五只小猪06
时间：2024-12-17 01:10:48
（单词翻译:单击）
Five
THE POLICE SUPERINTENDENT
Ex-Superintendent Hale pulled thoughtfully at his pipe.
He said:
“This is a funny fancy of yours, Mr. 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, Mr. 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, Mr. 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, Mr. 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 postmortem 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, Mr. 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 fingerprinted 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, Mr. 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.”
“And what did they hear?”
“Mr. Blake heard Mrs. Crale say: ‘You and your women. I’d like to kill you. Some day I will
kill you.’”
“No mention of suicide?”
“Exactly. None at all. No words like ‘If you do this thing, I’ll kill myself.’ Miss Greer’s
evidence was much the same. According to her, Mr. Crale said: ‘Do try and be reasonable about
this, Caroline. I’m fond of you and will always wish you well—you and the child. But I’m going
to marry Elsa. We’ve always agreed to leave each other free.’ Mrs. Crale answered to that: ‘Very
well, don’t say I haven’t warned you.’ He said: ‘What do you mean?’ And she said: ‘I mean that I
love you and I’m not going to lose you. I’d rather kill you than let you go to that girl.’”
Poirot made a slight gesture.
“It occurs to me,” he murmured, “that Miss Greer was singularly unwise to raise this issue. Mrs.
Crale could easily have refused her husband a divorce.”
“We had some evidence bearing on that point,” said Hale. “Mrs. Crale, it seems, confided partly
in Mr. Meredith Blake. He was an old and trusted friend. He was very distressed and managed to
get a word with Mr. Crale about it. This, I may say, was on the preceding afternoon. Mr. Blake
remonstrated delicately with his friend, said how distressed he would be if the marriage between
Mr. and Mrs. Crale was to break up so disastrously. He also stressed the point that Miss Greer was
a very young girl and that it was a very serious thing to drag a young girl through the divorce
court. To this Mr. Crale replied, with a chuckle (callous sort of brute he must have been): ‘That
isn’t Elsa’s idea at all. She isn’t going to appear. We shall fix it up in the usual way.’”
Poirot said: “Therefore even more imprudent of Miss Greer to have broken out the way she
did.”
Superintendent Hale said:
“Oh, you know what women are! Have to get at each other’s throats. It must have been a
difficult situation anyhow. I can’t understand Mr. Crale allowing it to happen. According to Mr.
Meredith Blake he wanted to finish his picture. Does that make sense to you?”
“Yes, my friend, I think it does.”
“It doesn’t to me. The man was asking for trouble!”
“He was probaby seriously annoyed with his young woman for breaking out the way she did.”
“Oh, he was. Meredith Blake said so. If he had to finish the picture I don’t see why he couldn’t
have taken some photographs and worked from them. I know a chap—does watercolours of places
—he does that.”
Poirot shook his head.
“No—I can understand Crale the artist. You must realize, my friend, that at that moment,
probably, his picture was all that mattered to Crale. However much he wanted to marry the girl,
the picture came first. That’s why he hoped to get through her visit without its coming to an open
issue. The girl, of course, didn’t see it that way. With women, love always comes first.”
“Don’t I know it?” said Superintendent Hale with feeling.
“Men,” continued Poirot, “and especially artists—are different.”
“Art!” said the Superintendent with scorn. “All this talk about Art! I never have understood it
and I never shall! You should have seen that picture Crale was painting. All lopsided. He’d made
the girl look as though she’d got toothache, and the battlements were all cock-eyed. Unpleasant
looking, the whole thing. I couldn’t get it out of my mind for a long time afterwards. I even dreamt
about it. And what’s more it affected my eyesight—I began to see battlements and walls and
things all out of drawing. Yes, and women too!”
Poirot smiled. He said:
“Although you do not know it, you are paying a tribute to the greatness of Amyas Crale’s art.”
“Nonsense. Why can’t a painter paint something nice and cheerful to look at? Why go out of
your way to look for ugliness?”
“Some of us, mon cher, see beauty in curious places.”
“The girl was a good looker, all right,” said Hale. “Lots of makeup and next to no clothes on. It
isn’t decent the way these girls go about. And that was sixteen years ago, mind you. Nowadays
one wouldn’t think anything of it. But then—well, it shocked me. Trousers and one of those
canvas shirts, open at the neck—and not another thing, I should say!”
“You seem to remember these points very well,” murmured Poirot slyly.
Superintendent Hale blushed. “I’m just passing on the impression I got,” he said austerely.
“Quite—quite,” said Poirot soothingly. He went on:
“So it would seem that the principal witnesses against Mrs. Crale were Philip Blake and Elsa
Greer?”
