MajerEmma

“At first, I always make it a point to give in to the prejudices of society. That is how I have always been so successful. I never went in the face of anybody's prejudices. Afterwards, you know, when one is known ....”
― Mrs. Oliphant, Miss Marjoribanks

“There is a great deal in choosing colours that go well with one's complexion. People think of that for their dresses, but not for their rooms., which are of so much more importance. I should have liked blue, but blue gets so soon tawdry. I think, (...) that I have enough complexion at present to venture upon a pale spring green.”
― Mrs. Oliphant, Miss Marjoribanks

“Charlotte Brontë, with all her splendid gift for prose, stumbled and fell with that clumsy weapon in her hands. George Eliot committed atrocities with it that beggar description. Jane Austen looked at it and laughed at it and devised a perfectly natural, shapely sentence proper for her own use and never departed from it. Thus, with less genius for writing than Charlotte Brontë, she got infinitely more said.”
― Virginia Woolf

“Ah yes, the people concerned. That is very important. You remember, perhaps, who they were?’

Depleach considered.

‘Let me see-it’s a long time ago. There were only five people who were really in it, so to speak-I’m not counting the servants-a couple of faithful old things, scared-looking creatures-they didn’t know anything about anything. No one could suspect them.’

‘There are five people, you say. Tell me about them.’

‘Well, there was Philip Blake. He was Crale’s greatest friend-had known him all his life. He was staying in the house at the time.He’s alive. I see him now and again on the links. Lives at St George’s Hill. Stockbroker. Plays the markets and gets away with it. Successful man, running to fat a bit.’

‘Yes. And who next?’

‘Then there was Blake’s elder brother. Country squire-stay at home sort of chap.’

A jingle ran through Poirot’s head. He repressed it. He mustnot always be thinking of nursery rhymes. It seemed an obsession with him lately. And yet the jingle persisted.

‘This little pig went to market, this little pig stayed at home…’

He murmured:

‘He stayed at home-yes?’

‘He’s the fellow I was telling you about-messed about with drugs-and herbs-bit of a chemist. His hobby. What was his name now? Literary sort of name-I’ve got it. Meredith. Meredith Blake. Don’t know whether he’s alive or not.’

‘And who next?’

‘Next? Well, there’s the cause of all the trouble. The girl in the case. Elsa Greer.’

‘This little pig ate roast beef,’ murmured Poirot.

Depleach stared at him.

‘They’ve fed her meat all right,’ he said. ‘She’s been a go-getter. She’s had three husbands since then. In and out of the divorce court as easy as you please. And every time she makes a change, it’s for the better. Lady Dittisham-that’s who she is now. Open anyTatler and you’re sure to find her.’

‘And the other two?’

‘There was the governess woman. I don’t remember her name. Nice capable woman. Thompson-Jones-something like that. And there was the child. Caroline Crale’s half-sister. She must have been about fifteen. She’s made rather a name for herself. Digs up things and goes trekking to the back of beyond. Warren-that’s her name. Angela Warren. Rather an alarming young woman nowadays. I met her the other day.’

‘She is not, then, the little pig who cried Wee Wee Wee…?’

Sir Montague Depleach looked at him rather oddly. He said drily:

‘She’s had something to cry Wee-Wee about in her life! She’s disfigured, you know. Got a bad scar down one side of her face. She-Oh well, you’ll hear all about it, I dare say.’

Poirot stood up. He said:

‘I thank you. You have been very kind. If Mrs Crale didnot kill her husband-’

Depleach interrupted him:

‘But she did, old boy, she did. Take my word for it.’

Poirot continued without taking any notice of the interruption.

‘Then it seems logical to suppose that one of these five people must have done so.’

‘One of themcould have done it, I suppose,’ said Depleach, doubtfully. ‘But I don’t see why any of themshould. No reason at all! In fact, I’m quite sure none of themdid do it. Do get this bee out of your bonnet, old boy!’

But Hercule Poirot only smiled and shook his head.”
― Agatha Christie, Five Little Pigs