Five Little Pigs (11 page)

“I've never been a hypocrite! There's a Spanish proverb I've always liked.
Take what you want and pay for it, says God
. Well, I've done that. I've taken what I wanted—but I've always been willing to pay the price.”

Hercule Poirot said:

“What you do not understand is that there are things that cannot be bought.”

She stared at him. She said:

“I don't mean just money.”

Poirot said:

“No, no, I understand what you mean. But it is not everything in life that has its ticket, so much. There are things that are
not for sale
.”

“Nonsense!”

He smiled very faintly. In her voice was the arrogance of the successful mill hand who had risen to riches.

Hercule Poirot felt a sudden wave of pity. He looked at the ageless, smooth face, the weary eyes, and he remembered the girl whom Amyas Crale had painted….

Elsa Dittisham said:

“Tell me all about this book. What is the purpose of it? Whose idea is it?”

“Oh! my dear lady, what other purpose is there but to serve up yesterday's sensation with today's sauce.”

“But
you're
not a writer?”

“No, I am an expert on crime.”

“You mean they consult you on crime books?”

“Not always. In this case, I have a commission.”

“From whom?”

“I am—what do you say—vetting this publication on behalf of an interested party.”

“What party?”

“Miss Carla Lemarchant.”

“Who is she?”

“She is the daughter of Amyas and Caroline Crale.”

Elsa stared for a minute. Then she said:

“Oh, of course, there
was
a child. I remember. I suppose she's grown up now?”

“Yes, she is twenty-one.”

“What is she like?”

“She is tall and dark and, I think, beautiful. And she has courage and personality.”

Elsa said thoughtfully:

“I should like to see her.”

“She might not care to see you.”

Elsa looked surprised.

“Why? Oh, I see. But what nonsense! She can't possibly remember anything about it. She can't have been more than six.”

“She knows that her mother was tried for her father's murder.”

“And she thinks it's my fault?”

“It is a possible interpretation.”

Elsa shrugged her shoulders. She said:

“How stupid! If Caroline had behaved like a reasonable human being—”

“So you take no responsibility?”

“Why should I?
I've
nothing to be ashamed of. I loved him. I would have made him happy.” She looked across at Poirot. Her face broke up—suddenly, incredibly, he saw the girl of the picture. She said: “If I could make you see. If you could see it from my side. If you knew—”

Poirot leaned forward.

“But that is what I want. See, Mr. Philip Blake who was there at the time, he is writing me a meticulous account of everything that happened. Mr. Meredith Blake the same. Now if you—”

Elsa Dittisham took a deep breath. She said contemptuously:

“Those two! Philip was always stupid. Meredith used to trot round after Caroline—but he was quite a dear. But you won't have
any
real idea from
their
accounts.”

He watched her, saw the animation rising in her eyes, saw a living woman take shape from a dead one. She said quickly and almost fiercely:

“Would you like the
truth?
Oh, not for publication. But just for yourself—”

“I will undertake not to publish without your consent.”

“I'd like to write down the truth…” She was silent a minute or two, thinking. He saw the smooth hardness of her cheeks falter and take on a younger curve, he saw life ebbing into her as the past claimed her again.

“To go back—to write it all down…To show you what she was—”

Her eyes flashed. Her breast heaved passionately.

“She killed him. She killed Amyas. Amyas who wanted to live—who enjoyed living. Hate oughtn't to be stronger than love—
but her hate was. And my hate for her is—I hate her—I hate her—I hate her….”

She came across to him. She stooped, her hand clutched at his sleeve. She said urgently:

“You must understand—you
must
—how we felt about each other. Amyas and I, I mean. There's something—I'll show you.”

She whirled across the room. She was unlocking a little desk, pulling out a drawer concealed inside a pigeon hole.

Then she was back. In her hand was a creased letter, the ink faded. She thrust it on him and Poirot had a sudden poignant memory of a child he had known who had thrust on him one of her treasures—a special shell picked up on the seashore and zealously guarded. Just so had that child stood back and watched him. Proud, afraid, keenly critical of his reception of her treasure.

