“There will be gaps, of course. I realize that.”
“I tell you what—” Meredith paused abruptly, then went on, reddening a little as he spoke. “If you like, I—I could do the same. I mean, it would be a kind of check, wouldn’t it?”
Hercule Poirot said warmly:
“It would be most valuable. An idea of the first excellence!”
“Right. I will. I’ve got some old diaries somewhere. Mind you,” he laughed awkwardly. “I’m not much of a hand at literary language. Even my spelling’s not too good. You—you won’t expect too much?”
“Ah, it is not the style I demand. Just a plain recital of everything you can remember. What every one said, how they looked—just what happened. Never mind if it doesn’t seem relevant. It all helps with the atmosphere, so to speak.”
“Yes, I can see that. It must be difficult visualizing people and places you have never seen.”
Poirot nodded.
“There is another thing I wanted to ask you. Alderbury is the adjoining property to this, is it not? Would it be possible to go there—to see with my own eyes where the tragedy occurred?”
Meredith Blake said slowly:
“I can take you over there right away. But, of course, it is a good deal changed.”
“It has not been built over?”
“No, thank goodness—not quite so bad as that. But it’s a kind of hostel now—it was bought by some society. Hordes of young people come down to it in the summer, and of course all the rooms have been cut up and partitioned into cubicles, and the grounds have been altered a good deal.”
“You must reconstruct it for me by your explanations.”
“I’ll do my best. I wish you could have seen it in the old days. It was one of the loveliest properties I know.”
He led the way out through the window and began walking down a slope of lawn.
“Who was responsible for selling it?”
“The executors on behalf of the child. Everything Crale had came to her. He hadn’t made a will, so I imagine that it would be divided automatically between his wife and the child. Caroline’s will left what she had to the child also.”
“Nothing to her half sister?”
“Angela had a certain amount of money of her own left her by her father.”
Poirot nodded. “I see.”
Then he uttered an exclamation:
“But where is it that you take me? This is the seashore ahead of us!”
“Ah, I must explain our geography to you. You’ll see for yourself in a minute. There’s a creek, you see, Camel Creek, they call it, runs inland—looks almost like a river mouth, but it isn’t—it’s just sea. To get to Alderbury by land you have to go right inland and round the creek, but the shortest way from one house to the other is to row across this narrow bit of the creek. Alderbury is just opposite—there, you can see the house through the trees.”
They had come out on a little beach. Opposite them was a wooded headland and a white house could just be distinguished high up amongst the trees.
Two boats were drawn up on the beach. Meredith Blake, with Poirot’s somewhat awkward assistance, dragged one of them down to the water and presently they were rowing across to the other side.
“We always went this way in the old days,” Meredith explained. “Unless, of course, there was a storm or it was raining, and then we’d take the car. But it’s nearly three miles if you go round that way.”
He ran the boat neatly alongside a stone quay on the other side. He cast a disparaging eye on a collection of wooden huts and some concrete terraces.
“All new, this. Used to be a boathouse—tumbledown old place—and nothing else. And one walked along the shore and bathed off those rocks over there.”
He assisted his guest to alight, made fast the boat, and led the way up a steep path.
“Don’t suppose we’ll meet anyone,” he said over his shoulder. “Nobody here in April—except for Easter. Doesn’t matter if we do. I’m on good terms with my neighbours. Sun’s glorious today. Might be summer. It was a wonderful day then. More like July than September. Brilliant sun—but a chilly little wind.”
The path came out of the trees and skirted an outcrop of rock. Meredith pointed up with his hand.
“That’s what they called the Battery. We’re more or less underneath it now—skirting round it.”
They plunged into trees again and then the path took another sharp turn and they emerged by a door set in a high wall. The path itself continued to zigzag upwards, but Meredith opened the door and the two men passed through it.
