“None of us had any doubts….”
There was a silence. Then Blake said with the irritable plaintiveness of a weak man:
“It was all over—forgotten—and now you come—raking it all up….”
“Not I. Caroline Crale.”
Meredith stared at him: “Caroline? What do you mean?”
Poirot said, watching him:
“Caroline Crale the second.”
Meredith?
??s face relaxed.
“Ah yes, the child. Little Carla. I—I misunderstood you for a moment.”
“You thought I meant the original Caroline Crale? You thought that it was she who would not—how shall I say it—rest easy in her grave?”
Meredith Blake shivered.
“Don’t, man.”
“You know that she wrote to her daughter—the last words she ever wrote—that she was innocent?”
Meredith stared at him. He said—and his voice sounded utterly incredulous:
“Caroline wrote that?”
“Yes.”
Poirot paused and said:
“It surprises you?”
“It would surprise you if you’d seen her in court. Poor, hunted, defenceless creature. Not even struggling.”
“A defeatist?”
“No, no. She wasn’t that. It was, I think, the knowledge that she’d killed the man she loved—or I thought it was that.”
“You are not so sure now?”
“To write a thing like that—solemnly—when she was dying.”
Poirot suggested:
“A pious lie, perhaps.”
“Perhaps.” But Meredith was dubious. “That’s not—that’s not like Caroline….”
Hercule Poirot nodded. Carla Lemarchant had said that. Carla had only a child’s obstinate memory. But Meredith Blake had known Caroline well. It was the first confirmation Poirot had got that Carla’s belief was to be depended upon.
Meredith Blake looked up at him. He said slowly:
“If—if Caroline was innocent—why, the whole thing’s madness! I don’t see—any other possible solution….”