“Pretty damning—eh?”
“Yes.” Poirot seemed thoughtful. “Who overheard this scene?”
“Miss Williams was in the room and Philip Blake. Very awkward for them.”
“Their accounts of the scene agree?”
“Near enough—you never got two witnesses to remember a thing exactly alike. You know that just as well as I do, Mr. Poirot.”
Poirot nodded. He said thoughtfully:
“Yes, it will be interesting to see—” He stopped with the sentence unfinished.
Hale went on: “I instituted a search of the house. In Mrs. Crale’s bedroom I found in a bottom drawer, tucked away underneath some winter stockings, a small bottle labelled jasmine scent. It was empty. I fingerprinted it. T
he only prints on it were those of Mrs. Crale. On analysis it was found to contain faint traces of oil of jasmine, and a strong solution of coniine hydrobromide.
“I cautioned Mrs. Crale and showed her the bottle. She replied readily. She had, she said, been in a very unhappy state of mind. After listening to Mr. Meredith Blake’s description of the drug she had slipped back to the laboratory, had emptied out a bottle of jasmine scent which was in her bag and had filled the bottle up with coniine solution. I asked her why she had done this and she said: ‘I don’t want to speak of certain things more than I can help, but I had received a bad shock. My husband was proposing to leave me for another woman. If that was so, I didn’t want to live. That is why I took it.’”
Hale paused.
Poirot said: “After all—it is likely enough.”
“Perhaps, Mr. Poirot. But it doesn’t square with what she was overheard to say. And then there was a further scene on the following morning. Mr. Philip Blake overheard a portion of it. Miss Greer overheard a different portion of it. It took place in the library between Mr. and Mrs. Crale. Mr. Blake was in the hall and caught a fragment or two. Miss Greer was sitting outside near the open library window and heard a good deal more.”
“And what did they hear?”
“Mr. Blake heard Mrs. Crale say: ‘You and your women. I’d like to kill you. Some day I will kill you.’”
“No mention of suicide?”
“Exactly. None at all. No words like ‘If you do this thing, I’ll kill myself.’ Miss Greer’s evidence was much the same. According to her, Mr. Crale said: ‘Do try and be reasonable about this, Caroline. I’m fond of you and will always wish you well—you and the child. But I’m going to marry Elsa. We’ve always agreed to leave each other free.’ Mrs. Crale answered to that: ‘Very well, don’t say I haven’t warned you.’ He said: ‘What do you mean?’ And she said: ‘I mean that I love you and I’m not going to lose you. I’d rather kill you than let you go to that girl.’”
Poirot made a slight gesture.
“It occurs to me,” he murmured, “that Miss Greer was singularly unwise to raise this issue. Mrs. Crale could easily have refused her husband a divorce.”
“We had some evidence bearing on that point,” said Hale. “Mrs. Crale, it seems, confided partly in Mr. Meredith Blake. He was an old and trusted friend. He was very distressed and managed to get a word with Mr. Crale about it. This, I may say, was on the preceding afternoon. Mr. Blake remonstrated delicately with his friend, said how distressed he would be if the marriage between Mr. and Mrs. Crale was to break up so disastrously. He also stressed the point that Miss Greer was a very young girl and that it was a very serious thing to drag a young girl through the divorce court. To this Mr. Crale replied, with a chuckle (callous sort of brute he must have been): ‘That isn’t Elsa’s idea at all. She isn’t going to appear. We shall fix it up in the usual way.’”
Poirot said: “Therefore even more imprudent of Miss Greer to have broken out the way she did.”
Superintendent Hale said:
“Oh, you know what women are! Have to get at each other’s throats. It must have been a difficult situation anyhow. I can’t understand Mr. Crale allowing it to happen. According to Mr. Meredith Blake he wanted to finish his picture. Does that make sense to you?”
“Yes, my friend, I think it does.”
“It doesn’t to me. The man was asking for trouble!”
“He was probaby seriously annoyed with his young woman for breaking out the way she did.”
“Oh, he was. Meredith Blake said so. If he had to finish the picture I don’t see why he couldn’t have taken some photographs and worked from them. I know a chap—does watercolours of places—he does that.”
Poirot shook his head.
“No—I can understand Crale the artist. You must realize, my friend, that at that moment, probably, his picture was all that mattered to Crale. However much he wanted to marry the girl, the picture came first. That’s why he hoped to get through her visit without its coming to an open issue. The girl, of course, didn’t see it that way. With women, love always comes first.”
“Don’t I know it?” said Superintendent Hale with feeling.