“And your pupil—Angela Warren?”
“She was a most interesting girl—one of the most interesting pupils I have had. A really good brain. Undisciplined, quick-tempered, most difficult to manage in many ways, but really a very fine character.”
She paused and then went on:
“I always hoped that she would accomplish something worth while. And she has! You have read her book—on the Sahara? And she excavated those very interesting tombs in the Fayum! Yes, I am proud of Angela. I was not at Alderbury very long—two years and a half—but I always cherish the belief that I helped to stimulate her mind and encourage her taste for archaeology.”
Poirot murmured: “I understand that it was decided to continue her education by sending her to school. You must have resented that decision.”
“Not at all, Mr. Poirot. I thoroughly concurred with it.”
She paused and went:
“Let me make the matter clear to you. Angela was a dear girl—really a very dear girl—warm-hearted and impulsive—but she was also what I call a difficult girl. That is, she was at a difficult age. There is always a moment where a girl feels unsure of herself—neither child nor woman. At one minute Angela would be sensible and mature—quite grown up, in fact—but a minute later she would relapse into being a hoydenish child—playing mischievous tricks and being rude and losing her temper. Girls, you know, feel difficult at that age—they are terribly sensitive. Everything that is said to them they resent. They are annoyed at being treated like a child and then they suddenly feel shy at being treated like adults. Angela was in that state. She had fits of temper, would suddenly resent teasing and flare out—and then she would be sulky for days at a time, sitting about and frowning—then again she would be in wild spirits, climbing trees, rushing about with the garden boys, refusing to submit to any kind of authority.”
Miss Williams paused and went on:
“When a girl gets to that stage, school is ve
ry helpful. She needs the stimulation of other minds—that, and the wholesome discipline of a community, help her to become a reasonable member of society. Angela’s home conditions were not what I would have called ideal. Mrs. Crale spoiled her, for one thing. Angela had only to appeal to her and Mrs. Crale always backed her up. The result was that Angela considered she had first claim upon her sister’s time and attention, and it was in these moods of hers that she used to clash with Mr. Crale. Mr. Crale naturally thought that he should come first—and intended to do so. He was really very fond of the girl—they were good companions and used to spar together quite amiably, but there were times when Mr. Crale used suddenly to resent Mrs. Crale’s preoccupation with Angela. Like all men, he was a spoilt child; he expected everybody to make a fuss of him. Then he and Angela used to have a real set-to—and very often Mrs. Crale would take Angela’s side. Then he would be furious. On the other hand, if she supported him, Angela would be furious. It was on these occasions that Angela used to revert to childish ways and play some spiteful trick on him. He had a habit of tossing off his drinks and she once put a lot of salt into his drink. The whole thing, of course, acted as an emetic, and he was inarticulate with fury. But what really brought things to a head was when she put a lot of slugs into his bed. He had a queer aversion for slugs. He lost his temper completely and said that the girl had got to be sent away to school. He wasn’t going to put up with all this petty nonsense any more. Angela was terribly upset—though actually she had once or twice expressed a wish herself to go to a boarding school—but she chose to make a huge grievance of it. Mrs. Crale didn’t want her to go but allowed herself to be persuaded—largely owing, I think, to what I said to her on the subject. I pointed out to her that it would be greatly to Angela’s advantage, and that I thought it would really be a great benefit to the girl. So it was settled that she should go to Helston—a very fine school on the south coast—in the autumn term. But Mrs. Crale was still unhappy about it all those holidays. And Angela kept up a grudge against Mr. Crale whenever she remembered. It wasn’t really serious, you understand, Mr. Poirot, but it made a kind of undercurrent that summer to—well—to everything else that was going on.”
Poirot said: “Meaning—Elsa Greer?”
Miss Williams said sharply:
“Exactly.” And shut her lips very tight after the word.
“What was your opinion of Elsa Greer?”
“I had no opinion of her at all. A thoroughly unprincipled young woman.”
“She was very young.”
“Old enough to know better. I can see no excuse for her—none at all.”
“She fell in love with him, I suppose—”
Miss Williams interrupted with a snort.
“Fell in love with him indeed. I should hope, Mr. Poirot, that whatever our feelings, we can keep them in decent control. And we can certainly control our actions. That girl had absolutely no morals of any kind. It meant nothing to her that Mr. Crale was a married man. She was absolutely shameless about it all—cool and determined. Possibly she may have been badly brought up—but that’s the only excuse I can find for her.”
“Mr. Crale’s death must have been a terrible shock to her.”
“Oh, it was. And she herself was entirely to blame for it. I don’t go as far as condoning murder, but all the same, Mr. Poirot, if ever a woman was driven to breaking point, that woman was Caroline Crale. I tell you frankly, there were moments when I would have liked to murder them both myself. Flaunting the girl in his wife’s face, listening to her having to put up with the girl’s insolence—and she was insolent, Mr. Poirot. Oh no, Amyas Crale deserved what he got. No man should treat his wife as he did and not be punished for it. His death was a just retribution.”
Hercule Poirot said: “You feel strongly….”
The small woman looked at him with those indomitable grey eyes. She said:
“I feel very strongly about the marriage tie. Unless it is respected and upheld, a country degenerates. Mrs. Crale was a devoted and faithful wife. Her husband deliberately flouted her and introduced his mistress into her home. As I say, he deserved what he got. He goaded her past endurance and I, for one, do not blame her for what she did.”
Poirot said slowly: “He acted very badly—that I admit—but he was a great artist, remember.”
Miss Williams gave a terrific snort.
“Oh yes, I know. That’s always the excuse nowadays. An artist! An excuse for every kind of loose living, for drunkenness, for brawling, for infidelity. And what kind of an artist was Mr. Crale, when all is said and done? It may be the fashion to admire his pictures for a few years. But they won’t last. Why, he couldn’t even draw! His perspective was terrible! Even his anatomy was quite incorrect. I know something of what I am talking about, Mr. Poirot. I studied painting for a time, as a girl, in Florence, and to anyone who knows and appreciates the great masters, these daubs of Mr. Crale’s are really ludicrous. Just splashing a few colours about on the canvas—no construction—no careful drawing. No,” she shook her head, “don’t ask me to admire Mr. Crale’s painting.”
“Two of them are in the Tate Gallery,” Poirot reminded her.