“Young men sleep there, girls in the house,” Meredith explained. “I don’t suppose there’s anything you want to see here. All the rooms have been cut about. Used to be a little conservatory tacked on here. These people have built a loggia. Oh well—I suppose they enjoy their holidays. Can’t keep everything as it used to be—more’s the pity.”
He turned away abruptly.
“We’ll go down another way. It—it all comes back to me, you know. Ghosts. Ghosts everywhere.”
They returned to the quay by a somewhat longer and more r
ambling route. Neither of them spoke. Poirot respected his companion’s mood.
When they reached Handcross Manor once more, Meredith Blake said abruptly:
“I bought that picture, you know. The one that Amyas was painting. I just couldn’t stand the idea of its being sold for—well—publicity value—a lot of dirty-minded brutes gaping at it. It was a fine piece of work. Amyas said it was the best thing he’d ever done. I shouldn’t be surprised if he was right. It was practically finished. He only wanted to work on it another day or so. Would—would you care to see it?”
Hercule Poirot said quickly: “Yes, indeed.”
Blake led the way across the hall and took a key from his pocket. He unlocked a door and they went into a fair-sized, dusty smelling room. It was closely shuttered. Blake went across to the windows and opened the wooden shutters. Then, with a little difficulty, he flung up a window and a breath of fragrant spring air came wafting into the room.
Meredith said: “That’s better.”
He stood by the window inhaling the air and Poirot joined him. There was no need to ask what the room had been. The shelves were empty but there were marks upon them where bottles had stood. Against one wall was some derelict chemical apparatus and a sink. The room was thick in dust.
Meredith Blake was looking out of the window. He said:
“How easily it all comes back. Standing here, smelling the jasmine—and talking—talking—like the damned fool I was—about my precious potions and distillations!”
Absently, Poirot stretched a hand through the window. He pulled off a spray of jasmine leaves just breaking from their woody stem.
Meredith Blake moved resolutely across the floor. On the wall was a picture covered with a dust sheet. He jerked the dust sheet away.
Poirot caught his breath. He had seen so far, four pictures of Amyas Crale’s: two at the Tate, one at a London dealer’s, one, the still life of roses. But now he was looking at what the artist himself had called his best picture, and Poirot realized at once what a superb artist the man had been.
The painting had an old superficial smoothness. At first sight it might have been a poster, so seemingly crude were its contrasts. A girl, a girl in a canary-yellow shirt and dark-blue slacks, sitting on a grey wall in full sunlight against a background of violent blue sea. Just the kind of subject for a poster.
But the first appearance was deceptive; there was a subtle distortion—an amazing brilliance and clarity in the light. And the girl—
Yes, here was life. All there was, all there could be of life, of youth, of sheer blazing vitality. The face was alive and the eyes….
So much life! Such passionate youth! That, then, was what Amyas Crale had seen in Elsa Greer, which had made him blind and deaf to the gentle creature, his wife. Elsa was life. Elsa was youth.
A superb, slim, straight creature, arrogant, her head turned, her eyes insolent with triumph. Looking at you, watching you—waiting….
Hercule Poirot spread out his hands. He said:
“It is a great—yes, it is great—”
Meredith Blake said, a catch in his voice:
“She was so young—”
Poirot nodded. He thought to himself.
“What do most people mean when they say that? So young. Something innocent, something appealing, something helpless. But youth is not that! Youth is crude, youth is strong, youth is powerful—yes, and cruel! And one thing more—youth is vulnerable.”
He followed his host to the door. His interest was quickened now in Elsa Greer whom he was to visit next. What would the years have done to that passionate, triumphant crude child?
He looked back at the picture.
Those eyes. Watching him…watching him…Telling him something….