child.
“I admired her in a way. She had guts. Depleach put in some nasty stuff in cross-examination and she stood up well to it. But the court was unsympathetic. And the judge didn’t like her. Old Avis, it was. Been a bit of a rip himself when young—but he’s very hot on morality when he’s presiding in his robes. His summing up against Caroline Crale was mildness itself. He couldn’t deny the facts but he threw out pretty strong hints as to provocation and all that.”
Hercule Poirot asked:
“He did not support the suicide theory of the defence?”
Fogg shook his head.
“That never really had a leg to stand upon. Mind you, I don’t say Depleach didn’t do his best with it. He was magnificent. He painted a most moving picture of a great-hearted, pleasure-loving, temperamental man, suddenly overtaken by a passion for a lovely young girl, conscience stricken, yet unable to resist. Then his recoil, his disgust with himself, his remorse for the way he was treating his wife and child and his sudden decision to end it all! The honourable way out. I can tell you, it was a most moving performance; Depleach’s voice brought tears to your eyes. You saw the poor wretch torn by his passions and his essential decency. The effect was terrific. Only—when it was all over—and the spell was broken, you couldn’t quite square that mythical figure with Amyas Crale. Everybody knew too much about Crale. He wasn’t at all that kind of man. And Depleach hadn’t been able to get hold of any evidence to show that he was. I should say Crale came as near as possible to being a man without even a rudimentary conscience. He was a ruthless, selfish, good-tempered happy egoist. Any ethics he had would have applied to painting. He wouldn’t, I’m convinced, have painted a sloppy, bad picture—no matter what the inducement. But for the rest, he was a full-blooded man and he loved life—he had a zest for it. Suicide? Not he!”
“Not, perhaps, a very good defence to have chosen?”
Fogg shrugged his thin shoulders. He said:
“What else was there? Couldn’t sit back and plead that there was no case for the jury—that the prosecution had got to prove their case against the accused. There was a great deal too much proof. She’d handled the poison—admitted pinching it, in fact. There was means, motive, opportunity—everything.”
“One might have attempted to show that these things were artificially arranged?”
Fog said bluntly:
“She admitted most of them. And, in any case, it’s too farfetched. You’re implying, I presume, that somebody else murdered him and fixed it up to look as though she had done it.”
“You think that quite untenable?”
Fogg said slowly:
“I’m afraid I do. You’re suggesting the mysterious X. Where do we look for him?”
Poirot said:
“Obviously in a close circle. There were five people, were there not, who could have been concerned?”
“Five? Let me see. There was the old duffer who messed about with his herb brewing. A dangerous hobby—but an amiable creature. Vague sort of person. Don’t see him as X. There was the girl—she might have polished off Caroline, but certainly not Amyas. Then there was the stockbroker—Crale’s best friend. That’s popular in detective stories, but I don’t believe in it in real life. There’s no one else—oh yes, the kid sister, but one doesn’t seriously consider her. That’s four.”
Hercule Poirot said:
“You forget the governess.”
“Yes, that’s true. Wretched people, governesses, one never does remember them. I do recall her dimly though. Middle-aged, plain, competent. I suppose a psychologist would say that she had a guilty passion for Crale and therefore killed him. The repressed spinster! It’s no good—I just don’t believe it. As far as my dim remembrance goes she wasn’t the neurotic type.”
“It is a long time ago.”
“Fifteen or sixteen years, I suppose. Yes, quite that. You can’t expect my memories of the case to be very acute.”
Hercule Poirot said:
“But on the contrary, you remember it amazingly well. That astounds me. You can see it, can you not? When you talk the picture is there before your eyes.”
Fogg said slowly:
“Yes, you’re right—I do see it—quite plainly.”
Poirot said:
“It would interest me, my friend, very much, if you would tell me why?”
“Why?” Fogg considered the question. His thin intellectual face was alert—interested. “Yes, now why?”