For a moment Poirot was dazzled coming in from the shade outside. The Battery was an artificially cleared plateau with battlements set with cannon. It gave one the impression of overhanging the sea. There were trees above it and behind it, but on the sea side there was nothing but the dazzling blue water below.
“Attractive spot,” said Meredith. He nodded contemptuously towards a kind of pavilion set back against the back wall. “That wasn’t there, of course—only an old tumbledown shed where Amyas kept his painting muck and some bottled beer and a few deck chairs. It wasn’t concreted then, either. There used to be a bench and a table—painted iron ones. That was all. Still—it hasn’t changed much.”
His voice held an unsteady note.
Poirot said: “And it was here that it happened?”
Meredith nodded.
“The bench was there—up against the shed. He was sprawled on that. He used to sprawl there sometimes when he was painting—just fling himself down and stare and stare—and then suddenly up he’d jump and start laying the paint on the canvas like mad.”
He paused.
“That’s why, you know, he looked—almost natural. As though he might be asleep—just have dropped off. But his eyes were open—and he’d—just stiffened up. Stuff sort of paralyses you, you know. There isn’t any pain…I’ve—I’ve always been glad of that….”
Poirot asked a thing that he already knew.
“Who found him?”
“She did. Caroline. After lunch. I and Elsa, I suppose, were the last ones to see him alive. It must have been coming on then. He—looked queer. I’d rather not talk about it. I’ll write it to you. Easier that way.”
He turned abruptly and went out of the Battery. Poirot followed him without speaking.
The two men went on up the zigzag path. At a higher level than the Battery there was another small plateau. It was overshadowed with trees and there was a bench there and a table.
Meredith said:
“They haven’t changed this much. But the bench used not to be Ye Olde Rustic. It was just a painted iron business. A bit hard for sitting, but a lovely view.”
Poirot agreed. Through a framework of trees one looked down over the Battery to the creek mouth.
“I sat up here part of the morning,” Meredith explained. “Trees weren’t quite so overgrown then. One could see the battlements of the Battery quite plainly. That’s where Elsa was posing, you know. Sitting on one with her head twisted round.”
He gave a slight twitch of his shoulders.
“Trees grow faster than one thinks,” he muttered. “Oh well, suppose I’m getting old. Come on up to the house.”
They continued to follow the path till it emerged near the house. It had been a fine old house, Georgian in style. It had been added to and on a green lawn near it were set some fifty little wooden bathing hutches.
“Young men sleep there, girls in the house,” Meredith explained. “I don’t suppose there’s anything you want to see here. All the rooms have been cut about. Used to be a little conservatory tacked on here. These people have built a loggia. Oh well—I suppose they enjoy their holidays. Can’t keep everything as it used to be—more’s the pity.”
He turned away abruptly.
“We’ll go down another way. It—it all comes back to me, you know. Ghosts. Ghosts everywhere.”
They returned to the quay by a somewhat longer and more r
ambling route. Neither of them spoke. Poirot respected his companion’s mood.
When they reached Handcross Manor once more, Meredith Blake said abruptly:
“I bought that picture, you know. The one that Amyas was painting. I just couldn’t stand the idea of its being sold for—well—publicity value—a lot of dirty-minded brutes gaping at it. It was a fine piece of work. Amyas said it was the best thing he’d ever done. I shouldn’t be surprised if he was right. It was practically finished. He only wanted to work on it another day or so. Would—would you care to see it?”
Hercule Poirot said quickly: “Yes, indeed.”
Blake led the way across the hall and took a key from his pocket. He unlocked a door and they went into a fair-sized, dusty smelling room. It was closely shuttered. Blake went across to the windows and opened the wooden shutters. Then, with a little difficulty, he flung up a window and a breath of fragrant spring air came wafting into the room.
Meredith said: “That’s better.”
He stood by the window inhaling the air and Poirot joined him. There was no need to ask what the room had been. The shelves were empty but there were marks upon them where bottles had stood. Against one wall was some derelict chemical apparatus and a sink. The room was thick in dust.
