After ten days he told me I was to go back to London.
I said, "The picture isn't finished."
He said: "It's barely begun. The truth of the matter is that I can't paint you, Elsa."
I said, "Why?"
He said, "You know well enough why, Elsa. And that's why you we got to clear out. I can't think about the painting - I can't think about anything but you."
I knew it would be no good my going back to London, but I said, "Very well, I'll go if you say so."
Amyas said, "Good girl."
So I went. I didn't write to him.
He held out for ten days and then he came. He was so thin and haggard and miserable that it shocked me.
He said, "I warned you, Elsa. Don't say I didn't warn you."
I said, "I've been waiting for you. I knew you'd come."
He gave a sort of groan and said, "There are things that are too strong for any man. I can't eat or sleep or rest for wanting you."
I said I knew that, and that it was the same with me and had been from the first moment I'd seen him.
We were made for each other and we'd found each other - and we both knew we had to be together always.
But something else happened, too. The unfinished picture began to haunt Amyas. He said to me, "Damned funny, I couldn't paint you before - you yourself got in the way of it. But I want to paint you, Elsa. I want to paint you so that that picture will be the finest thing I've ever done. I'm itching and aching now to get at my brushes and to see you sitting there on that hoary old chestnut of a battlement wall with the conventional blue sea and the decorous English trees - and you - you - sitting there like a discordant shriek of triumph."
He said, "And I've got to paint you that way! And I can t be fussed and bothered while I'm doing it. When the picture's finished I'll tell Caroline the truth and we'll get the whole messy business cleaned up."
I said, "Will Caroline make a fuss about divorcing you?"
He said he didn't think so. But you never knew with women.
I said I was sorry if she was going to be upset; but, after all, I said, these things did happen.
He said, "Very nice and reasonable, Elsa. But Caroline isn't reasonable, never has been reasonable, and certainly isn't going to feel reasonable. She loves me, you know."
I said I understood that, but if she loved him she'd put his happiness first, and, at any rate, she wouldn't want to keep him if he wanted to be free.
He said, "Life can't really be solved by admirable maxims out of modern literature. Nature's red in tooth and claw, remember."
I said, "Surely we are all civilized people nowadays!" and Amyas laughed. He said, "Civilized people my foot! Caroline would probably like to take a hatchet to you. She might do it, too."
I said, "Then don't tell her."
He said, "No. The break's got to come. You've got to belong to me properly, Elsa. Before all the world. Openly mine."
I said, "Suppose she won't divorce you?"
He said, "I'm not afraid of that."
I said, "What are you afraid of then?"
And he said slowly, "I don't know..."
You see, he knew Caroline. While I didn't.
If I'd had any idea...
We went down again to Alderbury. Things were difficult this time. Caroline had got suspicious. I didn't like it; I didn't like it a bit. I've always hated deceit and concealment. I thought we ought to tell her. Amyas wouldn't hear of it.
The funny part of it was that he didn't really care at all. In spite of being fond of Caroline and not wanting to hurt her, he just didn't care about the honesty or dishonesty of it all. He was painting with a kind of frenzy, and nothing else mattered. I hadn't seen him in one of his working spells before. I realized now what a really great genius he was. It was natural for him to be so carried away that all the ordinary decencies didn't matter. But it was different for me. I was in a horrible position. Caroline resented me - and quite rightly. The only thing to put the position quite straight was to be honest and tell her the truth.
But all Amyas would say was that he wasn't going to be bothered with scenes and fusses until he'd finished the picture. I said there probably wouldn't be a scene. Caroline would have too much dignity and pride for that.
I said, "I want to be honest about it all. We've got to be honest!"
Amyas said, "To hell with honesty. I'm painting a picture!"
I did see his point of view, but he wouldn't see mine.
And in the end I broke down. Caroline had been talking of some plan she and Amyas were going to carry out next autumn. She talked about it quite confidently. And I suddenly felt it was too abominable what we were doing - letting her go on like this - and perhaps, too, I was angry, because she was really being very unpleasant to me in a clever sort of way that one couldn't take hold of.
And so I came out with the truth. In a way, I still think I was right. Though, of course, I wouldn't have done it if I'd had the faintest idea what was to come of it.
The clash came right away. Amyas was furious with me for telling Caroline, but he had to admit that what I had said was true.
I didn't understand Caroline at all. We all went over to Meredith Blake's to tea, and Caroline played up marvelously - talking and laughing. Like a fool, I thought she was taking it well. It was awkward, my not being able to leave the house, but Amyas would have gone up in smoke if I had. I thought perhaps Caroline would go. It would have made it much easier for us if she had.
