Poirot gave a little sigh.

He murmured:

‘Yes-it is all there.’

Blake led the way back. He mumbled:

‘Never have understood anything about art myself. Don’t know why I like looking at that thing so much, but I do. It’s-oh, damn it all, it’sgood.’

Poirot nodded emphatically.

Blake offered his guest a cigarette and lit one himself. He said:

‘And that’s the man-the man who painted those roses-the man who painted the “Woman with a Cocktail Shaker”-the man who painted that amazing painful “Nativity”,that’s the man who was cut short in his prime, deprived of his vivid forceful life all because of a vindictive mean-natured woman!’

He paused:

‘You’ll say that I’m bitter-that I’m unduly prejudiced against Caroline. Shehad charm-I’ve felt it. But I knew-I always knew-the real woman behind. And that woman, M. Poirot, was evil. She was cruel and malignant and a grabber!’

‘And yet it has been told me that Mrs Crale put up with many hard things in her married life?’

‘Yes, and didn’t she let everybody know about it! Always the martyr! Poor old Amyas. His married life was one long hell-or rather it would have been if it hadn’t been for his exceptional quality. His art, you see-he always had that. It was an escape. When he was painting he didn’t care, he shook off Caroline and her nagging and all the ceaseless rows and quarrels. They were endless, you know. Not a week passed without a thundering row over one thing or another.She enjoyed it. Having rows stimulated her, I believe. It was an outlet. She could say all the hard bitter stinging things she wanted to say. She’d positively purr after one of those set-tos-go off looking as sleek and well-fed as a cat. But it took it out ofhim. He wanted peace-rest-a quiet life. Of course a man like that ought never to marry-he isn’t out for domesticity. A man like Crale should have affairs but no binding ties. They’re bound to chafe him.’

‘He confided in you?’

‘Well-he knew that I was a pretty devoted pal. He let me see things. He didn’t complain. He wasn’t that kind of man. Sometimes he’d say, “Damn all women.” Or he’d say, “Never get married, old boy. Wait for hell till after this life.” ’

‘You knew about his attachment to Miss Greer?’

‘Oh yes-at least I saw it coming on. He told me he’d met a marvellous girl. She was different, he said, from anything or any one he’d ever met before. Not that I paid much attention to that. Amyas was always meeting one woman or other who was “different”. Usually a month later he’d stare at you if you mentioned them, and wonder who you were talking about! But this Elsa Greer really was different. I realized that when I came down to Alderbury to stay. She’d got him, you know, hooked him good and proper. The poor mutt fairly ate out of her hand.’

‘You did not like Elsa Greer either?’

‘No, I didn’t like her. She was definitely a predatory creature. She, too, wanted to own Crale body and soul. But I think, all the same, that she’d have been better for him than Caroline. She might conceivably have let him alone once she was sure of him. Or she might have got tired of him and moved on to someone else. The best thing for Amyas would have been to be quite free of female entanglements.’

‘But that, it would seem, was not to his taste?’

Philip Blake said with a sigh:

‘The damned fool was always getting himself involved with some woman or other. And yet, in a way, women really meant very little to him. The only two women who really made any impression on him at all in his life were Caroline and Elsa.’

Poirot said:

‘Was he fond of the child?’

‘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’tthat 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 shouldlike to do it. I feel I owe it-in a way-to Amyas Crale.’

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.

Hercule Poirot knew that there was only one way to penetrate the stronghold. He must approach Meredith Blake with the proper credentials. Those credentials must be social, not professional. Fortunately, in the course of his career, Hercule Poirot had made friends in many counties. Devonshire was no exception. He sat down to review what resources he had in Devonshire. As a result he discovered two people who were acquaintances or friends of Mr Meredith Blake. He descended upon him therefore armed with two letters, one from Lady Mary Lytton-Gore, a gentle widow lady of restricted means, the most retiring of creatures; and the other from a retired Admiral, whose family had been settled in the county for four generations.

Meredith Blake received Poirot in a state of some perplexity.

As he had often felt lately, things were not what they used to be. Dash it all, private detectives used to be private detectives-fellows you got to guard wedding presents at country receptions, fellows you went to-rather shame-facedly-when there was some dirty business afoot and you’d got to get the hang of it.

But here was Lady Mary Lytton-Gore writing: ‘Hercule Poirot is a very old and valued friend of mine. Please do all you can to help him, won’t you?’ And Mary Lytton-Gore wasn’t-no, decidedly she wasn’t-the sort of woman you associate with private detectives and all that they stand for. And Admiral Cronshaw wrote: ‘Very good chap-absolutely sound. Grateful if you will do what you can for him. Most entertaining fellow, can tell you lots of good stories.’

And now here was the man himself. Really a most impossible person-the wrong clothes-button boots!-an incredible moustache! Not his-Meredith Blake’s-kind of fellow at all. Didn’t look as though he’d ever hunted or shot-or even played a decent game. A foreigner.