He said: “And it’ll be the best thing I’ve ever done, Elsa, even if it is paid for in blood and tears.”
A little later I went up to the house to get a pullover. There was a chilly wind blowing. When I came back again Caroline was there. I suppose she had come dow
n to make one last appeal. Philip and Meredith Blake were there too.
It was then that Amyas said he was thirsty and wanted a drink. He said there was beer but it wasn’t iced.
Caroline said she’d send him down some iced beer. She said it quite naturally in an almost friendly tone. She was an actress, that woman. She must have known then what she meant to do.
She brought it down about ten minutes later. Amyas was painting. She poured it out and set the glass down beside him. Neither of us were watching her. Amyas was intent on what he was doing and I had to keep the pose.
Amyas drank it down the way he always drank beer, just pouring it down his throat in one draught. Then he made a face and said it tasted foul—but at any rate it was cold.
And even then, when he said that, no suspicion entered my head, I just laughed and said: “Liver.”
When she’d seen him drink it Caroline went away.
It must have been about forty minutes later that Amyas complained of stiffness and pains. He said he thought he must have got a touch of muscular rheumatism. Amyas was always intolerant of any ailment and he didn’t like being fussed over. After saying that he turned it off with a light: “Old age, I suppose. You’ve taken on a creaking old man, Elsa.” I played up to him. But I noticed that his legs moved stiffly and queerly and that he grimaced once or twice. I never dreamt that it wasn’t rheumatism. Presently he drew the bench along and sat sprawled on that, occasionally stretching up to put a touch of paint here and there on the canvas. He used to do that sometimes when he was painting. Just sit staring at me and then the canvas. Sometimes he’d do it for half an hour at a time. So I didn’t think it specially queer.
We heard the bell go for lunch, and he said he wasn’t coming up. He’d stay where he was and he didn’t want anything. That wasn’t unusual either, and it would be easier for him than facing Caroline at the table.
He was talking in rather a queer way—grunting out his words. But he sometimes did that when he was dissatisfied with the progress of the picture.
Meredith Blake came in to fetch me. He spoke to Amyas, but Amyas only grunted at him.
We went up to the house together and left him there. We left him there—to die alone. I’d never seen much illness—I didn’t know much about it—I thought Amyas was just in a painter’s mood. If I’d known—if I’d realized—perhaps a doctor could have saved him…Oh God, why didn’t I—it’s no good thinking of that now. I was a blind fool. A blind, stupid fool.
There isn’t much more to tell.
Caroline and the governess went down there after lunch. Meredith followed them. Presently he came running up. He told us Amyas was dead.
Then I knew! Knew, I mean, that it was Caroline. I still didn’t think of poison. I thought she’d gone down that minute and either shot him or stabbed him.
I wanted to get at her—to kill her….
How could she do it? How could she? He was so alive, so full of life and vigour. To put all that out—to make him limp and cold. Just so that I shouldn’t have him.
Horrible woman….
Horrible, scornful, cruel, vindictive woman….
I hate her. I still hate her.
They didn’t even hang her.
They ought to have hanged her….
Even hanging was too good for her….
I hate her…I hate her…I hate her….
End of Lady Dittisham’s Narrative.
Narrative of Cecilia Williams
Dear Mr. Poirot,
I am sending you an account of those events in September, 19…actually witnessed by myself.