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Five Little Pigs :: Christie Agatha
Страница: 39 из 147And there was a cold, egotistical devil in her that was capable of being stirred to murderous lengths.
‘She appeared impulsive, you know, but she was really calculating. When she stayed at Alderbury as a girl, she gave us all the once over and made her plans. She’d no money of her own. I was never in the running-a younger son with his way to make. (Funny, that, I could probably buy up Meredith and Crale, if he’d lived, nowadays!) She considered Meredith for a bit, but she finally fixed on Amyas. Amyas would have Alderbury, and though he wouldn’t have much money with it, she realized that his talent as a painter was something quite out of the way. She gambled on his being not only a genius but a financial success as well.
‘And she won. Recognition came to Amyas early. He wasn’t a fashionable painter exactly-but his genius was recognized and his pictures were bought. Have you seen any of his paintings? There’s one here. Come and look at it.’
He led the way into the dining-room and pointed to the left-hand wall.
‘There you are. That’s Amyas.’
Poirot looked in silence. It came to him with fresh amazement that a man could so imbue a conventional subject with his own particular magic. A vase of roses on a polished mahogany table. That hoary old set-piece. How then did Amyas Crale contrive to make his roses flame and burn with a riotous almost obscene life. The polished wood of the table trembled and took on sentient life. How explain the excitement the picture roused? For it was exciting. The proportions of the table would have distressed Superintendent Hale, he would have complained that no known roses were precisely of that shape or colour. And afterwards he would have gone about wondering vaguely why the roses he saw were unsatisfactory, and round mahogany tables would have annoyed him for no known reason.
Poirot gave a little sigh.
He murmured:
‘Yes-it is all there.’
Blake led the way back. He mumbled:
‘Never have understood anything about art myself. Don’t know why I like looking at that thing so much, but I do. It’s-oh, damn it all, it’sgood.’
Poirot nodded emphatically.
Blake offered his guest a cigarette and lit one himself.
‘She appeared impulsive, you know, but she was really calculating. When she stayed at Alderbury as a girl, she gave us all the once over and made her plans. She’d no money of her own. I was never in the running-a younger son with his way to make. (Funny, that, I could probably buy up Meredith and Crale, if he’d lived, nowadays!) She considered Meredith for a bit, but she finally fixed on Amyas. Amyas would have Alderbury, and though he wouldn’t have much money with it, she realized that his talent as a painter was something quite out of the way. She gambled on his being not only a genius but a financial success as well.
‘And she won. Recognition came to Amyas early. He wasn’t a fashionable painter exactly-but his genius was recognized and his pictures were bought. Have you seen any of his paintings? There’s one here. Come and look at it.’
He led the way into the dining-room and pointed to the left-hand wall.
‘There you are. That’s Amyas.’
Poirot looked in silence. It came to him with fresh amazement that a man could so imbue a conventional subject with his own particular magic. A vase of roses on a polished mahogany table. That hoary old set-piece. How then did Amyas Crale contrive to make his roses flame and burn with a riotous almost obscene life. The polished wood of the table trembled and took on sentient life. How explain the excitement the picture roused? For it was exciting. The proportions of the table would have distressed Superintendent Hale, he would have complained that no known roses were precisely of that shape or colour. And afterwards he would have gone about wondering vaguely why the roses he saw were unsatisfactory, and round mahogany tables would have annoyed him for no known reason.
Poirot gave a little sigh.
He murmured:
‘Yes-it is all there.’
Blake led the way back. He mumbled:
‘Never have understood anything about art myself. Don’t know why I like looking at that thing so much, but I do. It’s-oh, damn it all, it’sgood.’
Poirot nodded emphatically.
Blake offered his guest a cigarette and lit one himself.