Spalding, she was. A turbulent unhappy creature. Very alive. Her mother was left a widow early in life and Caroline was devoted to her mother. Then the mother married again—there was another child. Yes—yes, very sad, very painful. These young, ardent, adolescent jealousies.’
‘She was jealous?’
‘Passionately so. There was a regrettable incident. Poor child, she blamed herself bitterly afterwards. But you know, M. Poirot, these things happen. There is an inability to put on the brakes. It comes—it comes with maturity.’
Poirot said:
‘What happened?’
‘She struck the child—the baby—flung a paperweight at her. The child lost the sight of one eye and was permanently disfigured.’
Mr Jonathan sighed. He said:
‘You can imagine the effect a simple question on that point had at the trial.’
He shook his head:
‘It gave the impression that Caroline Crale was a woman of ungovernable temper. That was not true. No, that was not true.’
He paused and then resumed:
‘Caroline Spalding came often to stay at Alderbury. She rode well, and was keen. Richard Crale was fond of her. She waited on Mrs Crale and was deft and gentle—Mrs Crale also liked her. The girl was not happy at home. She was happy at Alderbury. Diana Crale, Amyas’s sister, and she were by way of being friends. Philip and Meredith Blake, boys from the adjoining estate, were frequently at Alderbury. Philip was always a nasty, money-grubbing little brute. I must confess I have always had a distaste for him. But I am told that he tells a very good story and that he has the reputation of being a staunch friend. Meredith was what my contemporaries used to call Namby Pamby. Liked botany and butterflies and observing birds and beasts. Nature study they call it nowadays. Ah, dear—all the young people were a disappointment to their parents. None of them ran true to type—huntin’, shootin’, fishin’. Meredith preferred watching birds and animals to shooting or hunting them, Philip definitely preferred town to country and went into the business of money-making. Diana married a fellow who wasn’t a gentleman—one of the temporary officers in the war. And Amyas, strong, handsome, virile Amyas, blossomed into being a painter, of all things in the world. It’s my opinion that Richard Crale died of the shock.
‘And in due course Amyas married Caroline Spalding. They’d always fought and sparred, but it was a love match all right. They were both crazy about each other. And they continued to care. But Amyas was like all the Crales, a ruthless egoist. He loved Caroline but he never once considered her in any way. He did as he pleased. It’s my opinion that he was as fond of her as he could be of anybody—but she came a long way behind his art. That came first. And I should say at no time did his art give place to a woman. He had affairs with women—they stimulated him—but he left them high and dry when he’d finished with them. He wasn’t a sentimental man, nor a romantic one. And he wasn’t entirely a sensualist either. The only woman he cared a button for was his own wife. And because she knew that she put up with a lot. He was a very fine painter, you know. She realized that, and respected it. He chased off in his amorous pursuits and came back again—usually with a picture to show for it.
‘It might have gone on like that if it hadn’t come to Elsa Greer. Elsa Greer—’
Mr Jonathan shook his head.
Poirot said: ‘What of Elsa Greer?’
Mr Jonathan said unexpectedly:
‘Poor child. Poor child.’
Poirot said: ‘So you feel like that about her?’
Jonathan said:
‘Maybe it is because I am an old man, but I find, M. Poirot, that there is something about the defencelessness of youth that moves me to tears. Youth is so vulnerable. It is so ruthless—so sure. So generous and so demanding.’
Getting up, he crossed to the bookcase. Taking out a volume he opened it, turned the pages, and then read out:
‘ “If that thy bent of love be honourable,
The purpose marriage, send me word tomorrow
By one that I’ll procure to come to thee,
Where and what time thou wilt perform the rite,
And all my fortunes at thy foot I’ll lay,
And follow thee my lord throughout the world.” ’
‘There speaks love allied to youth, in Juliet’s words. No reticence, no holding back, no so-called maiden modesty. It is the courage, the insistence, the ruthless force of youth. Shakespeare knew youth. Juliet singles out Romeo. Desdemona claims Othello. They have no doubts, the young, no fear, no pride.’
Poirot said thoughtfully:
‘So to you Elsa Greer spoke in the words of Juliet?’
‘Yes. She was a spoiled child of fortune—young, lovely, rich. She found her mate and claimed him—no young Romeo, a married, middle-aged painter. Elsa Greer had no code to restrain her, she had the code of modernity. “Take what you want—we shall only live once!’
He sighed, leaned back, and again tapped gently on the arm of his chair.
‘A predatory Juliet. Young, ruthless, but horribly vulnerable! Staking everything on the one audacious throw. And seemingly she won…and then—at the last moment—death steps in—and the living, ardent, joyous Elsa died also. There was left only a vindictive, cold, hard woman, hating with all her soul the woman whose hand had done this thing.’