Meredith Blake was looking out of the window. He said:
“How easily it all comes back. Standing here, smelling the jasmine—and talking—talking—like the damned fool I was—about my precious potions and distillations!”
Absently, Poirot stretched a hand through the window. He pulled off a spray of jasmine leaves just breaking from their woody stem.
Meredith Blake moved resolutely across the floor. On the wall was a picture covered with a dust sheet. He jerked the dust sheet away.
Poirot caught his breath. He had seen so far, four pictures of Amyas Crale’s: two at the Tate, one at a London dealer’s, one, the still life of roses. But now he was looking at what the artist himself had called his best picture, and Poirot realized at once what a superb artist the man had been.
The painting had an old superficial smoothness. At first sight it might have been a poster, so seemingly crude were its contrasts. A girl, a girl in a canary-yellow shirt and dark-blue slacks, sitting on a grey wall in full sunlight against a background of violent blue sea. Just the kind of subject for a poster.
But the first appearance was deceptive; there was a subtle distortion—an amazing brilliance and clarity in the light. And the girl—
Yes, here was life. All there was, all there could be of life, of youth, of sheer blazing vitality. The face was alive and the eyes….
So much life! Such passionate youth! That, then, was what Amyas Crale had seen in Elsa Greer, which had made him blind and deaf to the gentle creature, his wife. Elsa was life. Elsa was youth.
A superb, slim, straight creature, arrogant, her head turned, her eyes insolent with triumph. Looking at you, watching you—waiting….
Hercule Poirot spread out his hands. He said:
“It is a great—yes, it is great—”
Meredith Blake said, a catch in his voice:
“She was so young—”
Poirot nodded. He thought to himself.
“What do most people mean when they say that? So young. Something innocent, something appealing, something helpless. But youth is not that! Youth is crude, youth is strong, youth is powerful—yes, and cruel! And one thing more—youth is vulnerable.”
He followed his host to the door. His interest was quickened now in Elsa Greer whom he was to visit next. What would the years have done to that passionate, triumphant crude child?
He looked back at the picture.
Those eyes. Watching him…watching him…Telling him something….
Supposing he couldn’t understand what they were telling him? Would the real woman be able to tell him? Or were those eyes saying something that the real woman did not know?
Such arrogance, such triumphant anticipation.
And then Death had stepped in and taken the prey out of those eager, clutching young hands….
And the light had gone out of those passionately anticipating eyes. What were the eyes of Elsa Greer like now?
He went out of the room with one last look.
He thought: “She was too much alive.”
He felt—a little—frightened….
Eight
THIS LITTLE PIG HAD ROAST BEEF
The house in Brook Street had Darwin tulips in the window boxes. Inside the hall a great vase of white lilac sent eddies of perfume towards the open front door.
A middle-aged butler relieved Poirot of his hat and stick. A footman appeared to take them and the butler murmured deferentially:
“Will you come this way, sir?”
Poirot followed him along the hall and down three steps. A door was opened, the butler pronounced his name with every syllable correct.
Then the door closed behind him and a tall thin man got up from a chair by the fire and came towards him.
Lord Dittisham was a man just under forty. He was not only a Peer of the Realm, he was a poet. Two of his fantastical poetic dramas had been staged at vast expense and had had a succès d’estime. His forehead was rather prominent, his chin was eager, and his eyes and his mouth unexpectedly beautiful.
He said:
“Sit down, Mr. Poirot.”
Poirot sat down and accepted a cigarette from his host. Lord Dittisham shut the box, struck a match and held it for Poirot to light his cigarette, then he himself sat down and looked thoughtfully at his visitor.
Then he said:
“It is my wife you have come to see, I know.”
Poirot answered:
“Lady Dittisham was so kind as to give me an appointment.”
“Yes.”
There was a pause. Poirot hazarded:
“You do not, I hope, object, Lord Dittisham?”
