Caroline said to him: ‘Do as you please. I’ve warned you.’

Her voice was very quiet, but there was a queer note in it.

Amyas said: ‘What do you mean, Caroline?’

She said: ‘You’re mine andI don’t mean to let you go. Sooner than let you go to that girlI’ll kill you…’

Just at that minute, Philip Blake came along the terrace. I got up and went to meet him. I didn’t want him to overhear.

Presently Amyas came out and said it was time to get on with the picture. We went down together to the Battery. He didn’t say much. Just said that Caroline was cutting up rough-but for God’s sake not to talk about it. He wanted to concentrate on what he was doing. Another day, he said, would about finish the picture.

He said: ‘And it’ll be the best thing I’ve ever done, Elsa, even if it is paid for in blood and tears.’

A little later I went up to the house to get a pullover. There was a chilly wind blowing. When I came back again Caroline was there. I suppose she had come down to make one last appeal. Philip and Meredith Blake were there too.

It was then that Amyas said he was thirsty and wanted a drink. He said there was beer but it wasn’t iced.

Caroline said she’d send him down some iced beer. She said it quite naturally in an almost friendly tone. She was an actress, that woman. She must have known then what she meant to do.

She brought it down about ten minutes later. Amyas was painting. She poured it out and set the glass down beside him. Neither of us were watching her. Amyas was intent on what he was doing and I had to keep the pose.

Amyas drank it down the way he always drank beer, just pouring it down his throat in one draught. Then he made a face and said it tasted foul-but at any rate it was cold.

And even then, when he said that, no suspicion entered my head, I just laughed and said: ‘Liver.’

When she’d seen him drink it Caroline went away.

It must have been about forty minutes later that Amyas complained of stiffness and pains. He said he thought he must have got a touch of muscular rheumatism. Amyas was always intolerant of any ailment and he didn’t like being fussed over. After saying that he turned it off with a light: ‘Old age, I suppose. You’ve taken on a creaking old man, Elsa.’ I played up to him. But I noticed that his legs moved stiffly and queerly and that he grimaced once or twice. I never dreamt that it wasn’t rheumatism. Presently he drew the bench along and sat sprawled on that, occasionally stretching up to put a touch of paint here and there on the canvas. He used to do that sometimes when he was painting. Just sit staring at me and then the canvas. Sometimes he’d do it for half an hour at a time. So I didn’t think it specially queer.

We heard the bell go for lunch, and he said he wasn’t coming up. He’d stay where he was and he didn’t want anything. That wasn’t unusual either, and it would be easier for him than facing Caroline at the table.

He was talking in rather a queer way-grunting out his words. But he sometimes did that when he was dissatisfied with the progress of the picture.

Meredith Blake came in to fetch me. He spoke to Amyas, but Amyas only grunted at him.

We went up to the house together and left him there. We left him there-to die alone. I’d never seen much illness-I didn’t know much about it-I thought Amyas was just in a painter’s mood. If I’d known-if I’d realized-perhaps a doctor could have saved him…Oh God, why didn’t I-it’s no good thinking of that now. I was a blind fool. A blind, stupid fool.

There isn’t much more to tell.

Caroline and the governess went down there after lunch. Meredith followed them. Presently he came running up. He told us Amyas was dead.

Then I knew! Knew, I mean, that it was Caroline. I still didn’t think of poison. I thought she’d gone down that minute and either shot him or stabbed him.

I wanted to get at her-to kill her…

Howcould she do it? Howcould she? He was so alive, so full of life and vigour. To put all that out-to make him limp and cold. Just so that I shouldn’t have him.

Horrible woman…

Horrible, scornful, cruel, vindictive woman…

I hate her. I still hate her.

They didn’t even hang her.

They ought to have hanged her…

Even hanging was too good for her…

I hate her…I hate her…I hate her…

Dear M. Poirot,

I am sending you an account of those events in September, 19…actually witnessed by myself.

I have been absolutely frank and have kept nothing back. You may show it to Carla Crale. It may pain her, but I have always been a believer in truth. Palliatives are harmful. One must have the courage to face reality. Without that courage, life is meaningless. The people who do us most harm are the people who shield us from reality.

Believe me, yours sincerely,

Cecilia Williams

My name is Cecilia Williams. I was engaged by Mrs Crale as governess to her half-sister Angela Warren, in 19…I was then forty-eight.

