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. Elsawas 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…

The 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 asucces d’estime. His forehead was rather prominent, his chin was eager, and his eyes and his mouth unexpectedly beautiful.

He said:

‘Sit down, M. 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, M. 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 willalways 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 mis-statements, 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, M. 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 somethingbehind 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 M. 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.