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different, he said, from anything or anyone he'd ever met before. Not that I paid much attention to that. Amyas was always meeting one woman or other who was 'different.' Usually, a month later, he'd stare at you if you mentioned them, and wonder who you were talking about! But this Elsa Greer really was different. I realized that when I came down to Alderbury to stay. She'd got him, you know - hooked him good and proper. The poor mutt fairly ate out of her hand.”
    “You did not like Elsa Greer either?”
    “No, I didn't like her. She was definitely a predatory creature. She, too, wanted to own Crale body and soul. But I think, all the same, that she'd have been better for him than Caroline. She might conceivably have let him alone once she was sure of him. Or she might have got tired of him and moved on to someone else. The best thing for Amyas would have been to be quite free of female entanglements.”
    “But that, it would seem, was not to his taste.”
    Philip Blake said with a sigh, “The fool was always getting himself involved with some woman or other. And yet, in a way, women really meant very little to him. The only two women who really made any impression on him at all in his life were Caroline and Elsa.”
    “Was he fond of the child?” Poirot asked.
    “Angela? 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.”
    He paused.
    “In the interests of truth, Mr Blake,” Poirot said, “I am going to ask you to do something.”
    “What is it?”
    “I 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.”
    “But, my dear fellow, after all this time? I should be hopelessly inaccurate.”
    “Not necessarily.”
    “Surely.”
    “No, Mr Blake; for one thing, with the passage of time, the mind retains a hold on essentials and rejects superficial matters.”
    “Oh, you mean a mere broad outline?”
    “Not at all. I mean a detailed, conscientious account of each event as it occurred and every conversation you can remember.”
    “And supposing I remember them wrong?”
    “You can give the wording at least to the best of your recollection. There may be gaps, but that cannot be helped.”
    Blake looked at him curiously. “But what's the idea? The police files will give you the whole thing far more accurately.”
    “No, Mr Blake. We are speaking now from the psychological point of view. I do not want bare facts. I want your own selection 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, “Is this account of mine for publication?”
    “Certainly not. It is for my eye only. To assist me to draw my own deductions.”
    “And you won't quote from it without my consent?”
    “Certainly not.”
    “H'm,” said Philip Blake. “I'm a very busy man, M. Poirot.”
    “I appreciate that there will be time and trouble involved. I should be happy to agree to a - reasonable fee.”
    There was a moment's pause. Then Philip Blake said suddenly, “No, if I do it I'll do it for nothing.”
    “And you will do it?”
    Philip Blake