‘Would you like thetruth? Oh, not for publication.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-youmust -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.

Elsa-you wonderful child! There never was anything as beautiful. And yet I’m afraid-I’m too old-a middle-aged, ugly tempered devil with no stability in me. Don’t trust me, don’t believe in me-I’m no good-apart from my work. The best of me is in that. There, don’t say you haven’t been warned.

Hell, my lovely-I’m going to have you all the same. I’d go to the devil for you and you know it. And I’ll paint a picture of you that will make the fat-headed world hold its sides and gasp! I’m crazy about you-I can’t sleep-I can’t eat. Elsa-Elsa-Elsa-I’m yours for ever-yours till death. Amyas.

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…

‘May I ask why, M. 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 co-operation. 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 therewas 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 any one can explain it, I think you can.’

‘Yes?’

Her voice was inquiring, non-commital.

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

‘There is a something-anuance 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 therewas 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 break-up 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, M. 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 over-attention 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 husband 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 ofneglect 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.’