“I am—what do you say—vetting this publication on behalf of an interested party.”
“What party?”
“Miss Carla Lemarchant.”
“Who is she?”
“She is the daughter of Amyas and Caroline Crale.”
Elsa stared for a minute. Then she said:
“Oh, of course, there was a child. I remember. I suppose she’s grown up now?”
“Yes, she is twenty-one.”
“What is she like?”
“She is tall and dark and, I think, beautiful. And she has courage and personality.”
Elsa said thoughtfully:
“I should like to see her.”
“She might not care to see you.”
Elsa looked surprised.
“Why? Oh, I see. But what nonsense! She can’t possibly remember anything about it. She can’t have been more than six.”
“She knows that her mother was tried for her father’s murder.”
“And she thinks it’s my fault?”
“It is a possible interpretation.”
Elsa shrugged her shoulders. She said:
“How stupid! If Caroline had behaved like a reasonable human being—”
“So you take no responsibility?”
“Why should I? I’ve nothing to be ashamed of. I loved him. I would have made him happy.” She looked across at Poirot. Her face broke up—suddenly, incredibly, he saw the girl of the picture. She said: “If I could make you see. If you could see it from my side. If you knew—”
Poirot leaned forward.
“But that is what I want. See, Mr. Philip Blake who was there at the time, he is writing me a meticulous account of everything that happened. Mr. Meredith Blake the same. Now if you—”
Elsa Dittisham took a deep breath. She said contemptuously:
“Those two! Philip was always stupid. Meredith used to trot round after Caroline—but he was quite a dear. But you won’t have any real idea from their accounts.”
He watched her, saw the animation rising in her eyes, saw a living woman take shape from a dead one. She said quickly and almost fiercely:
“Would you like the truth? Oh, not for publication. But just for yourself—”
“I will undertake not to publish without your consent.”
“I’d like to write down the truth…” She was silent a minute or two, thinking. He saw the smooth hardness of her cheeks falter and take on a younger curve, he saw life ebbing into her as the past claimed her again.