“To go back—to write it all down…To show you what she was—”
Her eyes flashed. Her breast heaved passionately.
“She killed him. She killed Amyas. Amyas who wanted to live—who enjoyed living. Hate oughtn’t to be stronger than love—but her hate was. And my hate for her is—I hate her—I hate her—I hate her….”
She came across to him. She stooped, her hand clutched at his sleeve. She said urgently:
“You must understand—you must—how we felt about each other. Amyas and I, I mean. There’s something—I’ll show you.”
She whirled across the room. She was unlocking a little desk, pulling out a drawer concealed inside a pigeon hole.
Then she was back. In her hand was a creased letter, the ink faded. She thrust it on him and Poirot had a sudden poignant memory of a child he had known who had thrust on him one of her treasures—a special shell picked up on the seashore and zealously guarded. Just so had that child stood back and watched him. Proud, afraid, keenly critical of his reception of her treasure.
He unfolded the faded sheets.
Elsa—you wonderful child! There never was anything as beautiful. And yet I’m afraid—I’m too old—a middle-aged, ugly tempered devil with no stability in me. Don’t trust me, don’t believe in me—I’m no good—apart from my work. The best of me is in that. There, don’t say you haven’t been warned.
Hell, my lovely—I’m going to have you all the same. I’d go to the devil for you and you know it. And I’ll paint a picture of you that will make the fat-headed world hold its sides and gasp! I’m crazy about you—I can’t sleep—I can’t eat. Elsa—Elsa—Elsa—I’m yours for ever—yours till death. Amyas.
Sixteen years ago. Faded ink, crumbling paper. But the words still alive—still vibrating….
He looked across at the woman to whom they had been written.
But it was no longer a woman at whom he looked.
It was a young girl in love.
He thought again of Juliet….
Nine
THIS LITTLE PIG HAD NONE
“May I ask why, Mr. Poirot?”
Hercule Poirot considered his answer to the question. He was aware of a pair of very shrewd grey eyes watching him out of the small wizened face.
He had climbed to the top floor of the bare building and knocked on the door of No. 584 Gillespie Buildings, which had come into existence to provide what were called “flatlets” for working women.
Here, in a small cubic space, existed Miss Cecilia Williams, in a room that was bedroom, sitting room, dining room, and, by judicious use of the gas ring, kitchen—a kind of cubby hole attached to it contined a quarter-length bath and the usual offices.
Meagre though these surroundings might be, Miss Williams had contrived to impress upon them her stamp of personality.
The walls were distempered an ascetic pale grey, and various reproductions hung upon them. Dante meeting Beatrice on a bridge—and that picture once described by a child as a “blind girl sitting on an orange and called, I don’t know why, ‘Hope.’” There were also two water colours of Venice and a sepia copy of Botticelli’s “Primavera.” On the top of the low chest of drawers were a large quantity of faded photographs, mostly, by their style of hairdressing, dating from twenty to thirty years ago.
The square of carpet was threadbare, the furniture battered and of poor quality. It was clear to Hercule Poirot that Cecilia Williams lived very near the bone. There was no roast beef here. This was the little pig that had none.
Clear, incisive and insistent, the voice of Miss Williams repeated its demand.
“You want my recollections of the Crale case? May I ask why?”
It had been said of Hercule Poirot by some of his friends and associates, at moments when he has maddened them most, that he prefers lies to truth and will go out of his way to gain his ends by means of elaborate false statements, rather than trust to the simple truth.
But in this case his decision was quickly made. Hercule Poirot did not come of that class of Belgian or French children who have had an English governess, bu
t he reacted as simply and inevitably as various small boys who had been asked in their time: “Did you brush your teeth this morning, Harold (or Richard or Anthony)?” They considered fleetingly the possibility of a lie and instantly rejected it, replying miserably, “No, Miss Williams.”
For Miss Williams had what every successful child educator must have, that mysterious quality—authority! When Miss Williams said “Go up and wash your hands, Joan,” or “I expect you to read this chapter on the Elizabethan poets and be able to answer my questions on it,” she was invariably obeyed. It had never entered Miss Williams’ head that she would not be obeyed.