"Fell in love with him, indeed.
I should hope, M. 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," said Poirot.
"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, M. Poirot, if ever a woman was driven to the 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, M. 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 gray 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 Elsa Greer 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, M. 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 colors 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 pull-over 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.