I took up my duties at Alderbury, a very beautiful estate in south Devon which had belonged to Mr Crale’s family for many generations. I knew that Mr Crale was a well-known painter, but I did not meet him until I took up residence at Alderbury.

The household consisted of Mr and Mrs Crale, Angela Warren (then a girl of thirteen), and three servants, all of whom had been with the family many years.

I found my pupil an interesting and promising character. She had very marked abilities and it was a pleasure to teach her. She was somewhat wild and undisciplined, but these faults arose mainly through high spirits, and I have always preferred my girls to show spirit. An excess of vitality can be trained and guided into paths of real usefulness and achievement.

On the whole, I found Angela amenable to discipline. She had been somewhat spoiled-mainly by Mrs Crale, who was far too indulgent where she was concerned. Mr Crale’s influence was, I considered, unwise. He indulged her absurdly one day, and was unnecessarily peremptory on another occasion. He was very much a man of moods-possibly owing to what is styled the artistic temperament.

I have never seen, myself, why the possession of artistic ability should be supposed to excuse a man from a decent exercise of self-control. I did not myself admire Mr Crale’s paintings. The drawing seemed to me faulty and the colouring exaggerated, but naturally I was not called upon to express any opinion on these matters.

I soon formed a deep attachment to Mrs Crale. I admired her character and her fortitude in the difficulties of her life. Mr Crale was not a faithful husband, and I think that that fact was the source of much pain to her. A stronger-minded woman would have left him, but Mrs Crale never seemed to contemplate such a course. She endured his infidelities and forgave him for them-but I may say that she did not take them meekly. She remonstrated-and with spirit!

It was said at the trial that they led a cat and dog life. I would not go as far as that-Mrs Crale had too much dignity for that term to apply, but theydid have quarrels. And I consider that that was only natural under the circumstances.

I had been with Mrs Crale just over two years when Miss Elsa Greer appeared upon the scene. She arrived down at Alderbury in the summer of 19…Mrs Crale had not met her previously. She was Mr Crale’s friend, and she was said to be there for the purpose of having her portrait painted.

It was apparent at once that Mr Crale was infatuated with this girl and that the girl herself was doing nothing to discourage him. She behaved, in my opinion, quite outrageously, being abominably rude to Mrs Crale, and openly flirting with Mr Crale.

Naturally Mrs Crale said nothing to me, but I could see that she was disturbed and unhappy, and I did everything in my power to distract her mind and lighten her burden. Miss Greer sat every day to Mr Crale, but I noticed that the picture was not getting on very fast. They had, no doubt, other things to talk about!

My pupil, I am thankful to say, noticed very little of what was going on. Angela was in some ways young for her age. Though her intellect was well developed, she was not at all what I may term precocious. She seemed to have no wish to read undesirable books, and showed no signs of morbid curiosity such as girls often do at her age.

She, therefore, saw nothing undesirable in the friendship between Mr Crale and Miss Greer. Nevertheless she disliked Miss Greer and thought her stupid. Here she was quite right. Miss Greer had had, I presume, a proper education, but she never opened a book and was quite unfamiliar with current literary allusions. Moreover she could not sustain a discussion on any intellectual subject.

She was entirely taken up with her personal appearance, her clothes, and men.

Angela, I think, did not even realize that her sister was unhappy. She was not at that time a very perceptive person. She spent a lot of time in hoydenish pastimes, such as tree climbing and wild feats of bicycling. She was also a passionate reader and showed excellent taste in what she liked and disliked.

Mrs Crale was always careful to conceal any signs of unhappiness from Angela, and exerted herself to appear bright and cheerful when the girl was about.

Miss Greer went back to London-at which, I can tell you, we were all very pleased! The servants disliked her as much as I did. She was the kind of person who gives a lot of unnecessary trouble and forgets to say thank you.

Mr Crale went away shortly afterwards, and of course I knew that he had gone after the girl. I was very sorry for Mrs Crale. She felt these things very keenly. I felt extremely bitter towards Mr Crale. When a man has a charming, gracious, intelligent wife, he’s no business to treat her badly.

However, she and I both hoped the affair would soon be over. Not that we mentioned the subject to each other-we did not-but she knew quite well how I felt about it.

Unfortunately, after some weeks, the pair of them reappeared. It seemed the sittings were to be resumed.

Mr Crale was now painting with absolute frenzy. He seemed less preoccupied with the girl than with his picture of her. Nevertheless I realized that this was not the usual kind of thing we had gone through before. This girl had got her claws into him and she meant business. He was just like wax in her hands.