So in this case Hercule Poirot proffered no specious explanation of a book to be written on bygone crimes. Instead he narrated simply the circumstances in which Carla Lemarchant had sought him out.
The small, elderly lady in the neat shabby dress listened attentively.
She said:
“It interests me very much to have news of that child—to know how she has turned out.”
“She is a very charming and attractive young woman, with plenty of courage and a mind of her own.”
“Good,” said Miss Williams briefly.
“And she is, I may say, a very persistent person. She is not a person whom it is easy to refuse or put off.”
The ex-governess nodded thoughtfully. She asked:
“Is she artistic?”
“I think not.”
Miss Williams said drily:
“That’s one thing to be thankful for!”
The tone of the remark left Miss Williams’ views as to artists in no doubt whatever.
She added:
“From your account of her I should imagine that she takes after her mother rather than after her father.”
“Very possibly. That you can tell me when you have seen her. You would like to see her?”
“I should like to see her very much indeed. It is always interesting to see how a child you have known has developed.”
“She was, I suppose, very young when you last saw her?”
“She was five and a half. A very charming child—a little over-quiet, perhaps. Thoughtful. Given to playing her own little games and not inviting outside cooperation. Natural and unspoilt.”
Poirot said:
“It was fortunate she was so young.”
“Yes, indeed. Had she been older the shock of the tragedy might have had a very bad effect.”
“Nevertheless,” said Poirot, “one feels that there was a handicap—however little the child understood or was allowed to know, there would have been an atmosphere of mystery and evasion and an abrupt uprooting. These things are not good for a child.”
Miss Williams replied thoughtfully:
“They may have been less harmful than you think.”
Poirot said:
“Before we leave the subject of Carla Lemarchant—little Carla Crale that was, there is something I would like to ask you. If anyone can explain it, I think you can.”
“Yes?”
Her voice was inquiring, noncommital.
Poirot waved his hands in an effort to express his meaning.