He had climbed to the top floor of the bare building and knocked on the door of No. 584 Gillespie Buildings, which had come into existence to provide so-called "flat-lets" for workingwomen.
Here, in a small cubic space, existed Miss Cecilia Williams, in a room that was bedroom, sitting-room, dining-room and, by judicious use of the gas ring, kitchen - a kind of cubbyhole attached to it contained a quarter-length bath and the usual offices.
Meager though these surroundings might be, Miss Williams had contrived to impress upon them her stamp of personality.
The walls were distempered an ascetic pale gray, and various reproductions hung upon them. Dante meeting Beatrice on a bridge, and that picture once described by a child as a "blind girl sitting on an orange and called, I don't know why, Hope." There were also two water colors of Venice and a sepia copy of Botticelli's Primavera.
On the top of the low chest of drawers were a large quantity of faded photographs, mostly, by their style of hairdress, dating from twenty to thirty years ago.
The square of carpet was threadbare, the furniture battered and of poor quality.
It was clear to Hercule Poirot that Cecilia Williams lived very near the bone. There was no roast beef here.
This was the little pig that had none.
Clear, incisive and insistent, the voice of Miss Williams repeated its demand: "You want my recollections of the Crale case? May I ask why?"
It has been said of Hercule Poirot by some of his friends and associates, at moments when he has maddened them most, that he prefers lies to truth and will go out of his way to gain his ends by means of elaborate false statements, were rather than trust to the simple truth. But in this case he proffered no specious explanation of a book to be written on bygone crimes.
Instead he narrated simply the circumstances in which Carla Lemarchant had sought him out.
The small, elderly lady in the neat, shabby dress listened attentively.
She said, "It interests me very much to have news of that child - to know how she has turned out."
"She is a very charming and attractive young woman, of courage and a mind of her own."
"Good," said Miss Williams briefly.
"And she is, I may say, a very persistent person.
She is not a person whom it is easy to refuse or put off."
The ex-governess nodded thoughtfully.
She asked,
"Is she artistic?"
"I think not."
Miss Williams said dryly, "That's one thing to be thankful for!" The tone of the remark left Miss Williams's views as to artists in no doubt whatever. She added, "From your account of her I should imagine that she takes after her mother rather than after her father."
"Very possibly.
That you can tell me when you have seen her.
You would like to see her?"
"I should like to see her very much indeed.
It is always interesting to see how a child you have known has developed."
"She was, I suppose, very young when you last saw her?"
"She was five and a half.
A very charming child - a little overquiet, perhaps. Thoughtful.
Given to playing her own little games and not inviting outside co-operation. Natural and unspoiled."
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, noncommittal.
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 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,