His voice changed:
‘Dear, dear. Pray forgive this little lapse into melodrama. A crude young woman—with a crude outlook on life. Not, I think, an interesting character. Rose white youth, passionate, pale, etc. Take that away and what remains? Only a somewhat mediocre young woman seeking for another life-sized hero to put on an empty pedestal.’
Poirot said:
‘If Amyas Crale had not been a famous painter—’
Mr Jonathan agreed quickly. He said:
‘Quite—quite. You have taken the point admirably. The Elsas of this world are hero-worshippers. A man must have done something, must be somebody…Caroline Crale, now, could have recognized quality in a bank clerk or an insurance agent! Caroline loved Amyas Crale the man, not Amyas Crale the painter. Caroline Crale was not crude—Elsa Greer was.’
He added:
‘But she was young and beautiful and to my mind infinitely pathetic.’
Hercule Poirot went to bed thoughtful. He was fascinated by the problem of personality.
To Edmunds, the clerk, Elsa Greer was a hussy, no more, no less.
To old Mr Jonathan she was the eternal Juliet.
And Caroline Crale?
Each person had seen her differently. Montague Depleach had despised her as a defeatist—a quitter. To young Fogg she had represented Romance. Edmunds saw her simply as a ‘lady’. Mr Jonathan had called her a stormy, turbulent creature.
How would he, Hercule Poirot, have seen her?
On the answer to that question depended, he felt, the success of his quest.
So far, not one of the people he had seen had doubted that whatever else she was, Caroline Crale was also a murderess.
Chapter 5
The Police Superintendent
Ex-Superintendent Hale pulled thoughtfully at his pipe.
He said:
‘This is a funny fancy of yours, M. Poirot.’
‘It is, perhaps, a little unusual,’ Poirot agreed cautiously.
‘You see,’ said Hale, ‘it’s all such a long time ago.’
Hercule Poirot foresaw that he was going to get a little tired of that particular phrase. He said mildly:
‘That adds to the difficulty, of course.’
‘Raking up the past,’ mused the other. ‘If there were an object in it, now…’
‘There is an object.’
‘What is it?’
‘One can enjoy the pursuit of truth for its own sake. I do. And you must not forget the young lady.’
Hale nodded.
‘Yes, I see her side of it. But—you’ll excuse me, M. Poirot—you’re an ingenious man. You could cook her up a tale.’
Poirot replied:
‘You do not know the young lady.’
‘Oh, come now—a man of your experience!’
Poirot drew himself up.
‘I may be, mon cher, an artistic and competent liar—you seem to think so. But it is not my idea of ethical conduct. I have my standards.’
‘Sorry, M. Poirot. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. But it would be all in a good cause, so to speak.’
‘Oh I wonder, would it really?’
Hale said slowly:
‘It’s tough luck on a happy innocent girl who’s just going to get married to find that her mother was a murderess. If I were you I’d go to her and say that, after all, suicide was what it was. Say the case was mishandled by Depleach. Say that there’s no doubt in your mind that Crale poisoned himself!’
‘But there is every doubt in my mind! I do not believe for one minute that Crale poisoned himself. Do you consider it even reasonably possible yourself?’
Slowly Hale shook his head.
‘You see? No, it is the truth I must have—not a plausible—or not very plausible—lie.’
Hale turned and looked at Poirot. His square rather red face grew a little redder and even appeared to get a little squarer. He said:
‘You talk about the truth. I’d like to make it plain to you that we think we got the truth in the Crale case.’
Poirot said quickly:
‘That pronouncement from you means a great deal. I know you for what you are, an honest and capable man. Now tell me this, was there no doubt at any time in your mind as to the guilt of Mrs Crale?’
The Superintendent’s answer came promptly.
‘No doubt at all, M. Poirot. The circumstances pointed to her straight away, and every single fact that we uncovered supported that view.’
‘You can give me an outline of the evidence against her?’
‘I can. When I received your letter I looked up the case.’ He picked up a small notebook. ‘I’ve jotted down all the salient facts here.’
‘Thank you, my friend. I am all eagerness to hear.’
Hale cleared his throat. A slight official intonation made itself heard in his voice.
He said:
‘At two forty-five on the afternoon of September 18th, Inspector Conway was rung up by Dr Andrew Faussett. Dr Faussett stated that Mr Amyas Crale of Alderbury had died suddenly and that in consequence of the circumstances of that death and also of a statement made to him by a Mr Blake, a guest staying in the house, he considered that it was a case for the police.
‘Inspector Conway, in company with a sergeant and the police surgeon, came over to Alderbury straight away. Dr Faussett was there and took him to where the body of Mr Crale had not been disturbed.
