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Carla Lemarchant had grown up with the shadow of tragedy. Sixteen years earlier, her father, the famous painter Amyas Crale, had been poisoned at their country home, Alderbury, and her mother, Caroline Crale, had been convicted of his murder. Caroline had died soon after in prison, leaving Carla with a terrible legacy. On the eve of her marriage, Carla could not bear the thought of beginning a new life while doubting her mother’s innocence. Determined to uncover the truth, she sought out the great detective Hercule Poirot to re-examine the case.
Poirot listened patiently as Carla told him her story. She handed him a letter written by her mother before her death, proclaiming her innocence. The old case had been closed long ago, but Poirot’s curiosity was piqued. He was intrigued by the prospect of solving a murder committed sixteen years ago—without new evidence, without witnesses still fresh in memory, but by logic and human psychology alone. He accepted the challenge and promised to find the truth.
Amyas Crale had been a passionate artist and an equally passionate man, known for his affairs and his fiery temperament. Caroline, his wife, had been deeply in love with him, but her jealousy was intense. At the time of his death, Amyas had been painting a young woman named Elsa Greer, a beautiful and confident girl who was also his lover. The scandal had been whispered about in their social circle, and everyone at Alderbury that summer had felt the tension. On the day Amyas died, he was working on Elsa’s portrait while drinking a glass of beer laced with poison. The bottle of coniine, a deadly alkaloid, had come from his own laboratory, where he used it to experiment with plant extracts. Caroline had been the only person known to have had access to the poison, and when she confessed to quarrelling with Amyas and was found holding the bottle later, the evidence had seemed overwhelming. She was convicted, and few had doubted her guilt.
Poirot began by studying the trial records and visiting the people who had been present that day—five in all. They were, as he later described them, the “five little pigs”: Elsa Greer, the young mistress; Philip Blake, Amyas’s closest friend; Meredith Blake, Philip’s brother and an amateur chemist who owned the coniine; Cecilia Williams, the strict governess; and Angela Warren, Caroline’s much younger half-sister, who had been sixteen at the time.
He first visited Philip Blake, now a successful stockbroker. Blake was brusque and defensive, still bitter about the past. He insisted that Caroline had been guilty. He remembered Amyas complaining that his wife was making a scene, that she had taken the coniine, and that he was tired of her jealousy. Philip admitted that he had once been in love with Caroline himself but claimed that after she married Amyas, his love had turned to contempt. To him, Caroline was a jealous woman who had finally lost control.
Poirot then went to see Meredith Blake, who lived a quieter life. Meredith had always been fond of Caroline and was more reflective than his brother. He recalled how, years ago, he had shown Amyas and Caroline his collection of poisons, including the coniine. After the murder, he had felt partly responsible for leaving it where Caroline could reach it. Yet Meredith also described Caroline as calm and composed on the day of the tragedy, not like a woman preparing to kill. Poirot noted this difference in perception carefully.
Next was Miss Cecilia Williams, the governess, now elderly but as precise as ever. She had disliked Amyas’s behavior with Elsa but had respected Caroline. She remembered seeing Caroline’s face full of suffering that day, and though she admitted Caroline could be jealous, she could not picture her as a murderess. Still, Miss Williams had heard Caroline say, “You’ll see, Amyas—you’ll see,” words that had sounded like a threat. Poirot observed how memory and emotion colored each person’s recollection differently.
Angela Warren was next. Now a famous archaeologist, she carried a scar on her face—left there by Caroline years before in a moment of anger when Angela was a child. Yet Angela defended her sister fiercely, saying that despite their past, Caroline had loved Amyas deeply and could never have killed him. Angela also told Poirot that on the morning of the murder, she had played a prank by substituting a bottle of cold beer with one laced with oil of valerian to make it taste horrible. But that beer had never reached Amyas. The real poisoned drink had come later.