He unfolded the faded sheets.

Sixteen years ago. Faded ink, crumbling paper. But the words still alive—still vibrating….

He looked across at the woman to whom they had been written.

But it was no longer a woman at whom he looked.

It was a young girl in love.

He thought again of Juliet….

“M
ay I ask why, Mr. Poirot?”

Hercule Poirot considered his answer to the question. He was aware of a pair of very shrewd grey eyes watching him out of the small wizened face.

He had climbed to the top floor of the bare building and knocked on the door of No. 584 Gillespie Buildings, which had come into existence to provide what were called “flatlets” for working women.

Here, in a small cubic space, existed Miss Cecilia Williams, in a room that was bedroom, sitting room, dining room, and, by judicious use of the gas ring, kitchen—a kind of cubby hole attached to it contined a quarter-length bath and the usual offices.

Meagre though these surroundings might be, Miss Williams had contrived to impress upon them her stamp of personality.

The walls were distempered an ascetic pale grey, and various reproductions hung upon them. Dante meeting Beatrice on a bridge—and that picture once described by a child as a “blind
girl sitting on an orange and called, I don't know why, ‘Hope.'” There were also two water colours of Venice and a sepia copy of Botticelli's “Primavera.” On the top of the low chest of drawers were a large quantity of faded photographs, mostly, by their style of hairdressing, dating from twenty to thirty years ago.

The square of carpet was threadbare, the furniture battered and of poor quality. It was clear to Hercule Poirot that Cecilia Williams lived very near the bone. There was no roast beef here. This was the little pig that had none.

Clear, incisive and insistent, the voice of Miss Williams repeated its demand.

“You want my recollections of the Crale case? May I ask why?”

It had been said of Hercule Poirot by some of his friends and associates, at moments when he has maddened them most, that he prefers lies to truth and will go out of his way to gain his ends by means of elaborate false statements, rather than trust to the simple truth.

But in this case his decision was quickly made. Hercule Poirot did not come of that class of Belgian or French children who have had an English governess, but he reacted as simply and inevitably as various small boys who had been asked in their time: “Did you brush your teeth this morning, Harold (or Richard or Anthony)?” They considered fleetingly the possibility of a lie and instantly rejected it, replying miserably, “No, Miss Williams.”

For Miss Williams had what every successful child educator must have, that mysterious quality—authority! When Miss Williams said “Go up and wash your hands, Joan,” or “I expect you to read this chapter on the Elizabethan poets and be able to answer
my questions on it,” she was invariably obeyed. It had never entered Miss Williams' head that she would not be obeyed.

So in this case Hercule Poirot proffered no specious explanation of a book to be written on bygone crimes. Instead he narrated simply the circumstances in which Carla Lemarchant had sought him out.

The small, elderly lady in the neat shabby dress listened attentively.

She said:

“It interests me very much to have news of that child—to know how she has turned out.”

“She is a very charming and attractive young woman, with plenty of courage and a mind of her own.”

“Good,” said Miss Williams briefly.

“And she is, I may say, a very persistent person. She is not a person whom it is easy to refuse or put off.”

The ex-governess nodded thoughtfully. She asked:

“Is she artistic?”

“I think not.”

Miss Williams said drily:

“That's one thing to be thankful for!”

The tone of the remark left Miss Williams' views as to artists in no doubt whatever.

She added:

“From your account of her I should imagine that she takes after her mother rather than after her father.”

“Very possibly. That you can tell me when you have seen her. You would like to see her?”

“I should like to see her very much indeed. It is always interesting to see how a child you have known has developed.”

“She was, I suppose, very young when you last saw her?”

“She was five and a half. A very charming child—a little over-quiet, perhaps. Thoughtful. Given to playing her own little games and not inviting outside cooperation. Natural and unspoilt.”

Poirot said:

“It was fortunate she was so young.”

“Yes, indeed. Had she been older the shock of the tragedy might have had a very bad effect.”

“Nevertheless,” said Poirot, “one feels that there
was
a handicap—however little the child understood or was allowed to know, there would have been an atmosphere of mystery and evasion and an abrupt uprooting. These things are not good for a child.”

