On the other side was only the unshaken conviction of Angela Warren. Angela had known her well, undoubtedly, but might not her certainty be the fanatical loyalty of an adolescent girl, up in arms for a dearly loved sister?

As though she had read his thoughts Angela Warren said:

‘No, M. Poirot-Iknow Caroline wasn’t guilty.’

Poirot said briskly:

‘The Bon Dieu knows I do not want to shake you on that point. But let us be practical. You say your sister was not guilty. Very well, then,what really happened?’

Angela nodded thoughtfully. She said:

‘That is difficult, I agree. I suppose that, as Caroline said, Amyas committed suicide.’

‘Is that likely from what you know of his character?’

‘Very unlikely.’

‘But you do not say, as in the first case, that youknow it is impossible?’

‘No, because, as I said just now, most peopledo do impossible things-that is to say things that seem out of character. But I presume, if you know them intimately, it wouldn’t be out of character.’

‘You knew your brother-in-law well?’

‘Yes, but not like I knew Caro. It seems to me quite fantastic that Amyas should have killed himself-but I suppose hecould have done so. In fact, hemust have done so.’

‘You cannot see any other explanation?’

Angela accepted the suggestion calmly, but not without a certain stirring of interest.

‘Oh, I see what you mean…I’ve never really considered that possibility. You mean one of the other people killed him? That it was a deliberate cold-blooded murder…’

‘It might have been, might it not?’

‘Yes, it might have been…But it certainly seems very unlikely.’

‘More unlikely than suicide?’

‘That’s difficult to say…On the face of it, there was no reason for suspecting anybody else. There isn’t now when I look back…’

‘All the same, let us consider the possibility. Who of those intimately concerned would you say was-shall we say-the most likely person?’

‘Let me think. Well, I didn’t kill him. And the Elsa creature certainly didn’t. She was mad with rage when he died. Who else was there? Meredith Blake? He was always very devoted to Caroline, quite a tame cat about the house. I suppose thatmight give him a motive in a way. In a book he might have wanted to get Amyas out of the way so that he himself could marry Caroline. But he could have achieved that just as well by letting Amyas go off with Elsa and then in due time consoling Caroline. Besides I really can’tsee Meredith as a murderer. Too mild and too cautious. Who else was there?’

Poirot suggested: ‘Miss Williams? Philip Blake?’

Angela’s grave face relaxed into a smile for a minute.

‘Miss Williams? One can’t really make oneself believe that one’s governess could commit a murder! Miss Williams was always so unyielding and so full of rectitude.’

She paused a minute and then went on:

‘She was devoted to Caroline, of course. Would have done anything for her. And she hated Amyas. She was a great feminist and disliked men. Is that enough for murder? Surely not.’

‘It would hardly seem so,’ agreed Poirot.

Angela went on:

‘Philip Blake?’ She was silent for some few moments. Then she said quietly: ‘I think, you know, if we’re just talking oflikelihoods,he’s the most likely person.’

Poirot said:

‘You interest me very much, Miss Warren. May I ask why you say that?’

‘Nothing at all definite. But from what I remember of him, I should say he was a person of rather limited imagination.’

‘And a limited imagination predisposes you to murder?’

‘It might lead you to take a crude way of settling your difficulties. Men of that type get a certain satisfaction from action of some kind or other. Murder is a very crude business, don’t you think so?’

‘Yes-I think you are right…It is definitely a point of view, that. But all the same, Miss Warren, there must be more to it than that. What motive could Philip Blake possibly have had?’

Angela Warren did not answer at once. She stood frowning down at the floor.

Hercule Poirot said:

‘He was Amyas Crale’s best friend, was he not?’

She nodded.

‘But there is something in your mind, Miss Warren. Something that you have not yet told me. Were the two men rivals, perhaps, over the girl-over Elsa?’

Angela Warren shook her head.

‘Oh, no, not Philip.’

‘What is there then?’

Angela Warren said slowly:

‘Do you know the way that things suddenly come back to you-after years perhaps. I’ll explain what I mean. Somebody told me a story once, when I was eleven. I saw no point in that story whatsoever. It didn’t worry me-it just passed straight over my head. I don’t believe I ever, as they say, thought of it again. But about two years ago, sitting in the stalls at a revue, that story came back to me, and I was so surprised that I actually said aloud, “Oh,now I see the point of that silly story about the rice pudding.” And yet there had been no direct allusion on the same lines-only some fun sailing rather near the wind.’

Poirot said: ‘I understand what you mean, mademoiselle.’

‘Then you will understand what I am going to tell you. I was once staying at a hotel. As I walked along a passage, one of the bedroom doors opened and a woman I knew came out. It was not her bedroom-and she registered the fact plainly on her face when she saw me.

‘And I knew then the meaning of the expression I had once seen on Caroline’s face when at Alderbury she came out of Philip Blake’s room one night.’

She leant forward, stopping Poirot’s words.

‘I had no idea at thetime, you understand. Iknew things-girls of the age I was usually do-but I didn’t connect them with reality. Caroline coming out of Philip Blake’s bedroom was just Caroline coming out of Philip Blake’s bedroom to me. It might have been Miss William’s room or my room. But what Idid notice was the expression on her face-a queer expression that I didn’t know and couldn’t understand. I didn’t understand it until, as I have told you, the night in Paris when I saw that same expression on another woman’s face.’

Poirot said slowly:

‘But what you tell me, Miss Warren, is sufficiently astonishing. From Philip Blake himself I got the impression that he disliked your sister and always had done so.’

Angela said:

‘I know. I can’t explain it but there it is.’

Poirot nodded slowly. Already, in his interview with Philip Blake, he had felt vaguely that something did not ring true. That overdone animosity against Caroline-it had not, somehow, been natural.

And the words and phrases from his conversation with Meredith Blake came back to him. ‘Very upset when Amyas married-did not go near them for over a year…’

Had Philip, then, always been in love with Caroline? And had his love, when she chose Amyas, turned to bitterness and hate?

Yes, Philip had been too vehement-too biased. Poirot visualized him thoughtfully-the cheerful prosperous man with his golf and his comfortable house. What had Philip Blake really felt sixteen years ago.

Angela Warren was speaking.

‘I don’t understand it. You see, I’ve no experience in love affairs-they haven’t come my way. I’ve told you this for what it’s worth in case-in case it might have a bearing on what happened.’