Five Little Pigs

  “She was five and a half. A very charming child—a little over-quiet, perhaps. Thoughtful. Given to playing her own little games and not inviting outside cooperation. Natural and unspoilt.”

  Poirot said:

  “It was fortunate she was so young.”

  “Yes, indeed. Had she been older the shock of the tragedy might have had a very bad effect.”

  “Nevertheless,” said Poirot, “one feels that there was a handicap—however little the child understood or was allowed to know, there would have been an atmosphere of mystery and evasion and an abrupt uprooting. These things are not good for a child.”

  Miss Williams replied thoughtfully:

  “They may have been less harmful than you think.”

  Poirot said:

  “Before we leave the subject of Carla Lemarchant—little Carla Crale that was, there is something I would like to ask you. If anyone can explain it, I think you can.”

  “Yes?”

  Her voice was inquiring, noncommital.

  Poirot waved his hands in an effort to express his meaning.

  “There is a something—a nuance I cannot define—but it seems to me always that the child, when I mention her, is not given her full representational value. When I mention her, the response comes always with a vague surprise, as though the person to whom I speak had forgotten altogether that there was a child. Now surely, Mademoiselle, that is not natural? A child, under these circumstances, is a person of importance, not in herself, but as a pivotal point. Amyas Crale may have had reasons for abandoning his wife—or for not abandoning her. But in the usual breakup of a marriage the child forms a very important point. But here the child seems to count for very little. That seems to me—strange.”

  Miss Williams said quickly:

  “You have put your finger on a vital point, Mr. Poirot. You are quite right. And that is partly why I said what I did just now—that Carla’s transportation to different surroundings might have been in some respects a good thing for her. When she was older, you see, she might have suffered from a certain lack in her home life.”

  She leaned forward and spoke slowly and carefully.

  “Naturally, in the course of my work, I have seen a good many aspects of the parent and child problem. Many children, most children, I should say, suffer from overattention on the part of their parents. There is too much love, too much watching over the child. It is uneasily conscious of this brooding, and seeks to free itself, to get away and be unobserved. With an only child that is particularly the case, and of course mothers are the worst offenders. The result on the marriage is often unfortunate. The husband resents coming second, seeks consolation—or rather flattery and attention—elsewhere, and a divorce results sooner or later. The best thing for a child, I am convinced, is to have what I should term healthy neglect on the part of both its parents. This happens naturally enough in the case of a large family of children and very little money. They are overlooked because the mother has literally no time to occupy herself with them. They realize quite well that she is fond of them, but they are not worried by too many manifestations of the fact.

  “But there is another aspect. One does occasionally find a husband and wife who are so all-sufficient to each other, so wrapped up in each other, that the child of the marriage hardly seems very real to either of them. And in those circumstances I think a child comes to resent that fact, to feel defrauded and left out in the cold. You understand that I am not speaking of neglect in any way. Mrs. Crale, for instance, was what is termed an excellent mother, always careful of Carla’s welfare, of her health—playing with her at the right times and always kind and gay. But for all that, Mrs. Crale was really completely wrapped up in her husband. She existed, one might say, only in him and for him.” Miss Williams paused a minute and then said quietly: “That, I think, is the justification for what she eventually did.”

  Hercule Poirot said:

  “You mean that they were more like lovers than like husband and wife?”

  Miss Williams, with a slight frown of distaste for foreign phraseology, said:

  “You could certainly put it that way.”

  “He was devoted to her as she was to him?”

  “They were a devoted couple. But he, of course, was a man.”

  Miss Williams contrived to put into that last word a wholly Victorian significance.

  “Men—” said Miss Williams, and stopped.

  As a rich property owner says “Bolsheviks”—as an earnest Communist says “Capitalists!”—as a good housewife says “Blackbeetles”—so did Miss Williams say “Men!”

  From her spinster’s, governess’s life, there rose up a blast of fierce feminism. Nobody hearing her speak could doubt that to Miss Williams Men were the Enemy!

  Poirot said: “You hold no brief for men?”

  She answered drily:

  “Men have the best of this world. I hope that it will not always be so.”

  Hercule Poirot eyed her speculatively. He could quite easily visualize Miss Williams methodically and efficiently padlocking herself to a railing, and later hunger striking with resolute endurance. Leaving the general for the particular, he said:

  “You did not like Amyas Crale?”

  “I certainly did not like Mr. Crale. Nor did I approve of him. If I were his wife I should have left him. There are things that no woman should put up with.”

  “But Mrs. Crale did put up with them?”

  “Yes.”

  “You thought she was wrong?”

  “Yes, I do. A woman should have a certain respect for herself and not submit to humiliation.”

  “Did you ever say anything of that kind to Mrs. Crale?”

  “Certainly not. It was not my place to do so. I was engaged to educate Angela, not to offer unasked advice to Mrs. Crale. To do so would have been most impertinent.”

  “You liked Mrs. Crale?”

  “I was very fond of Mrs. Crale.” The efficient voice softened, held warmth and feeling. “Very fond of her and very sorry for her.”

  “And your pupil—Angela Warren?”

  “She was a most interesting girl—one of the most interesting pupils I have had. A really good brain. Undisciplined, quick-tempered, most difficult to manage in many ways, but really a very fine character.”

  She paused and then went on:

  “I always hoped that she would accomplish something worth while. And she has! You have read her book—on the Sahara? And she excavated those very interesting tombs in the Fayum! Yes, I am proud of Angela. I was not at Alderbury very long—two years and a half—but I always cherish the belief that I helped to stimulate her mind and encourage her taste for archaeology.”

  Poirot murmured: “I understand that it was decided to continue her education by sending her to school. You must have resented that decision.”

  “Not at all, Mr. Poirot. I thoroughly concurred with it.”

  She paused and went:

  “Let me make the matter clear to you. Angela was a dear girl—really a very dear girl—warm-hearted and impulsive—but she was also what I call a difficult girl. That is, she was at a difficult age. There is always a moment where a girl feels unsure of herself—neither child nor woman. At one minute Angela would be sensible and mature—quite grown up, in fact—but a minute later she would relapse into being a hoydenish child—playing mischievous tricks and being rude and losing her temper. Girls, you know, feel difficult at that age—they are terribly sensitive. Everything that is said to them they resent. They are annoyed at being treated like a child and then they suddenly feel shy at being treated like adults. Angela was in that state. She had fits of temper, would suddenly resent teasing and flare out—and then she would be sulky for days at a time, sitting about and frowning—then again she would be in wild spirits, climbing trees, rushing about with the garden boys, refusing to submit to any kind of authority.”

  Miss Williams paused and went on:

  “When a girl gets to that stage, school is ve
ry helpful. She needs the stimulation of other minds—that, and the wholesome discipline of a community, help her to become a reasonable member of society. Angela’s home conditions were not what I would have called ideal. Mrs. Crale spoiled her, for one thing. Angela had only to appeal to her and Mrs. Crale always backed her up. The result was that Angela considered she had first claim upon her sister’s time and attention, and it was in these moods of hers that she used to clash with Mr. Crale. Mr. Crale naturally thought that he should come first—and intended to do so. He was really very fond of the girl—they were good companions and used to spar together quite amiably, but there were times when Mr. Crale used suddenly to resent Mrs. Crale’s preoccupation with Angela. Like all men, he was a spoilt child; he expected everybody to make a fuss of him. Then he and Angela used to have a real set-to—and very often Mrs. Crale would take Angela’s side. Then he would be furious. On the other hand, if she supported him, Angela would be furious. It was on these occasions that Angela used to revert to childish ways and play some spiteful trick on him. He had a habit of tossing off his drinks and she once put a lot of salt into his drink. The whole thing, of course, acted as an emetic, and he was inarticulate with fury. But what really brought things to a head was when she put a lot of slugs into his bed. He had a queer aversion for slugs. He lost his temper completely and said that the girl had got to be sent away to school. He wasn’t going to put up with all this petty nonsense any more. Angela was terribly upset—though actually she had once or twice expressed a wish herself to go to a boarding school—but she chose to make a huge grievance of it. Mrs. Crale didn’t want her to go but allowed herself to be persuaded—largely owing, I think, to what I said to her on the subject. I pointed out to her that it would be greatly to Angela’s advantage, and that I thought it would really be a great benefit to the girl. So it was settled that she should go to Helston—a very fine school on the south coast—in the autumn term. But Mrs. Crale was still unhappy about it all those holidays. And Angela kept up a grudge against Mr. Crale whenever she remembered. It wasn’t really serious, you understand, Mr. Poirot, but it made a kind of undercurrent that summer to—well—to everything else that was going on.”

  Poirot said: “Meaning—Elsa Greer?”

  Miss Williams said sharply:

  “Exactly.” And shut her lips very tight after the word.

  “What was your opinion of Elsa Greer?”

  “I had no opinion of her at all. A thoroughly unprincipled young woman.”

  “She was very young.”

  “Old enough to know better. I can see no excuse for her—none at all.”

  “She fell in love with him, I suppose—”

  Miss Williams interrupted with a snort.

  “Fell in love with him indeed. I should hope, Mr. Poirot, that whatever our feelings, we can keep them in decent control. And we can certainly control our actions. That girl had absolutely no morals of any kind. It meant nothing to her that Mr. Crale was a married man. She was absolutely shameless about it all—cool and determined. Possibly she may have been badly brought up—but that’s the only excuse I can find for her.”

  “Mr. Crale’s death must have been a terrible shock to her.”

  “Oh, it was. And she herself was entirely to blame for it. I don’t go as far as condoning murder, but all the same, Mr. Poirot, if ever a woman was driven to breaking point, that woman was Caroline Crale. I tell you frankly, there were moments when I would have liked to murder them both myself. Flaunting the girl in his wife’s face, listening to her having to put up with the girl’s insolence—and she was insolent, Mr. Poirot. Oh no, Amyas Crale deserved what he got. No man should treat his wife as he did and not be punished for it. His death was a just retribution.”

  Hercule Poirot said: “You feel strongly….”

  The small woman looked at him with those indomitable grey eyes. She said:

  “I feel very strongly about the marriage tie. Unless it is respected and upheld, a country degenerates. Mrs. Crale was a devoted and faithful wife. Her husband deliberately flouted her and introduced his mistress into her home. As I say, he deserved what he got. He goaded her past endurance and I, for one, do not blame her for what she did.”

  Poirot said slowly: “He acted very badly—that I admit—but he was a great artist, remember.”

  Miss Williams gave a terrific snort.

  “Oh yes, I know. That’s always the excuse nowadays. An artist! An excuse for every kind of loose living, for drunkenness, for brawling, for infidelity. And what kind of an artist was Mr. Crale, when all is said and done? It may be the fashion to admire his pictures for a few years. But they won’t last. Why, he couldn’t even draw! His perspective was terrible! Even his anatomy was quite incorrect. I know something of what I am talking about, Mr. Poirot. I studied painting for a time, as a girl, in Florence, and to anyone who knows and appreciates the great masters, these daubs of Mr. Crale’s are really ludicrous. Just splashing a few colours about on the canvas—no construction—no careful drawing. No,” she shook her head, “don’t ask me to admire Mr. Crale’s painting.”

  “Two of them are in the Tate Gallery,” Poirot reminded her.

  Miss Williams sniffed.

  “Possibly. So is one of Mr. Epstein’s statues, I believe.”

  Poirot perceived that, according to Miss Williams, the last word had been said. He abandoned the subject of art.

  He said:

  “You were with Mrs. Crale when she found the body?”

