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Five Little Pigs :: Christie Agatha
Страница: 84 из 147I can still remember my indignation, my dumb fury-and, of course, my childish faith that it was just a silly mistake, that it would be all right. Caro was chiefly perturbed aboutme -she wanted me kept right away from it all as far as possible. She got Miss Williams to take me away to some relations almost at once. The police had no objection. And then, when it was decided that my evidence would not be needed, arrangements were made for me to go to school abroad.
‘I hated going, of course. But it was explained to me that Caro had me terribly on her mind and that the only way I could help her was by going.’
She paused. Then she said:
‘So I went to Munich. I was there when-when the verdict was given. They never let me go to see Caro. Caro wouldn’t have it. That’s the only time, I think, when she failed in understanding.’
‘You cannot be sure of that, Miss Warren. To visit someone dearly loved in a prison might make a terrible impression on a young sensitive girl.’
‘Possibly.’
Angela Warren got up. She said:
‘After the verdict, when she had been condemned, my sister wrote me a letter. I have never shown it to any one. I think I ought to show it to you now. It may help you to understand the kind of person Caroline was. If you like you may take it to show to Carla also.’
She went to the door, then turning back she said:
‘Come with me. There is a portrait of Caroline in my room.’
For a second time, Poirot stood gazing up at a portrait.
As a painting, Caroline Crale’s portrait was mediocre. But Poirot looked at it with interest-it was not its artistic value that interested him.
He saw a long oval face, a gracious line of jaw and a sweet, slightly timid expression. It was a face uncertain of itself, emotional, with a withdrawn hidden beauty. It lacked the forcefulness and vitality of her daughter’s face-that energy and joy of life Carla Lemarchant had doubtless inherited from her father. This was a less positive creature. Yet, looking at the painted face, Hercule Poirot understood why an imaginative man like Quentin Fogg had not been able to forget her.
Angela Warren stood at his side again-a letter in her hand.
She said quietly:
‘Now that you have seen what she was like-read her letter.’
He unfolded it carefully and read what Caroline Crale had written sixteen years ago.
My darling little Angela,
You will hear bad news and you will grieve, but what I want to impress upon you is that it is all all right.
‘I hated going, of course. But it was explained to me that Caro had me terribly on her mind and that the only way I could help her was by going.’
She paused. Then she said:
‘So I went to Munich. I was there when-when the verdict was given. They never let me go to see Caro. Caro wouldn’t have it. That’s the only time, I think, when she failed in understanding.’
‘You cannot be sure of that, Miss Warren. To visit someone dearly loved in a prison might make a terrible impression on a young sensitive girl.’
‘Possibly.’
Angela Warren got up. She said:
‘After the verdict, when she had been condemned, my sister wrote me a letter. I have never shown it to any one. I think I ought to show it to you now. It may help you to understand the kind of person Caroline was. If you like you may take it to show to Carla also.’
She went to the door, then turning back she said:
‘Come with me. There is a portrait of Caroline in my room.’
For a second time, Poirot stood gazing up at a portrait.
As a painting, Caroline Crale’s portrait was mediocre. But Poirot looked at it with interest-it was not its artistic value that interested him.
He saw a long oval face, a gracious line of jaw and a sweet, slightly timid expression. It was a face uncertain of itself, emotional, with a withdrawn hidden beauty. It lacked the forcefulness and vitality of her daughter’s face-that energy and joy of life Carla Lemarchant had doubtless inherited from her father. This was a less positive creature. Yet, looking at the painted face, Hercule Poirot understood why an imaginative man like Quentin Fogg had not been able to forget her.
Angela Warren stood at his side again-a letter in her hand.
She said quietly:
‘Now that you have seen what she was like-read her letter.’
He unfolded it carefully and read what Caroline Crale had written sixteen years ago.
My darling little Angela,
You will hear bad news and you will grieve, but what I want to impress upon you is that it is all all right.