‘Mr Crale had been painting in a small enclosed garden, known as the Battery garden, from the fact that it overlooked the sea, and had some miniature cannon placed in embattlements. It was situated at about four minutes’ walk from the house. Mr Crale had not come up to the house for lunch as he wanted to get certain effects of light on the stone—and the sun would have been wrong for this later. He had, therefore, remained alone in the Battery garden, painting. This was stated not to be an unusual occurrence. Mr Crale took very little notice of meal times. Sometimes a sandwich would be sent down to him, but more often he preferred to remain undisturbed. The last people to see him alive were Miss Elsa Greer (staying in the house) and Mr Meredith Blake (a near neighbour). These two went up together to the house and went with the rest of the household in to lunch. After lunch, coffee was served on the terrace. Mrs Crale finished drinking her coffee and then observed that she would “go down and see how Amyas was getting on.” Miss Cecilia Williams, governess, got up and accompanied her. She was looking for a pullover belonging to her pupil, Miss Angela Warren, sister of Mrs Crale, which the latter had mislaid and she thought it possible it might have been left down on the beach.
‘These two started off together. The path led downwards, through some woods, until it emerged at the door leading into the Battery garden. You could either go into the Battery garden or you could continue on the same path, which led down to the seashore.
‘Miss Williams continued on down and Mrs Crale went into the Battery garden. Almost at once, however, Mrs Crale screamed and Miss Williams hurried back. Mr Crale was reclining on a seat and he was dead.
‘At Mrs Crale’s urgent request Miss Williams left the Battery garden and hurried up to the house to telephone for a doctor. On her way, however, she met Mr Meredith Blake and entrusted her errand to him, herself returning to Mrs Crale whom she felt might be in need of someone. Dr Faussett arrived on the scene a quarter of an hour later. He saw at once that Mr Crale had been dead for some time—he placed the probable time of death at between one and two o’clock. There was nothing to show what had caused death. There was no sign of any wound and Mr Crale’s attitude was a perfectly natural one. Nevertheless Dr Faussett, who was well acquainted with Mr Crale’s state of health, and who knew positively that there was no disease or weakness of any kind, was inclined to take a grave view of the situation. It was at this point that Mr Philip Blake made a certain statement to Dr Faussett.’
Superintendent Hale paused, drew a deep breath and passed, as it were, to Chapter Two.
‘Subsequently Mr Blake repeated this statement to Inspector Conway. It was to this effect. He had that morning received a telephone message from his brother, Mr Meredith Blake (who lived at Handcross Manor, a mile and a half away). Mr Meredith Blake was an amateur chemist—or perhaps herbalist would describe it best. On entering his laboratory that morning, Mr Meredith Blake had been startled to note that a bottle containing a preparation of hemlock, which had been quite full the day before, was now nearly empty. Worried and alarmed by this fact he had rung up his brother to ask his advice as to what he should do about it. Mr Philip Blake had urged his brother to come over to Alderbury at once and they would talk the matter over. He himself walked part way to meet his brother and they had come up to the house together. They had come to no decision as to what course to adopt and had left the matter in order to consult again after lunch.
‘As a result of further inquiries, Inspector Conway ascertained the following facts: On the preceding afternoon five people had walked over from Alderbury to tea at Handcross Manor. There were Mr and Mrs Crale, Miss Angela Warren, Miss Elsa Greer and Mr Philip Blake. During the time spent there, Mr Meredith Blake had given quite a dissertation on his hobby and had taken the party into his little laboratory and “shown them round”. In the course of this tour, he had mentioned certain specific drugs—one of which was coniine, the active principle of the spotted hemlock. He had explained its properties, had lamented the fact that it had now disappeared from the Pharmacopœia and boasted that he had known small doses of it to be very efficacious in whooping cough and asthma. Later he had mentioned its lethal properties and had actually read to his guests some passage from a Greek author describing its effects.’
Superintendent Hale paused, refilled his pipe and passed on to Chapter Three.
‘Colonel Frere, the Chief Constable, put the case into my hands. The result of the autopsy put the matter beyond any doubt. Coniine, I understand, leaves no definite post-mortem appearances, but the doctors knew what to look for, and an ample amount of the drug was recovered. The doctor was of the opinion that it had been administered two or three hours before death. In front of Mr Crale, on the table, there had been an empty glass and an empty beer bottle. The dregs of both were analysed. There was no coniine in the bottle, but there was in the glass. I made inquiries and learned that although a case of beer and glasses were kept in a small summerhouse in the Battery garden in case Mr Crale should feel thirsty when painting, on this particular morning Mrs Crale had brought down from the house a bottle of freshly iced beer. Mr Crale was busy painting when she arrived and Miss Greer was posing for him, sitting on one of the battlements.