Finally, Poirot visited Elsa Greer, now Lady Dittisham. She was still beautiful, though time had hardened her. Elsa had been headstrong at twenty, and she had believed that Amyas would leave his wife for her. She told Poirot that Amyas had promised to do so once he finished her portrait, but that day he had been cold, saying he intended to stay with Caroline. Elsa’s pride had been wounded, and she had stormed off, leaving him alive and painting. She claimed Caroline had confronted her later and said that Amyas would never marry her. Elsa admitted she had hated Caroline then, convinced that the older woman had destroyed her happiness.
Having spoken to them all, Poirot asked each to write a personal account of what they remembered. He wanted their words, unfiltered by conversation, so he could read their minds through their writing. He studied these letters carefully, weighing the contradictions and truths hidden within them. Each person had seen only part of the picture, each had their own motives, their own emotions. But together, their words formed a pattern.
Poirot reconstructed the events of that day as if he were there himself. The morning had been full of tension. Amyas was painting Elsa in the garden by the battery wall, while Caroline moved restlessly about the house. Angela played nearby, watched by Miss Williams. The two Blake brothers had visited briefly. Later that afternoon, Amyas had asked for another bottle of beer. Caroline had fetched it for him, apparently calm. After that, Amyas had continued painting until he suddenly collapsed and died, poisoned by coniine. Caroline had been found holding the empty bottle later and said she meant to throw it away to protect Angela, thinking she had caused Amyas’s illness with her prank. But the analysis proved coniine poisoning, and the evidence condemned her.
Poirot pondered what each had said and how human hearts concealed truth. He realized that all five had seen Caroline through the lens of their own emotions: Philip’s jealousy, Elsa’s wounded pride, Meredith’s guilt, Miss Williams’s moralism, Angela’s gratitude. Yet beneath their testimony lay a quiet truth.
Poirot gathered them all together at Alderbury, in the same room where the tragedy had begun. He told them he had solved the case—not through new evidence, but by understanding human nature. He described how Amyas Crale had been poisoned not by Caroline, but by someone else. The real murderer had been Elsa Greer.
Poirot explained that Amyas had told Elsa that day that he would never leave his wife, that he loved Caroline and would remain with her. Elsa, proud and passionate, had been humiliated. In a moment of furious spite, she had gone into the laboratory, where she had seen the bottle of coniine left on the table by Meredith. She knew enough from hearing their conversation earlier to guess it was poisonous. She had poured it into a beer bottle and left it for Amyas, pretending to be helpful. Later, Caroline had taken the same bottle, unaware it had been tampered with, and carried it to her husband. When he died, Caroline realized what had happened. She guessed immediately that Elsa had poisoned him, but she chose to take the blame herself—to protect Amyas’s memory and to prevent the scandal from destroying their daughter’s future.
Poirot said that Caroline’s letter to her daughter proved this: her calm acceptance of guilt was the act of a woman covering the sin of another. He also revealed how Caroline’s last act had been to send her daughter away from the shame of the name Crale, never once pleading for her own life. The detective’s voice softened as he spoke, for he understood the tragedy of love twisted by pride and jealousy.
The room was silent as he finished. Elsa turned pale, trembling under the weight of the truth. She had lived all these years believing her act had gone unnoticed, convincing herself that Caroline had been guilty. Now the realization shattered her. Philip Blake sat in stunned silence, his bitterness dissolving into shame. Meredith murmured a prayer. Miss Williams nodded sadly, as if the moral order had finally been restored. Angela looked at Poirot with tears in her eyes, whispering that her sister had been innocent all along.
Carla Lemarchant wept quietly, her heart both broken and freed. The truth had not changed the past, but it had lifted the shadow from her mother’s name. Poirot, satisfied, rose to leave. He knew that no justice could undo what had been done sixteen years ago, but he also knew that truth, once revealed, could bring peace. And so the story of the five little pigs—the five witnesses, each telling their piece of the tale—came to its final end, with the innocence of one woman restored and the burden of guilt returning to its rightful place.