I didn't see her take the coniine. I want to be honest, so I think that it's just possible that she may have taken it as she said she did - with the idea of suicide in her mind.
But I don't really think so. I think she was one of those intensely jealous and possessive women who won't let go of anything that they think belongs to them Amyas was her property. I think she was quite prepared to kill him rather than to let him go, completely and finally, to another woman. I think she right away made up her mind to kill him. And I think that Meredith's happening to discuss coniine so freely just gave her the means to do what she'd already made up her mind to do. She was a very bitter and revengeful woman - vindictive. Amyas knew all along that she was dangerous. I didn't.
The next morning she had a final showdown with Amyas. I heard most of it from outside on the terrace. He was splendid - very patient and calm. He implored her to be reasonable. He said he was very fond of her and the child, and always would be. He'd do everything he could to assure their future. Then he hardened up and said, "But understand this: I'm damned well going to marry Elsa, and nothing shall stop me. You and I always agreed to leave each other free. These things happen."
Caroline said to him, "Do as you please. I've warned you."
Her voice was very quiet, but there was a queer note in it.
Amyas said, "What do you mean, Caroline?"
She said, "You're mine and I don't mean to let you go. Sooner than let you go to that girl I'll kill you..."
Just at that minute Philip Blake came along the terrace. I got up and went to meet him. I didn't want him to overhear.
Presently Amyas came out and said it was time to get on with the picture. We went down together to the Battery. He didn't say much. Just said that Caroline was cutting up rough - but not to talk about it. He wanted to concentrate on what he was doing. Another day, he said, would about finish the picture.
He said, "And it'll be the best thing I've done, Elsa, even if it is paid for in blood and tears."
A little later I went up to the house to get a pull-over. There was a chilly wind blowing. When I came back again, Caroline was there. I suppose she had come down to make one last appeal to Amyas. 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 was 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 dreamed that it wasn't rheumatism. Presently he drew the bench along and sat sprawled on that, occasionally stretching up to put a much 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 at 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, 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 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 vigor. 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 M. Poirot:
I am sending you an account of those events in September, 19--, actually witnessed by myself.
I have been absolutely frank and have kept nothing back. You may show it to Carla Crale. It may pain her, but I have always been a believer in truth. Palliatives are harmful. One must have the courage to face reality. Without that courage, life is meaningless. The people who do us most harm are the people who shield us from reality.
Believe me, yours sincerely,
Cecilia Williams.
My name is Cecilia Williams. I was engaged by Mrs Crale as governess to her half sister, Angela Warren, in 19--. I was then forty-eight.
I took up my duties at Alderbury, a very beautiful estate in South Devon which had belonged to Mr Crale's family for many generations. I knew that Mr Crale was a well-known painter but I did not meet him until I took up residence at Alderbury.
The household consisted of Mr and Mrs Crale, Angela Warren (then a girl of thirteen), and three servants, who had been with the family many years.
I found my pupil an interesting and promising character. She had very marked abilities and it was a pleasure to teach her. She was somewhat wild and undisciplined, but these faults arose mainly through high spirits, and I have always preferred my girls to show spirit. An excess of vitality can be trained and guided into paths of real usefulness and achievement.
On the whole, I found Angela amenable to discipline. She had been somewhat spoiled - mainly by Mrs Crale, who was far too indulgent where she was concerned. Mr Crale's influence was, I considered, unwise. He indulged her absurdly one day and was unnecessarily peremptory on another occasion. He was very much a man of moods, possibly owing to what is styled the artistic temperament.
I have never seen, myself, why the possession of artistic ability should be supposed to excuse a man from a decent exercise of self-control. I did not myself admire Mr Crale's paintings. The drawing seemed to me faulty and the coloring exaggerated, but, naturally, I was not called upon to express any opinion on these matters.
I soon formed a deep attachment to Mrs Crale. I admired her character and her fortitude in the difficulties of her life. Mr Crale was not a faithful husband, and I think that that fact was the source of much pain to her. A stronger-minded woman would have left him, but Mrs Crale never seemed to contemplate such a course. She endured his infidelities and forgave him for them, but I may say that she did not take them meekly. She remonstrated - and with spirit!
It was said at the trial that they led a cat-and-dog life. I would not go as far as that - Mrs Crale had too much dignity for that term to apply - but they did have quarrels. And I consider that that was only natural under the circumstances.
I had been with Mrs Crale just over two years when Miss Elsa Greer appeared upon the scene. She arrived down at Alderbury in the summer of 19--. Mrs Crale had not met her previously. She was Mr Crale's friend, and she was said to be there for the purpose of having her portrait painted.