Miss Williams replied thoughtfully:

“They may have been less harmful than you think.”

Poirot said:

“Before we leave the subject of Carla Lemarchant—little Carla Crale that was, there is something I would like to ask you. If anyone can explain it, I think you can.”

“Yes?”

Her voice was inquiring, noncommital.

Poirot waved his hands in an effort to express his meaning.

“There is a something—a
nuance
I cannot define—but it seems to me always that the child, when I mention her, is not given her full representational value. When I mention her, the response comes always with a vague surprise, as though the person to whom I speak had forgotten altogether that there
was
a child. Now surely, Mademoiselle, that is not natural? A child, under these circumstances, is
a person of importance, not in herself, but as a pivotal point. Amyas Crale may have had reasons for abandoning his wife—or for not abandoning her. But in the usual breakup of a marriage the child forms a very important point. But here the child seems to count for very little. That seems to me—strange.”

Miss Williams said quickly:

“You have put your finger on a vital point, Mr. Poirot. You are quite right. And that is partly why I said what I did just now—that Carla's transportation to different surroundings might have been in some respects a good thing for her. When she was older, you see, she might have suffered from a certain lack in her home life.”

She leaned forward and spoke slowly and carefully.

“Naturally, in the course of my work, I have seen a good many aspects of the parent and child problem. Many children,
most
children, I should say, suffer from overattention on the part of their parents. There is too much love, too much watching over the child. It is uneasily conscious of this brooding, and seeks to free itself, to get away and be unobserved. With an only child that is particularly the case, and of course mothers are the worst offenders. The result on the marriage is often unfortunate. The husband resents coming second, seeks consolation—or rather flattery and attention—elsewhere, and a divorce results sooner or later. The best thing for a child, I am convinced, is to have what I should term healthy neglect on the part of both its parents. This happens naturally enough in the case of a large family of children and very little money. They are overlooked because the mother has literally no time to occupy herself with them. They realize quite well that she is fond of them, but they are not worried by too many manifestations of the fact.

“But there is another aspect. One does occasionally find a hus
band and wife who are so all-sufficient to each other, so wrapped up in each other, that the child of the marriage hardly seems very real to either of them. And in those circumstances I think a child comes to resent that fact, to feel defrauded and left out in the cold. You understand that I am not speaking of
neglect
in any way. Mrs. Crale, for instance, was what is termed an excellent mother, always careful of Carla's welfare, of her health—playing with her at the right times and always kind and gay. But for all that, Mrs. Crale was really completely wrapped up in her husband. She existed, one might say, only in him and for him.” Miss Williams paused a minute and then said quietly: “That, I think, is the justification for what she eventually did.”

Hercule Poirot said:

“You mean that they were more like lovers than like husband and wife?”

Miss Williams, with a slight frown of distaste for foreign phraseology, said:

“You could certainly put it that way.”

“He was devoted to her as she was to him?”

“They were a devoted couple. But he, of course, was a man.”

Miss Williams contrived to put into that last word a wholly Victorian significance.

“Men—” said Miss Williams, and stopped.

As a rich property owner says “Bolsheviks”—as an earnest Communist says “Capitalists!”—as a good housewife says “Blackbeetles”—so did Miss Williams say “Men!”

From her spinster's, governess's life, there rose up a blast of fierce feminism. Nobody hearing her speak could doubt that to Miss Williams Men were the Enemy!

Poirot said: “You hold no brief for men?”

She answered drily:

“Men have the best of this world. I hope that it will not always be so.”

Hercule Poirot eyed her speculatively. He could quite easily visualize Miss Williams methodically and efficiently padlocking herself to a railing, and later hunger striking with resolute endurance. Leaving the general for the particular, he said:

“You did not like Amyas Crale?”

“I certainly did not like Mr. Crale. Nor did I approve of him. If I were his wife I should have left him. There are things that no woman should put up with.”

“But Mrs. Crale did put up with them?”

“Yes.”

“You thought she was wrong?”

“Yes, I do. A woman should have a certain respect for herself and not submit to humiliation.”