The thin dreamy face was transformed by a sudden quick smile.
“The objections of husbands, Mr. Poirot, are never taken seriously in these days.”
“Then you do object?”
“No. I cannot say that. But I am, I must confess it, a little fearful of the effect upon my wife. Let me be quite frank. A great many years ago, when my wife was only a young girl, she passed through a terrible ordeal. She has, I hope, recovered from the shock. I have come to believe that she has forgotten it. Now you appear and necessarily your questions will reawaken these old memories.”
“It is regrettable,” said Hercule Poirot politely.
“I do not know quite what the result will be.”
“I can only assure you, Lord Dittisham, that I shall be as discreet as possible, and do all I can not to distress Lady Dittisham. She is, no doubt, of a delicate and nervous temperament.”
Then, suddenly and surprisingly, the other laughed. He said:
“Elsa? Elsa’s as strong as a horse!”
“Then—” Poirot paused diplomatically. The situation intrigued him.
Lord Dittisham said:
“My wife is equal to any amount of shocks. I wonder if you know her reason for seeing you?”
Poirot replied placidly: “Curiosity?”
A kind of respect showed in the other man’s eyes.
“Ah, you realize that?”
Poirot said:
“It is inevitable. Women will always see a private detective! Men will tell him to go to the devil.”
“Some women might tell him to go to the devil too.”
“After they have seen him—not before.”
“Perhaps.” Lord Dittisham paused. “What is the idea behind this book?”
Hercule Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“One resurrects the old tunes, the old stage turns, the old costumes. One resurrects, too, the old murders.”
“Faugh!” said Lord Dittisham.
“Faugh! If you like. But you will not alter human nature by saying Faugh. Murder is a drama. The desire for drama is very strong i
n the human race.”
Lord Dittisham murmured:
“I know—I know….”
“So you see,” said Poirot, “the book will be written. It is my part to make sure that there shall be no gross misstatements, no tampering with the known facts.”
“The facts are public property I should have thought.”
“Yes. But not the interpretation of them.”
Dittisham said sharply:
“Just what do you mean by that, Mr. Poirot?”
“My dear Lord Dittisham, there are many ways of regarding, for instance, a historical fact. Take an example: many books have been written on your Mary Queen of Scots, representing her as a martyr, as an unprincipled and wanton woman, as a rather simpleminded saint, as a murderess and an intriguer, or again as a victim of circumstance and fate! One can take one’s choice.”
“And in this case? Crale was killed by his wife—that is, of course, undisputed. At the trial my wife came in for some, in my opinion, undeserved calumny. She had to be smuggled out of court afterwards. Public opinion was very hostile to her.”
“The English,” said Poirot, “are a very moral people.”
Lord Dittisham said: “Confound them, they are!”
He added—looking at Poirot: “And you?”
“Me,” said Poirot. “I lead a very moral life. That is not quite the same thing as having moral ideas.”
Lord Dittisham said:
“I’ve wondered sometimes what this Mrs. Crale was really like. All this injured wife business—I’ve a feeling there was something behind that.”
“Your wife might know,” agreed Poirot.
“My wife,” said Lord Dittisham, “has never mentioned the case once.”
Poirot looked at him with quickened interest. He said:
“Ah, I begin to see—”
The other said sharply:
“What do you see?”
Poirot replied with a bow:
“The creative imagination of the poet….”
Lord Dittisham rose and rang the bell. He said brusquely:
“My wife will be waiting for you.”
The door opened.
“You rang, my lord?”
“Take Mr. Poirot up to her ladyship.”
Up two flights of stairs, feet sinking into soft pile carpets. Subdued flood lighting. Money, money everywhere. Of taste, not so much. There had been a sombre austerity in Lord Dittisham’s room. But here, in the house, there was only a solid lavishness. The best. Not necessarily the showiest, or the most startling. Merely “expense no object,” allied to a lack of imagination.
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