Five Little Pigs. Agatha ChristieЧитать онлайн книгу.
To the women in the court she stood for a type—type of the home-breaker. Homes weren’t safe when girls like that were wandering abroad. Girls damn full of sex and contemptuous of the rights of wives and mothers. She didn’t spare herself, I will say. She was honest. Admirably honest. She’d fallen in love with Amyas Crale and he with her, and she’d no scruples at all about taking him away from his wife and child.
‘I admired her in a way. She had guts. Depleach put in some nasty stuff in cross-examination and she stood up well to it. But the court was unsympathetic. And the judge didn’t like her. Old Avis, it was. Been a bit of a rip himself when young—but he’s very hot on morality when he’s presiding in his robes. His summing up against Caroline Crale was mildness itself. He couldn’t deny the facts but he threw out pretty strong hints as to provocation and all that.’
Hercule Poirot asked:
‘He did not support the suicide theory of the defence?’
Fogg shook his head.
‘That never really had a leg to stand upon. Mind you, I don’t say Depleach didn’t do his best with it. He was magnificent. He painted a most moving picture of a great-hearted, pleasure-loving, temperamental man, suddenly overtaken by a passion for a lovely young girl, conscience stricken, yet unable to resist. Then his recoil, his disgust with himself, his remorse for the way he was treating his wife and child and his sudden decision to end it all! The honourable way out. I can tell you, it was a most moving performance; Depleach’s voice brought tears to your eyes. You saw the poor wretch torn by his passions and his essential decency. The effect was terrific. Only—when it was all over—and the spell was broken, you couldn’t quite square that mythical figure with Amyas Crale. Everybody knew too much about Crale. He wasn’t at all that kind of man. And Depleach hadn’t been able to get hold of any evidence to show that he was. I should say Crale came as near as possible to being a man without even a rudimentary conscience. He was a ruthless, selfish, good-tempered happy egoist. Any ethics he had would have applied to painting. He wouldn’t, I’m convinced, have painted a sloppy, bad picture—no matter what the inducement. But for the rest, he was a full-blooded man and he loved life—he had a zest for it. Suicide? Not he!’
‘Not, perhaps, a very good defence to have chosen?’
Fogg shrugged his thin shoulders. He said:
‘What else was there? Couldn’t sit back and plead that there was no case for the jury—that the prosecution had got to prove their case against the accused. There was a great deal too much proof. She’d handled the poison—admitted pinching it, in fact. There was means, motive, opportunity—everything.’
‘One might have attempted to show that these things were artificially arranged?’
Fog said bluntly:
‘She admitted most of them. And, in any case, it’s too far-fetched. You’re implying, I presume, that somebody else murdered him and fixed it up to look as though she had done it.’
‘You think that quite untenable?’
Fogg said slowly:
‘I’m afraid I do. You’re suggesting the mysterious X. Where do we look for him?’
Poirot said:
‘Obviously in a close circle. There were five people, were there not, who could have been concerned?’
‘Five? Let me see. There was the old duffer who messed about with his herb brewing. A dangerous hobby—but an amiable creature. Vague sort of person. Don’t see him as X. There was the girl—she might have polished off Caroline, but certainly not Amyas. Then there was the stockbroker—Crale’s best friend. That’s popular in detective stories, but I don’t believe in it in real life. There’s no one else—oh yes, the kid sister, but one doesn’t seriously consider her. That’s four.’
Hercule Poirot said:
‘You forget the governess.’
‘Yes, that’s true. Wretched people, governesses, one never does remember them. I do recall her dimly though. Middle-aged, plain, competent. I suppose a psychologist would say that she had a guilty passion for Crale and therefore killed him. The repressed spinster! It’s no good—I just don’t believe it. As far as my dim remembrance goes she wasn’t the neurotic type.’
‘It is a long time ago.’
‘Fifteen or sixteen years, I suppose. Yes, quite that. You can’t expect my memories of the case to be very acute.’
Hercule Poirot said:
‘But on the contrary, you remember it amazingly well. That astounds me. You can see it, can you not? When you talk the picture is there before your eyes.’
Fogg said slowly:
‘Yes, you’re right—I do see it—quite plainly.’
Poirot said:
‘It would interest me, my friend, very much, if you would tell me why?’
‘Why?’ Fogg considered the question. His thin intellectual face was alert—interested. ‘Yes, now why?’
Poirot asked:
‘What do you see so plainly? The witnesses? The counsel? The judge? The accused standing in the dock?’
Fogg said quietly:
‘That’s the reason, of course! You’ve put your finger on it. I shall always see her…Funny thing, romance. She had the quality of it. I don’t know if she was really beautiful…She wasn’t very young—tired looking—circles under her eyes. But it all centered round her. The interest—the drama. And yet, half the time, she wasn’t there. She’d gone away somewhere, quite far away—just left her body there, quiescent, attentive, with the little polite smile on her lips. She was all half tones, you know, lights and shades. And yet, with it all, she was more alive than the other—that girl with the perfect body, and the beautiful face, and the crude young strength. I admired Elsa Greer because she had guts, because she could fight, because she stood up to her tormentors and never quailed! But I admired Caroline Crale because she didn’t fight, because she retreated into her world of half lights and shadows. She was never defeated because she never gave battle.’
He paused:
‘I’m only sure of one thing. She loved the man she killed. Loved him so much that half of her died with him…’
Mr Fogg, K.C., paused and polished his glasses.
‘Dear me,’ he said. ‘I seem to be saying some very strange things! I was quite a young man at the time, you know. Just an ambitious youngster. These things make an impression. But all the same I’m sure that Caroline Crale was a very remarkable woman. I shall never forget her. No—I shall never forget her…’
George Mayhew was cautious and non-committal.
He remembered the case, of course, but not at all clearly. His father had been in charge—he himself had been only nineteen at the time.
Yes, the case had made a great stir. Because of Crale being such a well-known man. His pictures were very fine—very fine indeed. Two of them were in the Tate. Not that that meant anything.
M. Poirot would excuse him, but he didn’t see quite what M. Poirot’s interest was in the matter. Oh, the daughter! Really? Indeed? Canada? He had always heard it was New Zealand.
George Mayhew became less rigid. He unbent.
A shocking thing in a girl’s life. He had the deepest sympathy for her. Really it would have been better if she had never learned the truth. Still, it was no use saying that now.
She