Five Little Pigs (10 page)

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
rambling 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….

T
he 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 in 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.

Poirot said to himself: “Roast beef? Yes, roast beef!”

It was not a large room into which he was shown. The big drawing room was on the first floor. This was the personal sitting room of the mistress of the house and the mistress of the house was standing against the mantelpiece as Poirot was announced and shown in.

A phrase leapt into his startled mind and refused to be driven out.

She died young….

That was his thought as he looked at Elsa Dittisham who had been Elsa Greer.

He would never have recognized her from the picture Meredith Blake had shown him. That had been, above all, a picture of youth, a picture of vitality. Here there was no youth—there might never have been youth. And yet he realized, as he had not realized
from Crale's picture, that Elsa was beautiful. Yes, it was a very beautiful woman who came forward to meet him. And certainly not old. After all, what was she? Not more than thirty-six now if she had been twenty at the time of the tragedy. Her black hair was perfectly arranged round her shapely head, her features were almost classic, her makeup was exquisite.

He felt a strange pang. It was, perhaps, the fault of old Mr. Jonathan, speaking of Juliet…No Juliet here—unless perhaps one could imagine Juliet a survivor—living on, deprived of Romeo…Was it not an essential part of Juliet's makeup that she should die young?

Elsa Greer had been left alive….

She was greeting him in a level rather monotonous voice.

“I am so interested, Mr. Poirot. Sit down and tell me what you want me to do?”

He thought:

“But she isn't interested. Nothing interests her.”

Big grey eyes—like dead lakes.

Poirot became, as was his way, a little obviously foreign.

He exclaimed:

“I am confused, madame, veritably I am confused.”

“Oh no, why?”

“Because I realize that this—this reconstruction of a past drama must be excessively painful to you!”

She looked amused. Yes, it was amusement. Quite genuine amusement.

She said:

“I suppose my husband put that idea into your head? He saw
you when you arrived. Of course he doesn't understand in the least. He never has. I'm not at all the sensitive sort of person he imagines I am.”

The amusement was still in her voice. She said:

“My father, you know, was a mill hand. He worked his way up and made a fortune. You don't do that if you're thin-skinned. I'm the same.”

Poirot thought to himself: Yes, that is true. A thin-skinned person would not have come to stay in Caroline Crale's house.

Lady Dittisham said:

“What is it you want me to do?”

“You are sure, madame, that to go over the past would not be painful to you?”

She considered a minute, and it struck Poirot suddenly that Lady Dittisham was a very frank woman. She might lie from necessity but never from choice.

Elsa Dittisham said slowly:

“No, not
painful
. In a way, I wish it were.”

“Why?”

She said impatiently:

“It's so stupid never to feel anything….”

And Hercule Poirot thought:

“Yes, Elsa Greer is dead….”

Aloud he said:

“At all events, Lady Dittisham, it makes my task very much easier.”

She said cheerfully:

“What do you want to know?”

“Have you a good memory, madame?”

“Reasonably good, I think.”

“And you are sure it will not pain you to go over those days in detail?”

“It won't pain me at all. Things can only pain you when they are happening.”

“It is so with some people, I know.”

Lady Dittisham said:

“That's what Edward—my husband—can't understand. He thinks the trial and all that was a terrible ordeal for me.”

“Was it not?”

Elsa Dittisham said:

“No, I enjoyed it.” There was a reflective satisfied quality in her voice. She went on: “God, how that old brute Depleach went for me. He's a devil, if you like. I enjoyed fighting him. He didn't get me down.”

She looked at Poirot with a smile.

“I hope I'm not upsetting your illusions. A girl of twenty, I ought to have been prostrated, I suppose—agonized with shame or something. I wasn't. I didn't care what they said to me. I only wanted one thing.”

“What?”

“To get her hanged, of course,” said Elsa Dittisham.

He noticed her hands—beautiful hands but with long curving nails. Predatory hands.

She said:

“You're thinking me vindictive? So I am vindictive—to anyone who has injured me. That woman was to my mind the lowest
kind of woman there is. She knew that Amyas cared for me—that he was going to leave her and she killed him so that
I
shouldn't have him.”

She looked across at Poirot.

“Don't you think that's pretty mean?”

“You do not understand or sympathize with jealousy?”

“No, I don't think I do. If you've lost, you've lost. If you can't keep your husband, let him go with a good grace. It's possessiveness I don't understand.”

“You might have understood it if you had ever married him.”

“I don't think so. We weren't—” She smiled suddenly at Poirot. Her smile was, he felt, a little frightening. It was so far removed from any real feeling. “I'd like you to get this right,” she said. “Don't think that Amyas Crale seduced an innocent young girl. It wasn't like that at all! Of the two of us,
I
was responsible. I met him at a party and I fell for him—I knew I'd got to have him—”

A travesty—a grotesque travesty but—

“Although he was married?”

“Trespassers will be prosecuted? It takes more than a printed notice to keep you from reality. If he was unhappy with his wife and could be happy with me, then why not? We've only one life to live.”

“But it has been said he was happy with his wife.”

Elsa shook her head.

“No. They quarrelled like cat and dog. She nagged at him. She was—oh, she was a horrible woman!”

She got up and lit a cigarette. She said with a little smile:

“Probably I'm unfair to her. But I really
do
think she was rather hateful.”

Poirot said slowly: “It was a great tragedy.”

“Yes, it was a great tragedy.” She turned on him suddenly, into the dead monotonous weariness of her face something came quiveringly alive.

“It killed
me,
do you understand? It killed me. Ever since there's been nothing—nothing at all.” Her voice dropped. “Emptiness!” She waved her hands impatiently. “Like a stuffed fish in a glass case!”

“Did Amyas Crale mean so much to you?”

She nodded. It was a queer confiding little nod—oddly pathetic. She said:

“I think I've always had a single-track mind.” She mused sombrely. “I suppose—really—one ought to put a knife into oneself—like Juliet. But—but to do that is to acknowledge that you're done for—that life's beaten you.”

“And instead?”

“There ought to be everything—just the same—once one has got over it. I
did
get over it. It didn't mean anything to me any more. I thought I'd go on to the next thing.”

Yes, the next thing. Poirot saw her plainly trying so hard to fulfil that crude determination. Saw her beautiful and rich, seductive to men, seeking with greedy predatory hands to fill up a life that was empty. Hero worship—a marriage to a famous aviator—
then an explorer, that big giant of a man, Arnold Stevenson—possibly not unlike Amyas Crale physically—a reversion to the creative arts: Dittisham!

Elsa Dittisham said: