Dear Mr. Poirot,
As I promised you, I have set down in writing an account of all I can remember relating to the tragic events that happened sixteen years ago. First of all I would like to say that I have thought over carefully all you said to me at our recent meeting. And on reflection I am more convinced than I was before that it is in the highest degree unlikely that Caroline Crale poisoned her husband. It always seemed incongruous, but the absence of any other explanation and her own attitude led me to follow, sheep-like, the opinion of other people and to say with them—that if she didn’t do it, what explanation could there be?
Since seeing you I have reflected very carefully on the alternative solution presented at the time and brought forward by the defence at the trial. That is, that Amyas Crale took his own life. Although from what I knew of him that solution seemed quite fantastic at the time, I now see fit to modify my opinion. To begin with, and highly significant, is the fact that Caroline believed it. If we are now to take it that that charming and gentle lady was unjustly convicted, then her own frequently reiterated belief must carry great weight. She knew Amyas better than anyone else. If she thought suicide possible, then suicide must have been possible in spite of the scepticism of his friends.
I will advance the theory, therefore, that there was in Amyas Crale some core of conscience, some undercurrent of remorse and even despair at the excesses to which his temperament led him, of which only his wife was aware. This, I think, is a not impossible supposition. He may have shown that side of himself only to her. Though it is inconsistent with anything I ever heard him say, yet it is nevertheless a truth that in most men there is some unsuspected and inconsistent streak which often comes as a surprise to people who have known them intimately. A respected and austere man is discovered to have had a coarser side to his life hidden. A vulgar moneymaker has, perhaps, a secret appreciation of some delicate work of art. Hard and ruthless people have been convicted of unsuspected hidden kindnesses. Generous and jovial men have been shown to have a mean and cruel side to them.
So it may be that in Amyas Crale there ran a strain of morbid self-accusation, and that the more he blustered out his egoism and his right to do as he pleased, the more strongly that secret conscience of his worked. It is improbable, on the face of it, but I now believe that it must have been so. And I repeat again, Caroline herself held steadfastly to that view. That, I repeat, is significant!
And now to examine facts, or rather my memory of facts, in the light of that new belief.
I think that I might with relevance include here a conversation I held with Caroline some weeks before the actual tragedy. It was during Elsa Greer’s first visit to Alderbury.
Caroline, as I have told you, was aware of my deep affection and friendship for her. I was, therefore, the person in whom she could most easily confide. She had not been looking very happy. Nevertheless I was surprised when she suddenly asked me one day whether I thought Amyas really cared very much for this girl he had brought down.
I said: “He’s interested in painting her. You know what Amyas is.”
She shook her head and said:
“No, he’s in love with her.”
“Well—perhaps a little.”
“A great deal, I think.”
I said: “She is unusually attractive, I admit. And we both know that Amyas is susceptible. But you must know by now, my dear, that Amyas really only cares for one person—and that is you. He has these infatuations—but they don’t last. You are the one person to him, and though he behaves badly, it does not really affect his feeling for you.”
Caroline said: “That is what I always used to think.”
“Believe me, Caro,” I said. “It is so.”
She said: “But this time, Merry, I’m afraid. That girl is so—so terribly sincere. She’s so young—and so intense. I’ve a feeling that this time—it’s serious.”
I said: “But the very fact that she is so young and, as you say, so sincere, will protect her. On the whole, women are fair game to Amyas, but in the case of a girl like this it will be different.”
She said: “Yes, that’s what I’m afraid of—it will be different.”
And she went on. “I’m thirty-four, you know, Merry. And we’ve been married ten years. In looks I can’t hold a candle to this Elsa child, and I know it.”
I said: “But you know, Caroline, you know—that Amyas is really devoted to you?”
She said to that: “Does one ever know with men?” And then she laughed a little ruefully and said: “I’m a very primitive woman, Merry. I’d like to take a hatchet to that girl.”
I told her that the child probably didn’t understand in the least what she was doing. She had a great admiration and hero worship for Amyas, and she probably didn’t realize at all that Amyas was falling in love with her.
Caroline just said to me:
“Dear Merry!” and began to talk about the garden. I hoped that she was not going to worry any more about the matter.
Shortly afterwards, Elsa went back to London. Amyas was away too for several weeks. I had really forgotten all about the business. And then I heard that Elsa was back again at Alderbury in order that Amyas might finish the picture.
I was a little disturbed by the news. But Caroline, when I saw her, was not in a communicative mood. She seemed quite her usual self—not worried or upset in any way. I imagined that everything was all right.
That’s why it was such a shock to me to learn how far the thing had gone.
I have told you of my conver
sations with Crale and with Elsa. I had no opportunity of talking to Caroline. We were only able to exchange those few words about which I have already told you.