Five Little Pigs

‘Angela? Oh! we all liked Angela. She was such a sport. She was always game for anything. What a life she led that wretched governess of hers. Yes, Amyas liked Angela all right – but sometimes she went too far and then he used to get really mad with her – and then Caroline would step in – Caro was always on Angela’s side and that would finish Amyas altogether. He hated it when Caro sided with Angela against him. There was a bit of jealousy all round, you know. Amyas was jealous of the way Caro always put Angela first and would do anything for her. And Angela was jealous of Amyas and rebelled against his overbearing ways. It was his decision that she should go to school that autumn, and she was furious about it. Not, I think, because she didn’t like the idea of school, she really rather wanted to go, I believe – but it was Amyas’s high-handed way of settling it all offhand that infuriated her. She played all sorts of tricks on him in revenge. Once she put ten slugs in his bed. On the whole, I think Amyas was right. It was time she got some discipline. Miss Williams was very efficient, but even she confessed that Angela was getting too much for her.’

He paused. Poirot said:

‘When I asked if Amyas was fond of the child – I referred to his own child, his daughter?’

‘Oh, you mean little Carla? Yes, she was a great pet. He enjoyed playing with her when he was in the mood. But his affection for her wouldn’t have deterred him from marrying Elsa, if that’s what you mean. He hadn’t that kind of feeling for her.’

‘Was Caroline Crale very devoted to the child?’

A kind of spasm contorted Philip’s face. He said:

‘I can’t say that she wasn’t a good mother. No, I can’t say that. It’s the one thing-’

‘Yes, Mr Blake?’

Philip said slowly and painfully:

‘It’s the one thing I really – regret – in this affair. The thought of that child. Such a tragic background to her young life. They sent her abroad to Amyas’s cousin and her husband. I hope – I sincerely hope – they managed to keep the truth from her.’

Poirot shook his head. He said:

‘The truth, Mr Blake, has a habit of making itself known. Even after many years.’

The stockbroker murmured: ‘I wonder.’

Poirot went on:

‘In the interests of truth, Mr Blake, I am going to ask you to do something.’

‘What is it?’

‘I am going to beg that you will write me out an exact account of what happened on those days at Alderbury. That is to say, I am going to ask you to write me out a full account of the murder and its attendant circumstances.’

‘But, my dear fellow, after all this time? I should be hopelessly inaccurate.’

‘Not necessarily.’

‘Surely.’

‘No, for one thing, with the passage of time, the mind retains a hold on essentials and rejects superficial matters.’

‘Ho! You mean a mere broad outline?’

‘Not at all. I mean a detailed conscientious account of each event as it occurred, and every conversation you can remember.’

‘And supposing I remember them wrong?’

‘You can give the wording at least to the best of your reflection. There may be gaps, but that cannot be helped.’

Blake looked at him curiously.

‘But what’s the idea? The police files will give you the whole thing far more accurately.’

‘No, Mr Blake. We are speaking now from the psychological point of view. I do not want barefacts. I want your own selections of facts. Time and your memory are responsible for that selection. There may have been things done, words spoken, that I should seek for in vain in the police files. Things and words that you never mentioned because, maybe, you judged them irrelevant, or because you preferred not to repeat them.’

Blake said sharply:

‘Is this account of mine for publication?’

‘Certainly not. It is for my eye only. To assist me to draw my own deductions.’

‘And you won’t quote from it without my consent?’

‘Certainly not.’

‘Hm,’ said Philip Blake. ‘I’m a very busy man, M. Poirot.’

‘I appreciate that there will be time and trouble involved. I should be happy to agree to a – reasonable fee.’

There was a moment’s pause. Then Philip Blake said suddenly:

‘No, if I do it – I’ll do it for nothing.’

‘And you will do it?’

Philip said warningly:

‘Remember, I can’t vouch for the accuracy of my memory.’

‘That is perfectly understood.’

‘Then I think,’ said Philip Blake, ‘that I should like to do it. I feel I owe it – in a way – to Amyas Crale.’

Chapter 7. This Little Pig Stayed at Home

Hercule Poirot was not a man to neglect details.

His advance towards Meredith Blake was carefully thought out. Meredith Blake was, he already felt sure, a very different proposition from Philip Blake. Rush tactics would not succeed here. The assault must be leisurely.