“And Amyas Crale, a man who detested illness and refused to give in to it, painted doggedly on till his limbs failed and his speech thickened, and he sprawled there on that bench, helpless, but with his mind still clear.
“The bell sounded from the house and Meredith left the bench to come down to the Battery. I think in that brief moment Elsa left her place and ran across to the table and dropped the last few drops of the poison into the beer glass that held that last innocent drink. (She got rid of the dropper on the path up to the house—crushing it to powder.) Then she met Meredith in the doorway.
“There is a glare there coming in out of the shadows. Meredith did not see very clearly—only his friend sprawled in a familiar position and saw his eyes turn from the picture in what he described as a malevolent glare.
“How much did Amyas know or guess? How much his conscious mind knew we cannot tell, but his hand and his eye were faithful.”
Hercule Poirot gestured towards the picture on the wall.
“I should have known when I first saw that picture. For it is a very remarkable picture. It is the picture of a murderess painted by her victim—it is the picture of a girl watching her lover die….”
Five
AFTERMATH
In the silence that followed—a horrified, appalled silence, the sunset slowly flickered away, the last gleam left the window where it had rested on the dark head and pale furs of the woman sitting there.
Elsa Dittisham moved and spoke. She said:
“Take them away, Meredith. Leave me with Mr. Poirot.”
She sat there motionless until the door shut behind them. Then she said: “You are very clever, aren’t you?”
Poirot did not answer.
She said: “What do you expect me to do? Confess?”
He shook his head.
Elsa said:
“Because I shall do nothing of the kind! And I
shall admit nothing. But what we say here, together, does not matter. Because it is only a question of your word against mine.”
“Exactly.”
“I want to know what you are going to do?”
Hercule Poirot said:
“I shall do everything I can to induce the authorities to grant a posthumous free pardon to Caroline Crale.”
Elsa laughed. She said: “How absurd! To be given a free pardon for something you didn’t do.” Then she said: “What about me?”
“I shall lay my conclusion before the necessary people. If they decide there is the possibility of making out a case against you then they may act. I will tell you in my opinion there is not sufficient evidence—there are only inferences, not facts. Moreover, they will not be anxious to proceed against anyone in your position unless there is ample justification for such a course.”
Elsa said:
“I shouldn’t care. If I were standing in the dock, fighting for my life—there might be something in that—something alive—exciting. I might—enjoy it.”
“Your husband would not.”
She stared at him.
“Do you think I care in the least what my husband would feel?”
“No, I do not. I do not think you have ever in your life cared about what any other person would feel. If you had, you might be happier.”