Free Five Little Pigs by Agatha Christie Page B

child?”
    â€œAngela? Oh! we all liked Angela. She was such a sport. She was always game for anything. What a life she led that wretched governess of hers. Yes, Amyas liked Angela all right—but sometimes she went too far and then he used to get really mad with her—and then Caroline would step in—Caro was always on Angela’s side and that would finish Amyas altogether. He hated it when Caro sided with Angela against him. There was a bit of jealousy all round, you know. Amyas was jealous of the way Caro always put Angela first and would do anything for her. And Angela was jealous of Amyas and rebelled against his overbearing ways. It was his decision that she should go to school that autumn, and she was furious about it. Not, I think, because she didn’t like the idea of school, she really rather wanted to go, I believe—but it was Amyas’s high-handed way of settling it all offhand that infuriated her. She played all sorts of tricks on him in revenge. Once she put ten slugs in his bed. On the whole, I think Amyas was right. It was time she got some discipline. Miss Williams was very efficient, but even she confessed that Angela was getting too much for her.”
    He paused. Poirot said:
    â€œWhen I asked if Amyas was fond of the child—I referred to his own child, his daughter?”
    â€œOh, you mean little Carla? Yes, she was a great pet. He enjoyed playing with her when he was in the mood. But his affection for her wouldn’t have deterred him from marrying Elsa, if that’s what you mean. He hadn’t that kind of feeling for her.”
    â€œWas Caroline Crale very devoted to the child?” A kind of spasm contorted Philip’s face. He said:
    â€œI can’t say that she wasn’t a good mother. No, I can’t say that. It’s the one thing—”
    â€œYes, Mr. Blake?”
    Philip said slowly and painfully:
    â€œIt’s the one thing I really—regret—in this affair. The thought of that child. Such a tragic background to her young life. They sent her abroad to Amyas’s cousin and her husband. I hope—I sincerely hope—they managed to keep the truth from her.”
    Poirot shook his head. He said:
    â€œThe truth, Mr. Blake, has a habit of making itself known. Even after many years.”
    The stockbroker murmured: “I wonder.”
    Poirot went on:
    â€œIn the interests of truth, Mr. Blake, I am going to ask you to do something.”
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œI am going to beg that you will write me out an exact account of what happened on those days at Alderbury. That is to say, I am going to ask you to write me out a full account of the murder and its attendant circumstances.”
    â€œBut, my dear fellow, after all this time? I should be hopelessly inaccurate.”
    â€œNot necessarily.”
    â€œSurely.”
    â€œNo, for one thing, with the passage of time, the mind retains a hold on essentials and rejects superficial matters.”
    â€œHo! You mean a mere broad outline?”
    â€œNot at all. I mean a detailed conscientious account of each event as it occurred, and every conversation you can remember.”
    â€œAnd supposing I remember them wrong?”
    â€œYou can give the wording at least to the best of your reflection. There may be gaps, but that cannot be helped.”
    Blake looked at him curiously.
    â€œBut what’s the idea? The police files will give you the whole thing far more accurately.”
    â€œNo, Mr. Blake. We are speaking now from the psychological point of view. I do not want bare facts. I want your own selections of facts . Time and your memory are responsible for that selection. There may have been things done, words spoken, that I should seek for in vain in the police files. Things and words that you never mentioned because, maybe, you judged them irrelevant, or because you preferred not to repeat them.”
    Blake said sharply:
    â€œIs this account