Five Little Pigs - Agatha Christie [10]
“Ay, I mind there was a child. Sent abroad to relatives, was she not?”
Poirot went on:
“That daughter believes firmly in her mother’s innocence.”
The huge bushy eyebrows of Mr. Edmunds rose.
“That’s the way of it, is it?”
Poirot asked:
“Is there anything you can tell me to support that belief?”
Edmunds reflected. Then, slowly, he shook his head.
“I could not conscientiously say there was. I admired Mrs. Crale. Whatever else she was, she was a lady! Not like the other. A hussy—no more, no less. Bold as brass! Jumped-up trash—that’s what she was—and showed it! Mrs. Crale was quality.”
“But none the less a murderess?”
Edmunds frowned. He said, with more spontaneity than he had yet shown:
“That’s what I used to ask myself, day after day. Sitting there in the dock so calm and gentle. ‘I’ll not believe it,’ I used to say to myself. But, if you take my meaning, Mr. Poirot, there wasn’t anything else to believe. That hemlock didn’t get into Mr. Crale’s beer by accident. It was put there. And if Mrs. Crale didn’t put it there, who did?”
“That is the question,” said Poirot. “Who did?”
Again those shrewd old eyes searched his face.
“So that’s your idea?” said Mr. Edmunds.
“What do you think yourself?”
There was a pause before the officer answered. Then he said:
“There was nothing that pointed that way—nothing at all.”
Poirot said:
“You were in court during the hearing of the case?”
“Every day.”
“You heard the witnesses give evidence?”
“I did.”
“Did anything strike you about them—any abnormality, any insincerity?”
Edmunds said bluntly:
“Was one of them lying, do you mean? Had one of them a reason to wish Mr. Crale dead? If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Poirot, that’s a very melodramatic idea.”
“At least consider it,” Poirot urged.
He watched the shrewd face, the screwed-up, thoughtful eyes. Slowly, regretfully, Edmunds shook his head.
“That Miss Greer,” he said, “she was bitter enough, and vindictive! I’d say she overstepped the mark in a good deal she said, but it was Mr. Crale alive she wanted. He was no use to her dead. She wanted Mrs. Crale hanged all right—but that was because death had snatched her man away from her. Like a baulked tigress she was! But, as I say, it was Mr. Crale alive she’d wanted. Mr. Philip Blake, he was against Mrs. Crale too. Prejudiced. Got his knife into her whenever he could. But I’d say he was honest according to his lights. He’d been Mr. Crale’s great friend. His brother, Mr. Meredith Blake—a bad witness he was—vague, hesitating—never seemed sure of his answers. I’ve seen many witnesses like that. Look as though they’re lying when all the time they’re telling the truth. Didn’t want to say anything more than he could help, Mr. Meredith Blake didn’t. Counsel got all the more out of him on that account. One of these quiet gentlemen who get easily flustered. The governess now, she stood up well to them. Didn’t waste words and answered pat and to the point. You couldn’t have told, listening to her, which side she was on. Got all her wits about her, she had. The brisk kind.” He paused. “Knew a lot more than she ever let on about the whole thing, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“I, too, should not wonder,” said Hercule Poirot.
He looked sharply at the wrinkled, shrewd face of Mr. Alfred Edmunds. It was quite bland and impassive. But Hercule Poirot wondered if he had been vouchsafed a hint.
Four
THE OLD SOLICITOR
Mr. Caleb Jonathan lived in Essex. After a courteous exchange of letters, Poirot received an invitation, almost royal in its character, to dine and sleep. The old gentleman was decidedly a character. After the insipidity of young George Mayhew, Mr. Jonathan was like a glass of his own vintage port.
He had his own methods of approach to a subject, and it was not until well on towards midnight, when sipping a glass of fragrant old brandy, that Mr. Jonathan really unbent. In oriental fashion he had appreciated Hercule Poirot’s courteous refusal to rush him in any way. Now, in his own good time, he was willing to elaborate the theme of the Crale family.
“Our