“Yes—I think you are right…It is definitely a point of view, that. But all the same, Miss Warren, there must be more to it than that. What motive could Philip Blake possibly have had?”
Angela Warren did not answer at once. She stood frowning down at the floor.
Hercule Poirot said:
“He was Amyas Crale’s best friend, was he not?”
She nodded.
“But there is something in your mind, Miss Warren. Something that you have not yet told me. Were the two men rivals, perhaps, over the girl—over Elsa?”
Angela Warren shook her head.
“Oh, no, not Philip.”
“What is there then?”
Angela Warren said slowly:
“Do you know the way that things suddenly come back to you—after years perhaps. I’ll explain what I mean. Somebody told me a story once, when I was eleven. I saw no point in that story whatsoever. It didn’t worry me—it just passed straight over my head. I don’t believe I ever, as they say, thought of it again. But about two years ago, sitting in the stalls at a revue, that story came back to me, and I was so surprised that I actually said aloud, ‘Oh, now I see the point of that silly story about the rice pudding.’ And yet there had been no direct allusion on the same lines—only some fun sailing rather near the wind.”
Poirot said: “I understand what you mean, mademoiselle.”
“Then you will understand what I am going to tell you. I was once staying at a hotel. As I walked along a passage, one of the bedroom doors opened and a woman I knew came out. It was not her bedroom—and she registered the fact plainly on her face when she saw me.
“And I knew then the meaning of the expression I had once seen on Caroline’s face when at Alderbury she came out of Philip Blake’s room one night.”
She leant forward, stopping Poirot’s words.
“I had no idea at the time, you understand. I knew things—girls of the age I was usually do—but I didn’t connect them with reality. Caroline coming out of Philip Blake’s bedroom was just Caroline coming out of Philip Blake’s bedroom to me. It might have been Miss William’s room or my room. But what I did notice was the expression on her face—a queer expression that I didn’t know and couldn’t understand. I didn’t understand it until, as I have told you, the night in Paris when I saw that same expression on another woman’s face.”
Poirot said slowly:
“But what you tell me, Miss Warren, is sufficiently astonishing. From Philip Blake himself I got the impression that he disliked your sister and always had done so.”
Angela said:
“I know. I can’t explain it but there it is.”
Poirot nodded slowly. Already, in his interview with Philip Blake, he had felt vaguely that something did not ring true. That overdone animosity against Caroline—it had not, somehow, been natural.
And the words and phrases from his conversation with Meredith Blake came back to him. “Very upset when Amyas married—did not go near them for over a year….”
Had Philip, then, always been in love with Caroline? And had his love, when she chose Amyas, turned to bitterness and hate?
Yes, Philip had been too vehement—too biased. Poirot visualized him thoughtfully—the cheerful prosperous man with his golf and his comfortable house. What had Philip Blake really felt sixteen years ago.
Angela Warren was speaking.
“I don’t understand it. You see, I’ve no experience in love affairs—they haven’t come my way. I’ve told you this for what it’s worth in case—in case it might have a bearing on what happened.”
BOOK TWO
Narrative of Philip Blake
(Covering letter received with manuscript)
Dear Mr. Poirot,