Five Little Pigs by Agatha Christie

mean….”
    Blake went on, speaking more to himself than to Poirot.
    â€œThat’s partly, I think, why I tackled Crale. He was nearly twenty years older than the girl. It didn’t seem fair.”
    Poirot murmured:
    â€œAlas—how seldom one makes any effect. When a person has determined on a certain course—it is not easy to turn them from it.”
    Meredith Blake said:
    â€œThat is true enough.” His tone was a shade bitter. “I certainly did no good by my interference. But then, I am not a very convincing person. I never have been.”
    Poirot threw him a quick glance. He read into that slight acerbity of tone the dissatisfaction of a sensitive man with his own lack of personality. And he acknowledged to himself the truth of what Blake had just said. Meredith Blake was not the man to persuade anyone into or out of any course. His well-meaning attempts would always be set aside—indulgently usually, without anger, but definitely set aside. They would not carry weight. He was essentially an ineffective man.
    Poirot said, with an appearance of changing a painful subject: “You still have your laboratory of medicines and cordials, yes?”
    â€œNo.”
    The word came sharply—with an almost anguished rapidity Meridith Blake said, his face flushing:
    â€œI abandoned the whole thing—dismantled it. I couldn’t go on with it—how could I?—after what had happened. The whole thing, you see, might have been said to be my fault.”
    â€œNo, no, Mr. Blake, you are too sensitive.”
    â€œBut don’t you see? If I hadn’t collected those damned drugs? If I hadn’t laid stress on them—boasted about them—forced them on those people’s notice that afternoon? But I never thought—I never dreamed—how could I—”
    â€œHow indeed.”
    â€œBut I went bumbling on about them. Pleased with my little bit of knowledge. Blind, conceited fool. I pointed out that damned coniine. I even, fool that I was, took them back into the library and read them out that passage from the Phaedo describing Socrates’ death. A beautiful piece of writing—I’ve always admired it. But it’s haunted me ever since.”
    Poirot said:
    â€œDid they find any fingerprints on the coniine bottle?”
    â€œHers.”
    â€œCaroline Crale’s?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œNot yours?”
    â€œNo. I didn’t handle the bottle, you see. Only pointed to it.”
    â€œBut at the same time, surely, you had handled it?”
    â€œOh, of course, but I gave the bottles a periodic dusting from time to time—I never allowed the servants in there, of course—and I had done that about four or five days previously.”
    â€œYou kept the room locked up?”
    â€œInvariably.”
    â€œWhen did Caroline Crale take the coniine from the bottle?”
    Meredith Blake replied reluctantly:
    â€œShe was the last to leave the room. I called her, I remember, and she came hurrying out. Her cheeks were just a little pink—and her eyes wide and excited. Oh, God, I can see her now.”
    Poirot said: “Did you have any conversation with her at all that afternoon? I mean by that, did you discuss the situation as between her and her husband at all?”
    Blake said slowly in a low voice:
    â€œNot directly. She was looking as I’ve told you—very upset.I said to her at a moment when we were more or less by ourselves: ‘Is anything the matter, my dear?’ she said: ‘Everything’s the matter…’ I wish you could have heard the desperation in her voice. Those words were the absolute literal truth. There’s no getting away from it—Amyas Crale was Caroline’s whole world. She said, ‘Everything’s gone—finished. I’m finished, Meredith.’ And then she laughed and turned to the others and was suddenly wildly and very unnaturally gay.”
    Hercule