Agatha Christie - Five Little Pigs

Hercule Poirot looked with interest and appreciation at the young woman who was being ushered into the room.

There had been nothing distinctive in the letter she had written. It had been a mere request for an appointment, with no hint of what lay behind that request. It had been brief and business-like. Only the firmness of the handwriting had indicated that Carla Lemarchant was a young woman.

And now here she was in the flesh-a tall, slender young woman in the early twenties. The kind of young woman that one definitely looked at twice. Her clothes were good, an expensive well-cut coat and skirt and luxurious furs. Her head was well poised on her shoulders, she had a square brow, a sensitively cut nose and a determined chin. She looked very much alive. It was her aliveness, more than her beauty, which struck the predominant note.

Before her entrance, Hercule Poirot had been feeling old-now he felt rejuvenated-alive-keen!

As he came forward to greet her, he was aware of her dark grey eyes studying him attentively. She was very earnest in that scrutiny.

She sat down and accepted the cigarette that he offered her. After it was lit she sat for a minute or two smoking, still looking at him with that earnest, thoughtful gaze.

Poirot said gently:

Yes, it has to be decided, does it not?

She started. I beg your pardon?

Her voice was attractive, with a faint, agreeable huskiness in it.

You are making up your mind, are you not, whether I am a mere mountebank, or the man you need?

She smiled. She said:

Well, yes-something of that kind. You see, M. Poirot, you-you dont look exactly the way I pictured you.

And I am old, am I not? Older than you imagined?

Yes, that too. She hesitated. Im being frank, you see. I want-Ive got to have-the best.

Rest assured, said Hercule Poirot. Iam the best!

Carla said: Youre not modestAll the same, Im inclined to take you at your word.

Poirot said placidly:

One does not, you know, employ merely the muscles. I do not need to bend and measure the footprints and pick up the cigarette ends and examine the bent blades of grass. It is enough for me to sit back in my chair andthink. It is this-he tapped his egg-shaped head-thisthat functions!

I know, said Carla Lemarchant. Thats why Ive come to you. I want you, you see, to do something fantastic!

That, said Hercule Poirot, promises well!

He looked at her in encouragement.

Carla Lemarchant drew a deep breath.

My name, she said, isnt Carla. Its Caroline. The same as my mothers. I was called after her. She paused. And though Ive always gone by the name of Lemarchant-my real name is Crale.

Hercule Poirots forehead creased a moment perplexedly. He murmured: Crale-I seem to remember

She said:

My father was a painter-rather a well-known painter. Some people say he was a great painter.I think he was.

Hercule Poirot said: Amyas Crale?

Yes. She paused, then she went on: And my mother, Caroline Crale, was tried for murdering him!

Aha, said Hercule Poirot. I remember now-but only vaguely. I was abroad at the time. It was a long time ago.

Sixteen years, said the girl.

Her face was very white now and her eyes two burning lights.

She said:

Do you understand?She was tried and convictedShe wasnt hanged because they felt that there were extenuating circumstances-so the sentence was commuted to penal servitude for life. But she died only a year after the trial. You see? Its all over-done-finished with

Poirot said quietly: And so?

The girl called Carla Lemarchant pressed her hands together. She spoke slowly and haltingly but with an odd, pointed emphasis.

She said:

Youve got to understand-exactly-where I come in. I was five years old at the time it-happened. Too young to know anything about it. I remember my mother and my father, of course, and I remember leaving home suddenly-being taken to the country. I remember the pigs and a nice fat farmers wife-and everybody being very kind-and I remember, quite clearly, the funny way they used to look at me-everybody-a sort of furtive look. I knew, of course, children do, that there was something wrong-but I didnt know what.

And then I went on a ship-it was exciting-it went on for days, and then I was in Canada and Uncle Simon met me, and I lived in Montreal with him and with Aunt Louise, and when I asked about Mummy and Daddy they said theyd be coming soon. And then-and then I think I forgot-only I sort of knew that they were dead without remembering any one actually telling me so. Because by that time, you see, I didnt think about them any more. I was very hapy, you know. Uncle Simon and Aunt Louise were sweet to me, and I went to school and had a lot of friends, and Id quite forgotten that Id ever had another name, not Lemarchant. Aunt Louise, you see, told me that that was my name in Canada and that seemed quite sensible to me at the time-it was just my Canadian name-but as I say I forgot in the end that Id ever had any other.

She flung up her defiant chin. She said:

Look at me. Youd say-wouldnt you? if you met me: There goes a girl whos got nothing to worry about! Im well off, Ive got splendid health, Im sufficiently good to look at, I can enjoy life. At twenty, there wasnt a girl anywhere Id have changed places with.

But already, you know, Id begun to ask questions. About my own mother and father. Who they were and what they did? Id have been bound to find out in the end-

As it was, they told me the truth. When I was twenty-one. They had to then, because for one thing I came into my own money. And then, you see, there was the letter. The letter my mother left for me when she died.

Her expression changed, dimmed. Her eyes were no longer two burning points, they were dark dim pools. She said:

Thats when I learnt the truth. That my mother had been convicted of murder. It was-rather horrible.

She paused.

Theres something else I must tell you. I was engaged to be married. They said we must wait-that we couldnt be married until I was twenty-one. When I knew, I understood why.

Poirot stirred and spoke for the first time. He said:

And what was your fiances reaction?

John? John didnt care. He said it made no difference-not to him. He and I were John and Carla-and the past didnt matter.

She leaned forward.

Were still engaged. But all the same, you know, itdoes matter. It matters to me. And it matters to John tooIt isnt the past that matters to us-its the future. She clenched her hands. We want children, you see. We both want children. And we dont want to watch our children growing up and be afraid.

Poirot said:

Do you not realize that amongst every ones ancestors there has been violence and evil?

You dont understand. Thats so, of course. But then, one doesnt usually know about it. We do. Its very near to us. And sometimes-Ive seen John just look at me. Such a quick glance-just a flash. Supposing we were married and wed quarrelled-and I saw him look at me and-andwonder?

Hercule Poirot said: How was your father killed?

Carlas voice came clear and firm.

He was poisoned.

Hercule Poirot said: I see.

There was a silence.

Then the girl said in a calm, matter-of-fact voice:

Thank goodness youre sensible. You see that it does matter-and what it involves. You dont try and patch it up and trot out consoling phrases.

I understand very well, said Poirot. What I do not understand is what you want ofme?

Carla Lemarchant said simply:

I want to marry John! And I mean to marry John! And I want to have at least two girls and two boys. And youre going to make that possible!