  “Yes. She and I went down from the house together after lunch. Angela had left her pullover on the beach after bathing, or else in the boat. She was always very careless about her things. I parted from Mrs. Crale at the door of the Battery garden, but she called me back almost at once. I believe Mr. Crale had been dead over an hour. He was sprawled on the bench near his easel.”

  “Was she terribly upset at the discovery?”

  “What exactly do you mean by that, Mr. Poirot?”

  “I am asking you what your impressions were at the time.”

  “Oh, I see. Yes, she seemed to me quite dazed. She sent me off to telephone for the doctor. After all, we couldn’t be absolutely sure he was dead—it might have been a cataleptic seizure.”

  “Did she suggest such a possibility?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “And you went and telephoned?”

  Miss William’s tone was dry and brusque.

  “I had gone half up the path when I met Mr. Meredith Blake. I entrusted my errand to him and returned to Mrs. Crale. I thought, you see, she might have collapsed—and men are no good in a matter of that kind.”

  “And had she collapsed?”

  Miss Williams said drily:

  “Mrs. Crale was quite in command of herself. She was quite different from Miss Greer, who made a hysterical and very unpleasant scene.”

  “What kind of a scene?”

  “She tried to attack Mrs. Crale.”

  “You mean she realized that Mrs. Crale was responsible for Mr. Crale’s death?”

  Miss Williams considered for a moment or two.

  “No, she could hardly be sure of that. That—er—terrible suspicion had not yet arisen. Miss Greer just screamed out: ‘It’s all your doing, Caroline. You killed him. It’s all your fault.’ She did not actually say ‘You’ve poisoned him,’ but I think there is no doubt that she thought so.”

  “And Mrs. Crale?”

  Miss Williams moved restlessly.

  “Must we be hypocritical, Mr. Poirot? I cannot tell you what Mrs. Crale really felt or thought at that moment. Whether it was horror at what she had done—”

  “Did it seem like that?”

  “N-no, n-no, I can’t say it did. Stunned, yes—and, I think, frightened. Yes, I am sure, frightened. But that is natural enough.”

  Hercule Poirot said in a dissatisfied tone:

  “Yes, perhaps that is natural enough…What view did she adopt officially as to her husband’s death?”


  “Suicide. She said, very definitely from the first, that it must be suicide.”

  “Did she say the same when she was talking to you privately, or did she put forward any other theory.”

  “No. She—she—took pains to impress upon me that it must be suicide.”

  Miss Williams sounded embarrassed.

  “And what did you say to that?”

  “Really, Mr. Poirot, does it matter what I said?”

  “Yes, I think it does.”

  “I don’t see why—”

  But as though his expectant silence hypnotized her, she said reluctantly:

  “I think I said: ‘Certainly, Mrs. Crale. It must have been suicide.’”

  “Did you believe your own words?”

  Miss Williams raised her head. She said firmly:

  “No, I did not. But please understand, Mr. Poirot, that I was entirely on Mrs. Crale’s side, if you like to put it that way. My sympathies were with her, not with the police.”

  “You would have liked to have seen her acquitted?”

  Miss Williams said defiantly:

  “Yes, I would.”

  Poirot said:

  “Then you are in sympathy with her daughter’s feelings?”

  “I have every sympathy with Carla.”

  “Would you have any objection to writing out for me a detailed account of the tragedy?”

  “You mean for her to read?”

  “Yes.”

  Miss Williams said slowly:

  “No, I have no objection. She is quite determined to go into the matter, is she?”

  “Yes. I dare say it would have been preferable if the truth had been kept from her—”

  Miss Williams interrupted him:

  “No. It is always better to face the truth. It is no use evading unhappiness by tampering with facts. Carla has had a shock learning the truth—now she wants to know exactly how the tragedy came about. That seems to me the right attitude for a brave young woman to take. Once she knows all about it she will be able to forget it again and go on with the business of living her own life.”

  “Perhaps you are right,” said Poirot.

  “I’m quite sure I’m right.”