‘Mrs Crale opened the beer, poured it out and put the glass into her husband’s hand as he was standing before the easel. He tossed it off in one draught—a habit of his, I learned. Then he made a grimace, set down the glass on the table, and said: “Everything tastes foul to me today!” Miss Greer upon that laughed and said, “Liver!” Mr Crale said: “Well, at any rate it was cold.” ’
Hale paused. Poirot said:
‘At what time did this take place?’
‘At about a quarter-past eleven. Mr Crale continued to paint. According to Miss Greer, he later complained of stiffness in the limbs and grumbled that he must have got a touch of rheumatism. But he was the type of man who hates to admit to illness of any kind, and he undoubtedly tried not to admit that he was feeling ill. His irritable demand that he should be left alone and the others go up to lunch was quite characteristic of the man, I should say.’
Poirot nodded.
Hale continued.
‘So Crale was left alone in the Battery garden. No doubt he dropped down on the seat and relaxed as soon as he was alone. Muscular paralysis would then set in. No help was at hand, and death supervened.’
Again Poirot nodded.
Hale said:
‘Well, I proceeded according to routine. There wasn’t much difficulty in getting down to the facts. On the preceding day there had been a set-to between Mrs Crale and Miss Greer. The latter had pretty insolently described some change in the arrangement of the furniture “when I am living here.” Mrs Crale took her up, and said, “What do you mean? When you are living here.” Miss Greer replied: “Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean, Caroline. You’re just like an ostrich that buries its head in the sand. You know perfectly well that Amyas and I care for each other and are going to be married.” Mrs Crale said: “I know nothing of the kind.” Miss Greer then said: “Well, you know it now.” Whereupon, it seems, Mrs Crale turned to her husband who had just come into the room and said: “Is it true, Amyas, that you are going to marry Elsa?” ’
Poirot said with interest:
‘And what did Mr Crale say to that?’
‘Apparently he turned on Miss Greer and shouted at her: “What the devil do you mean by blurting that out? Haven’t you got the sense to hold your tongue?”
‘Miss Greer said: “I think Caroline ought to recognize the truth.”
‘Mrs Crale said to her husband: “Is it true, Amyas?”
‘He wouldn’t look at her, it seems, turned his face away and mumbled something.
‘She said: “Speak out. I’ve got to know.” Whereupon he said:
‘ “Oh, it’s true enough—but I don’t want to discuss it now.”
‘Then he flounced out of the room again and Miss Greer said:
‘ “You see!” and went on—with something about its being no good for Mrs Crale to adopt a dog-in-the-
manger attitude about it. They must all behave like rational people. She herself hoped that Caroline and Amyas would always remain good friends.’
‘And what did Mrs Crale say to that?’ asked Poirot curiously.
‘According to the witnesses she laughed. She said: “Over my dead body, Elsa.” She went to the door and Miss Greer called after her: “What do you mean?” Mrs Crale looked back and said: “I’ll kill Amyas before I give him up to you.” ’
Hale paused.
‘Pretty damning—eh?’
‘Yes.’ Poirot seemed thoughtful. ‘Who overheard this scene?’
‘Miss Williams was in the room and Philip Blake. Very awkward for them.’
‘Their accounts of the scene agree?’
‘Near enough—you never got two witnesses to remember a thing exactly alike. You know that just as well as I do, M. Poirot.’
Poirot nodded. He said thoughtfully:
‘Yes, it will be interesting to see—’ He stopped with the sentence unfinished.
Hale went on: ‘I instituted a search of the house. In Mrs Crale’s bedroom I found in a bottom drawer, tucked away underneath some winter stockings, a small bottle labelled jasmine scent. It was empty. I finger-printed it. The only prints on it were those of Mrs Crale. On analysis it was found to contain faint traces of oil of jasmine, and a strong solution of coniine hydrobromide.
‘I cautioned Mrs Crale and showed her the bottle. She replied readily. She had, she said, been in a very unhappy state of mind. After listening to Mr Meredith Blake’s description of the drug she had slipped back to the laboratory, had emptied out a bottle of jasmine scent which was in her bag and had filled the bottle up with coniine solution. I asked her why she had done this and she said: “I don’t want to speak of certain things more than I can help, but I had received a bad shock. My husband was proposing to leave me for another woman. If that was so, I didn’t want to live. That is why I took it.” ’
Hale paused.
Poirot said: ‘After all—it is likely enough.’
‘Perhaps, M. Poirot. But it doesn’t square with what she was overheard to say. And then there was a further scene on the following morning. Mr Philip Blake overheard a portion of it. Miss Greer overheard a different portion of it. It took place in the library between Mr and Mrs Crale. Mr Blake was in the hall and caught a fragment or two. Miss Greer was sitting outside near the open library window and heard a good deal more.’
