Slowly, almost reluctantly, Hercule Poirot bowed his head.
Carla went on.
“That’s why it’s all right for me marrying John. I know it’s all right. But he doesn’t. He feels that naturally I would think my mother was innocent. It’s got to be cleared up, Mr. Poirot. And you’re going to do it!”
Hercule Poirot said slowly:
“Granted that what you say is true, mademoiselle, sixteen years have gone by!”
Carla Lemarchant said: “Oh! of course it’s going to be difficult! Nobody but you could do it!”
Hercule Poirot’s eyes twinkled slightly. He said:
“You give me the best butter—hein?”
Carla said:
“I’ve heard about you. The things you’ve done. The way you have done them. It’s psychology that interests you, isn’t it? Well, that doesn’t change with time. The tangible things are gone—the cigarette end and the footprints and the bent blades of grass. You can’t look for those any more. But you can go over all the facts of the case, and perhaps talk to the people who were there at the time—they’re all alive still—and then—and then, as you said just now, you can lie back in your chair and think. And you’ll know what really happened….”
Hercule Poirot rose to his feet. One hand caressed his moustache. He said:
“Mademoiselle, I am honoured! I will justify your faith in me. I will investigate your case of murder. I will search back into the events of sixteen years ago and I will find out the truth.”
Carla got up. Her eyes were shining. But she only said:
“Good.”
Hercule Poirot shook an eloquent forefinger.
“One little moment. I have said I will find out the truth. I do not, you understand, have the bias. I do not accept your assurance of your mother’s innocence. If she was guilty—eh bien, what then?”
Carla’s proud head went back. She said:
“I’m her daughter. I want the truth!”
Hercule Poirot said:
“En avant, then. Though it is not that, that I should say. On the contrary. En arrière….”
BOOK ONE
One
COUNSEL FOR THE DEFENCE
“Do I remember the Crale case?” asked Sir Montague Depleach. “Certainly I do. Remember it very well. Most attractive woman. But unbalanced, of course. No self-control.”
He glanced sideways at Poirot.
“What makes you ask me about it?”
“I am interested.”
“Not really tactful of you, my dear man,” said Depleach, showing his teeth in his sudden famous “wolf’s smile,” which had been reputed to have such a terrifying effect upon witnesses. “Not one of my successes, you know. I didn’t get her off.”
“I know that.”
Sir Montague shrugged his shoulders. He said: