“Surely.”
“No, for one thing, with the passage of time, the mind retains a hold on essentials and rejects superficial matters.”
“Ho! You
mean a mere broad outline?”
“Not at all. I mean a detailed conscientious account of each event as it occurred, and every conversation you can remember.”
“And supposing I remember them wrong?”
“You can give the wording at least to the best of your reflection. There may be gaps, but that cannot be helped.”
Blake looked at him curiously.
“But what’s the idea? The police files will give you the whole thing far more accurately.”
“No, Mr. Blake. We are speaking now from the psychological point of view. I do not want bare facts. I want your own selections of facts. Time and your memory are responsible for that selection. There may have been things done, words spoken, that I should seek for in vain in the police files. Things and words that you never mentioned because, maybe, you judged them irrelevant, or because you preferred not to repeat them.”
Blake said sharply:
“Is this account of mine for publication?”
“Certainly not. It is for my eye only. To assist me to draw my own deductions.”
“And you won’t quote from it without my consent?”
“Certainly not.”
“Hm,” said Philip Blake. “I’m a very busy man, Mr. Poirot.”
“I appreciate that there will be time and trouble involved. I should be happy to agree to a—reasonable fee.”
There was a moment’s pause. Then Philip Blake said suddenly:
“No, if I do it—I’ll do it for nothing.”
“And you will do it?”
Philip said warningly:
“Remember, I can’t vouch for the accuracy of my memory.”
“That is perfectly understood.”
“Then I think,” said Philip Blake, “that I should like to do it. I feel I owe it—in a way—to Amyas Crale.”
Seven
THIS LITTLE PIG STAYED AT HOME
Hercule Poirot was not a man to neglect details.
His advance towards Meredith Blake was carefully thought out. Meredith Blake was, he already felt sure, a very different proposition from Philip Blake. Rush tactics would not succeed here. The assault must be leisurely.
Hercule Poirot knew that there was only one way to penetrate the stronghold. He must approach Meredith Blake with the proper credentials. Those credentials must be social, not professional. Fortunately, in the course of his career, Hercule Poirot had made friends in many counties. Devonshire was no exception. He sat down to review what resources he had in Devonshire. As a result he discovered two people who were acquaintances or friends of Mr. Meredith Blake. He descended upon him therefore armed with two letters, one from Lady Mary Lytton-Gore, a gentle widow lady of restricted means, the most retiring of creatures; and the other from a retired Admiral, whose family had been settled in the county for four generations.
Meredith Blake received Poirot in a state of some perplexity.