“Yes. Vehement, they were, both of them. But the governess was called by the prosecution too,
and what she said carried more weight than the other two. She was on Mrs. Crale’s side entirely,
you see. Up in arms for her. But she was an honest woman and gave her evidence truthfully
without trying to minimize it in any way.”
“And Meredith Blake?”
“He was very distressed by the whole thing, poor gentleman. As well he might be! Blamed
himself for his drug brewing—and the coroner blamed him for it too. Coniine and AE Salts comes
under Schedule I of the Poisons Acts. He came in for some pretty sharp censure. He was a friend
of both parties, and it hit him very hard—besides being the kind of county gentleman who shrinks
from notoriety and being in the public eye.”
“Did not Mrs. Crale’s young sister give evidence?”
“No. It wasn’t necessary. She wasn’t there when Mrs. Crale threatened her husband, and there
was nothing she could tell us that we couldn’t get from someone else equally well. She saw Mrs.
Crale go to the refrigerator and get the iced beer out and, of course, the Defence could have
subpœnaed her to say that Mrs. Crale took it straight down without tampering with it in any way.
But that point wasn’t relevant because we never claimed that the coniine was in the beer bottle.”
“How did she manage to put it in the glass with those two looking on?”
“Well, first of all, they weren’t looking on. That is to say, Mr. Crale was painting—looking at
his canvas and at the sitter. And Miss Greer was posed, sitting with her back almost to where Mrs.
Crale was standing, and her eyes looking over Mr. Crale’s shoulder.”
Poirot nodded.
“As I say neither of the two was looking at Mrs. Crale. She had the stuff in one of those pipette
things—one used to fill fountain pens with them. We found it crushed to splinters on the path up to
the house.”
Poirot murmured:
“You have an answer to everything.”
“Well, come now, Mr. Poirot! Without prejudice. She threatens to kill him. She takes the stuff
from the laboratory. The empty bottle is found in her room and nobody has handled it but her. She
deliberately takes down iced beer to him—a funny thing, anyway, when you realize that they
weren’t on speaking terms—”
“A very curious thing. I had already remarked on it.”
“Yes. Bit of a give away. Why was she so amiable all of a sudden? He complains of the taste of
the stuff—and coniine has a nasty taste. She arranges to find the body and she sends the other
woman off to telephone. Why? So that she can wipe that bottle and glass and then press his fingers
on it. After that she can pipe up and say that it was remorse and that he committed suicide. A
likely story.”
“It was certainly not very well imagined.”
“No. If you ask me she didn’t take the trouble to think. She was so eaten up with hate and
jealousy. All she thought of was doing him in. And then, when it’s over, when she sees him there
dead—well, then, I should say, she suddenly comes to herself and realizes that what she’s done is
murder—and that you get hanged for murder. And desperately she goes baldheaded for the only
thing she can think of—which is suicide.”
Poirot said:
“It is very sound what you say there—yes. Her mind might work that way.”
“In a way it was a premeditated crime and in a way it wasn’t,” said Hale. “I don’t believe she
really thought it out, you know. Just went on with it blindly.”
Poirot murmured:
“I wonder….”
Hale looked at him curiously. He said:
“Have I convinced you, Mr. Poirot, that it was a straightforward case?”
“Almost. Not quite. There are one or two peculiar points…!”
“Can you suggest an alternative solution—that will hold water?”
Poirot said:
“What were the movements of the other people on that morning?”
“We went into them, I can assure you. We checked up on everybody. Nobody had what you
could call an alibi—you can’t have with poisoning. Why, there’s nothing to prevent a would-be
murderer from handing his victim some poison in a capsule the day before, telling him it’s a
specific cure for indigestion and he must take it before lunch—and then going away to the other
end of England.”
“But you don’t think that happened in this case?”
“Mr. Crale didn’t suffer from indigestion. And in any case I can’t see that kind of thing
happening. It’s true that Mr. Meredith Blake was given to recommending quack nostrums of his
own concocting, but I don’t see Mr. Crale trying any of them. And if he did he’d probably talk and
joke about it. Besides, why should Mr. Meredith Blake want to kill Mr. Crale? Everything goes to
show that he was on very good terms with him. They all were. Mr. Philip Blake was his best
friend. Miss Greer was in love with him. Miss Williams disapproved of him, I imagine, very
strongly—but moral disapprobation doesn’t lead to poisoning. Little Miss Warren scrapped with
him a lot, she was at a tiresome age—just off to school, I believe, but he was quite fond of her and
she of him. She was treated, you know, with particular tenderness and consideration in that house.
You may have heard why. She was badly injured when she was a child—injured by Mrs. Crale in
a kind of maniacal fit of rage. That rather shows, doesn’t it, that she was a pretty uncontrolled sort
of person? To go for a child—and maim her for life!”
“It might show,” said Poirot thoughtfully, “that Angela Warren had good reason to bear a
grudge against Caroline Crale.”
