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It was her aliveness, more than her beauty, which struck the predominant note.
Truth was a—a natural impulse to her. I wasn’t, I don’t think, especially fond of her—but I trusted her.
Old Mayhew could have told you more than I can. But there—he’s joined the great majority.
He was a ruthless, selfish, good-tempered happy egoist.
There was the old duffer who messed about with his herb brewing. A dangerous hobby—but an amiable creature. Vague sort of person.
“You forget the governess.” “Yes, that’s true. Wretched people, governesses, one never does remember them. I do recall her dimly though.
I don’t know if she was really beautiful…She wasn’t very young—tired looking—circles under her eyes. But it all centered round her. The interest—the drama. And yet, half the time, she wasn’t there. She’d gone away somewhere, quite far away—just left her body there, quiescent, attentive, with the little polite smile on her lips. She was all half tones, you know, lights and shades. And yet, with it all, she was more alive than the other—that girl with the perfect body, and the beautiful face, and the crude young strength.
I admired Caroline Crale because she didn’t fight, because she retreated into her world of half lights and shadows. She was never defeated because she never gave battle.”
She enjoyed poor health and looked very picturesque on her sofa.
“Maybe it is because I am an old man, but I find, Mr. Poirot, that there is something about the defencelessness of youth that moves me to tears. Youth is so vulnerable. It is so ruthless—so sure. So generous and so demanding.”
No reticence, no holding back, no so-called maiden modesty. It is the courage, the insistence, the ruthless force of youth.
They have no doubts, the young, no fear, no pride.”
“But she was young and beautiful and to my mind infinitely pathetic.”
“I may be, mon cher, an artistic and competent liar—you seem to think so. But it is not my idea of ethical conduct. I have my standards.”
Why can’t a painter paint something nice and cheerful to look at? Why go out of your way to look for ugliness?” “Some of us, mon cher, see beauty in curious places.”
Angela Warren spent most of the morning wandering about the garden, climbing trees and eating things—you know what a girl of fifteen is!
Nearing forty, then, at the time of Crale’s death. Less stultified, then, less sunk in the gratifications of the minute. Asking more of life, perhaps, and receiving less….
“The why of most crimes is obvious enough, I should say. Usually money.” Poirot cried: “Ah, but my dear sir, the why must never be obvious. That is the whole point!”
Amyas wasn’t the sort of man who’d believe easily in his own danger. He’d have scoffed at the notion.
It came to him with fresh amazement that a man could so imbue a conventional subject with his own particular magic.
‘Never get married, old boy. Wait for hell till after this life.’”
Hercule Poirot prided himself on knowing how to handle an “old school tie.” It was no moment for trying to seem English. No, one must be a foreigner—frankly a foreigner—and be magnanimously forgiven for the fact. “Of course, these foreigners don’t quite know the ropes. Will shake hands at breakfast. Still, a decent fellow really….”
But what will you? There is a demand for such things. And anyone is at liberty to reconstruct a proved crime and to comment on it.”
Some people say he’s a genius. They may be right. But as a result, he was always what I should describe as unbalanced.
“A lot of additional pain and grief is caused by honesty,” remarked Hercule Poirot.
The old English herbalists, you know, are a very interesting study. There are so many plants that were formerly used in medicine and which have now disappeared from the official Pharmacopœia. And it’s astonishing, really, how a simple decoction of something or other will really work wonders. No need for doctors half the time. The French understand these things—some of their tisanes are first rate.”
Oh yes, I must confess, I got a lot of pleasure out of my brews. Gathering the plants at the right time, drying them—macerating them—all the rest of it. I’ve even dropped to superstition sometimes and gathered my roots at the full of the moon or whatever it was the ancients advised.
In spite of a hot temper, Amyas was an easy man in most respects, but when he really got his back up, everyone had to give in.
His tone was a shade bitter. “I certainly did no good by my interference. But then, I am not a very convincing person. I never have been.”
Meredith Blake was not the man to persuade anyone into or out of any course. His well-meaning attempts would always be set aside—indulgently usually, without anger, but definitely set aside. They would not carry weight. He was essentially an ineffective man.
“Nobody here in April—except for Easter. Doesn’t matter if we do. I’m on good terms with my neighbours. Sun’s glorious today. Might be summer. It was a wonderful day then. More like July than September. Brilliant sun—but a chilly little wind.”
“Trees grow faster than one thinks,” he muttered. “Oh well, suppose I’m getting old.
“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.”
“My wife is equal to any amount of shocks. I wonder if you know her reason for seeing you?” Poirot replied placidly: “Curiosity?” A kind of respect showed in the other man’s eyes. “Ah, you realize that?” Poirot said: “It is inevitable. Women will always see a private detective! Men will tell him to go to the devil.” “Some women might tell him to go to the devil too.” “After they have seen him—not before.”
Public opinion was very hostile to her.” “The English,” said Poirot, “are a very moral people.” Lord Dittisham said: “Confound them, they are!” He added—looking at Poirot: “And you?” “Me,” said Poirot. “I lead a very moral life. That is not quite the same thing as having moral ideas.”
Money, money everywhere. Of taste, not so much. There had been a sombre austerity in Lord Dittisham’s room. But here, in the house, there was only a solid lavishness. The best. Not necessarily the showiest, or the most startling. Merely “expense no object,” allied to a lack of imagination.
Was it not an essential part of Juliet’s makeup that she should die young? Elsa Greer had been left alive…. She was greeting him in a level rather monotonous voice. “I am so interested, Mr. Poirot. Sit down and tell me what you want me to do?” He thought: “But she isn’t interested. Nothing interests her.” Big grey eyes—like dead lakes.
She considered a minute, and it struck Poirot suddenly that Lady Dittisham was a very frank woman. She might lie from necessity but never from choice.
“It won’t pain me at all. Things can only pain you when they are happening.” “It is so with some people, I know.”
She smiled suddenly at Poirot. Her smile was, he felt, a little frightening. It was so far removed from any real feeling.
“I think I’ve always had a single-track mind.” She mused sombrely. “I suppose—really—one ought to put a knife into oneself—like Juliet. But—but to do that is to acknowledge that you’re done for—that life’s beaten you.” “And instead?” “There ought to be everything—just the same—once one has got over it. I did get over it. It didn’t mean anything to me any more. I thought I’d go on to the next thing.” Yes, the next thing. Poirot saw her plainly trying so hard to fulfil that crude determination.
There’s a Spanish proverb I’ve always liked. Take what you want and pay for it, says God.
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.
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.
The best thing for a child, I am convinced, is to have what I should term healthy neglect on the part of both its parents. This happens naturally enough in the case of a large family of children and very little money. They are overlooked because the mother has literally no time to occupy herself with them. They realize quite well that she is fond of them, but they are not worried by too many manifestations of the fact.
From her spinster’s, governess’s life, there rose up a blast of fierce feminism. Nobody hearing her speak could doubt that to Miss Williams Men were the Enemy! Poirot said: “You hold no brief for men?” She answered drily: “Men have the best of this world. I hope that it will not always be so.”
“She was a most interesting girl—one of the most interesting pupils I have had. A really good brain. Undisciplined, quick-tempered, most difficult to manage in many ways, but really a very fine character.”
Mr. Crale used suddenly to resent Mrs. Crale’s preoccupation with Angela. Like all men, he was a spoilt child; he expected everybody to make a fuss of him.
“Fell in love with him indeed. I should hope, Mr. Poirot, that whatever our feelings, we can keep them in decent control. And we can certainly control our actions.
It is always better to face the truth. It is no use evading unhappiness by tampering with facts.