“Did you ever say anything of that kind to Mrs. Crale?”

“Certainly not. It was not my place to do so. I was engaged to educate Angela, not to offer unasked advice to Mrs. Crale. To do so would have been most impertinent.”

“You liked Mrs. Crale?”

“I was very fond of Mrs. Crale.” The efficient voice softened, held warmth and feeling. “Very fond of her and very sorry for her.”

“And your pupil—Angela Warren?”

“She was a most interesting girl—one of the most interesting pupils I have had. A really good brain. Undisciplined, quick-tempered, most difficult to manage in many ways, but really a very fine character.”

She paused and then went on:

“I always hoped that she would accomplish something worth while. And she has! You have read her book—on the Sahara? And she excavated those very interesting tombs in the Fayum! Yes, I am proud of Angela. I was not at Alderbury very long—two years and a half—but I always cherish the belief that I helped to stimulate her mind and encourage her taste for archaeology.”

Poirot murmured: “I understand that it was decided to continue her education by sending her to school. You must have resented that decision.”

“Not at all, Mr. Poirot. I thoroughly concurred with it.”

She paused and went:

“Let me make the matter clear to you. Angela was a dear girl—really a very dear girl—warm-hearted and impulsive—but she was also what I call a difficult girl. That is, she was at a difficult age. There is always a moment where a girl feels unsure of herself—neither child nor woman. At one minute Angela would be sensible and mature—quite grown up, in fact—but a minute later she would relapse into being a hoydenish child—playing mischievous tricks and being rude and losing her temper. Girls, you know,
feel
difficult at that age—they are terribly sensitive. Everything that is said to them they resent. They are annoyed at being treated like a child and then they suddenly feel shy at being treated like adults. Angela was in that state. She had fits of temper, would suddenly resent teasing and flare out—and then she would be sulky for days at a time, sitting about and frowning—then again she would be in wild spirits, climbing trees, rushing about with the garden boys, refusing to submit to any kind of authority.”

Miss Williams paused and went on:

“When a girl gets to that stage, school is very helpful. She needs the stimulation of other minds—that, and the wholesome discipline of a community, help her to become a reasonable member of society. Angela's home conditions were not what I would have called ideal. Mrs. Crale spoiled her, for one thing. Angela had only to appeal to her and Mrs. Crale always backed her up. The result was that Angela considered she had first claim upon her sister's time and attention, and it was in these moods of hers that she used to clash with Mr. Crale. Mr. Crale naturally thought that
he
should come first—and intended to do so. He was really very fond of the girl—they were good companions and used to spar together quite amiably, but there were times when Mr. Crale used suddenly to resent Mrs. Crale's preoccupation with Angela. Like all men, he was a spoilt child; he expected everybody to make a fuss of
him
. Then he and Angela used to have a real set-to—and very often Mrs. Crale would take Angela's side. Then he would be furious. On the other hand, if
she
supported
him,
Angela would be furious. It was on these occasions that Angela used to revert to childish ways and play some spiteful trick on him. He had a habit of tossing off his drinks and she once put a lot of salt into his drink. The whole thing, of course, acted as an emetic, and he was inarticulate with fury. But what really brought things to a head was when she put a lot of slugs into his bed. He had a queer aversion for slugs. He lost his temper completely and said that the girl had got to be sent away to school. He wasn't going to put up with all this petty nonsense any more. Angela was terribly upset—though actually she had once or twice expressed a wish herself to go to a boarding school—but she chose to make a huge grievance of it. Mrs. Crale didn't want her to go but allowed herself to be persuaded—largely owing, I
think, to what I said to her on the subject. I pointed out to her that it would be greatly to Angela's advantage, and that I thought it would really be a great benefit to the girl. So it was settled that she should go to Helston—a very fine school on the south coast—in the autumn term. But Mrs. Crale was still unhappy about it all those holidays. And Angela kept up a grudge against Mr. Crale whenever she remembered. It wasn't really serious, you understand, Mr. Poirot, but it made a kind of undercurrent that summer to—well—to everything
else
that was going on.”