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.
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
