lie—a sentimental lie?’ She leaned forward earnestly. ‘Listen, M. Poirot, there are some things that children know quite well. I can remember my mother—a patchy remembrance, of course, but I remember quite well the sort of person she was. She didn’t tell lies—kind lies. If a thing was going to hurt she always told you so. Dentists, or thorns in your finger—all that sort of thing. Truth was a—a natural impulse to her. I wasn’t, I don’t think, especially fond of her—but I trusted her. I still trust her! If she says she didn’t kill my father then she didn’t kill him! She wasn’t the sort of person who would solemnly write down a lie when she knew she was dying.’
Slowly, almost reluctantly, Hercule Poirot bowed his head.
Carla went on.
‘That’s why it’s all right for me marrying John. I know it’s all right. But he doesn’t. He feels that naturally I would think my mother was innocent. It’s got to be cleared up, M. Poirot. And you’re going to do it!’
Hercule Poirot said slowly:
‘Granted that what you say is true, mademoiselle, sixteen years have gone by!’
Carla Lemarchant said: ‘Oh! of course it’s going to be difficult! Nobody but you could do it!’
Hercule Poirot’s eyes twinkled slightly. He said:
‘You give me the best butter—hein?’
Carla said:
‘I’ve heard about you. The things you’ve done. The way you have done them. It’s psychology that interests you, isn’t it? Well, that doesn’t change with time. The tangible things are gone—the cigarette-end and the footprints and the bent blades of grass. You can’t look for those any more. But you can go over all the facts of the case, and perhaps talk to the people who were there at the time—they’re all alive still—and then—and then, as you said just now, you can lie back in your chair and think. And you’ll know what really happened…’
Hercule Poirot rose to his feet. One hand caressed his moustache. He said:
‘Mademoiselle, I am honoured! I will justify your faith in me. I will investigate your case of murder. I will search back into the events of sixteen years ago and I will find out the truth.’
Carla got up. Her eyes were shining. But she only said:
‘Good.’
Hercule Poirot shook an eloquent forefinger.
‘One little moment. I have said I will find out the truth. I do not, you understand, have the bias. I do not accept your assurance of your mother’s innocence. If she was guilty—eh bien, what then?’
Carla’s proud head went back. She said:
‘I’m her daughter. I want the truth!’
Hercule Poirot said:
‘En avant, then. Though it is not that, that I should say. On the contrary. En arrière…’
‘Do I remember the Crale case?’ asked Sir Montague Depleach. ‘Certainly I do. Remember it very well. Most attractive woman. But unbalanced, of course. No self-control.’
He glanced sideways at Poirot.
‘What makes you ask me about it?’
‘I am interested.’
‘Not really tactful of you, my dear man,’ said Depleach, showing his teeth in his sudden famous ‘wolf’s smile’, which had been reputed to have such a terrifying effect upon witnesses. ‘Not one of my successes, you know. I didn’t get her off.’
‘I know that.’
Sir Montague shrugged his shoulders. He said:
‘Of course I hadn’t quite as much experience then as I have now. All the same I think I did all that could humanly be done. One can’t do much without co-operation. We did get it commuted to penal servitude. Provocation, you know. Lots of respectable wives and mothers got up a petition. There was a lot of sympathy for her.’
He leaned back stretching out his long legs. His face took on a judicial, appraising look.
‘If she’d shot him, you know, or even knifed him—I’d have gone all out for manslaughter. But poison—no, you can’t play tricks with that. It’s tricky—very tricky.’
‘What was the defence?’ asked Hercule Poirot.
He knew because he had already read the newspaper files, but he saw no harm in playing the complete ignorant to Sir Montague.
‘Oh, suicide. Only thing you could go for. But it didn’t go down well. Crale simply wasn’t that kind of man! You never met him, I suppose? No? Well, he was a great blustering, vivid sort of chap. Great womanizer, beer drinker—all the rest of it. Went in for the lusts of the flesh and enjoyed them. You can’t persuade a jury that a man like that is going to sit down and quietly do away with himself. It just doesn’t fit. No, I was afraid I was up against a losing proposition from the first. And she wouldn’t play up! I knew we’d lost as soon as she went into the box. No fight in her at all. But there it is—if you don’t put your client into the box, the jury draw their own conclusions.’
Poirot said:
‘Is that what you meant when you said just now that one cannot do much without co-operation?’
‘Absolutely, my dear fellow. We’re not magicians, you know. Half the battle is the impression the accused makes on the jury. I’ve known juries time and again bring in verdicts dead against the judge’s summing up. “ ’E did it, all right”—that’s the point of view. Or “He never did a thing like that—don’t tell me!” Caroline Crale didn’t even try to put up a fight.’
‘Why was that?’
Sir Montague shrugged his shoulders.
‘Don’t ask me. Of course, she was fond of the fellow. Broke her all up when she came to and realized what she’d done. Don’t believe she ever rallied from the shock.’
‘So in your opinion she was guilty?’
Depleach looked rather startled. He said:
‘Er—well, I thought we were taking that for granted.’
‘Did she ever admit to you that she was guilty?’
Depleach looked shocked.
‘Of course not—of course not. We have our code, you know. Innocence is always—er—assumed. If you’re so interested it’s a pity you can’t get hold of old Mayhew. Mayhews were the solicitors who briefed me. Old Mayhew could have told you more than I can. But there—he’s joined the great majority. There’s young George Mayhew, of course, but he was only a boy at the time. It’s a long time ago, you know.’
‘Yes, I know. It is fortunate for me that you remember so much. You have a remarkable memory.’
Depleach looked pleased. He murmured:
‘Oh well, one remembers the main headings, you know. Especially when it’s a capital charge. And, of course, the Crale case got a lot of publicity from the press. Lot of sex interest and all that. The girl in the case was pretty striking. Hard-boiled piece of goods, I thought.’
‘You will forgive me if I seem too insistent,’ said Poirot, ‘but I repeat once more, you had no doubt of Caroline Crale’s guilt?’
Depleach shrugged his shoulders. He said:
‘Frankly—as