“Perhaps—but not against Amyas Crale. And anyway Mrs. Crale was devoted to her young
sister—gave her a home when her parents died, and, as I say, treated her with special affection—
spoiled her badly, so they say. The girl was obviously fond of Mrs. Crale. She was kept away from
the trial and sheltered from it all as far as possible—Mrs. Crale was very insistent about that, I
believe. But the girl was terribly upset and longed to be taken to see her sister in prison. Caroline
Crale wouldn’t agree. She said that sort of thing might injure a girl’s mentality for life. She
arranged for her to go to school abroad.”
He added:
“Miss Warren’s turned out a very distinguished woman. Traveller to weird places. Lectures at
the Royal Geographical—all that sort of thing.”
“And no one remembers the trial?”
“Well, it’s a different name for one thing. They hadn’t even the same maiden name. They had
the same mother but different fathers. Mrs. Crale’s name was Spalding.”
“This Miss Williams, was she the child’s governess, or Angela Warren’s?”
“Angela’s. There was a nurse for the child—but she used to do a few little lessons with Miss
Williams every day, I believe.”
“Where was the child at the time?”
“She’d gone with the nurse to pay a visit to her grandmother. A Lady Tressillian. A widow lady
who’d lost her own two little girls and who was devoted to this kid.”
Poirot nodded. “I see.”
Hale continued:
“As to the movements of the other people on the day of the murder, I can give them to you.
“Miss Greer sat on the terrace near the library window after breakfast. There, as I say, she
overheard the quarrel between Crale and his wife. After that she accompanied Crale down to the
Battery and sat for him until lunch time with a couple of breaks to ease her muscles.
“Philip Blake was in the house after breakfast, and overheard part of the quarrel. After Crale
and Miss Greer went off, he read the paper until his brother telephoned him. Thereupon he went
down to the shore to meet his brother. They walked together up the path again past the Battery
garden. Miss Greer had just gone up to the house to fetch a pullover as she felt chilly and Mrs.
Crale was with her husband discussing arrangements for Angela’s departure to school.”
“Ah, an amicable interview.”
“Well, no, not amicable. Crale was fairly shouting at her, I understand. Annoyed at being
bothered with domestic details. I suppose she wanted to get things straightened up if there was
going to be a break.”
Poirot nodded.
Hale went on:
“The two brothers exchanged a few words with Amyas Crale. Then Miss Greer reappeared and
took up her position, and Crale picked up his brush again, obviously wanting to get rid of them.
They took the hint and went up to the house. It was when they were at the Battery, by the way,
that Amyas Crale complained all the beer down there was hot and his wife promised to send him
down some iced beer.”
“Aha!”
“Exactly—Aha! Sweet as sugar she was about it. They went up to the house and sat on the
terrace outside. Mrs. Crale and Angela Warren brought them out beer there.
“Later, Angela Warren went down to bathe and Philip Blake went with her.
“Meredith Blake went down to a clearing with a seat just above the Battery garden. He could
just see Miss Greer as she posed on the battlements and could hear her voice and Crale’s as they
talked. He sat there and thought over the coniine business. He was still very worried about it and
didn’t know quite what to do. Elsa Greer saw him and waved her hand to him. When the bell went
for lunch he came down to the Battery and Elsa Greer and he went back to the house together. He
noticed then that Crale was looking, as he put it, very queer, but he didn’t really think anything of
it at the time. Crale was the kind of man who is never ill—and so one didn’t imagine he would be.
On the other hand, he did have moods of fury and despondency according as to whether his
painting was not going as he liked it. On those occasions one left him alone and said as little as
possible to him. That’s what these two did on this occasion.
“As to the others, the servants were busy with housework and cooking lunch. Miss Williams
was in the schoolroom part of the morning correcting some exercise books. Afterwards she took
some household mending to the terrace. Angela Warren spent most of the morning wandering
about the garden, climbing trees and eating things—you know what a girl of fifteen is! Plums, sour
apples, hard pears, etc. After she came back to the house and, as I say, went down with Philip
Blake to the beach and had a bathe before lunch.”
Superintendent Hale paused:
“Now then,” he said belligerently, “do you find anything phoney about that?”
Poirot said: “Nothing at all.”
“Well, then!”
The two words expressed volumes.
“But all the same,” said Hercule Poirot. “I am going to satisfy myself. I—”
“What are you going to do?”
“I am going to visit these five people—and from each one I am going to get his or her own
story.”
Superintendent Hale sighed with a deep melancholy.
He said:
“Man, you’re nuts! None of their stories are going to agree! Don’t you grasp that elementary
fact? No two people remember a thing in the same order anyway. And after all this time! Why,
you’ll hear five accounts of five separate murders!”
“That,” said Poirot, “is what I am counting upon. It will be very instructive.”
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