Curtain: Poirot's Last Case (11 page)

It made us all laugh. Mrs Luttrell went on: ‘Oh, I know my faults, but I’m not going to give them up at my time of life. George has just got to put up with me.’

Colonel Luttrell looked at her quite fatuously.

I think it was seeing them both on such good terms that led to a discussion on marriage and divorce that took place later in the day.

Were men and women actually happier by reason of the greater facilities afforded for divorce, or was it often the case that a temporary period of irritation and estrangement – or trouble over a third person – gave way after a while to a resumption of affection and friendliness?

It is odd sometimes to see how much at variance people’s ideas are with their own personal experiences.

My own marriage had been unbelievably happy and successful, and I am essentially an old-fashioned person, yet I was on the side of divorce – of cutting one’s losses and starting afresh. Boyd Carrington, whose marriage had been unhappy, yet held for an indissoluble marriage bond. He had, he said, the utmost reverence for the institution of marriage. It was the foundation of the state.

Norton, with no ties and no personal angle, was of my way of thinking. Franklin, the modern scientific thinker, was, strangely enough, resolutely opposed to divorce. It offended, apparently, his ideal of clear-cut thinking and action. One assumed certain responsibilities. Those must be carried through and not shirked or set aside. A contract, he said, is a contract. One enters upon it of one’s own free will, and must abide by it. Anything else resulted in what he called a mess. Loose ends, half-dissolved ties.

Leaning back in his chair, his long legs kicking vaguely at a table, he said: ‘A man chooses his wife. She’s his responsibility until she dies – or he does.’

Norton said rather comically: ‘And sometimes – Oh blessed death, eh?’

We laughed, and Boyd Carrington said: ‘You needn’t talk, my lad, you’ve never been married.’

Shaking his head, Norton said: ‘And now I’ve left it too late.’

‘Have you?’ Boyd Carrington’s glance was quizzical. ‘Sure of that?’

It was just at that moment that Elizabeth Cole joined us. She had been up with Mrs Franklin.

I wondered if it was my fancy, or did Boyd Carrington look meaningly from her to Norton, and was it possible that Norton blushed?

It put a new idea into my head and I looked searchingly at Elizabeth Cole. It was true that she was still a comparatively young woman. Moreover she was quite a handsome one. In fact a very charming and sympathetic person who was capable of making any man happy. And she and Norton had spent a good deal of time together of late. In their hunts for wild flowers and birds, they had become friends; I remembered how she had spoken of Norton being such a kind person.

Well, if so, I was glad for her sake. Her starved and barren girlhood would not stand in the way of her ultimate happiness. The tragedy that had shattered her life would not have been enacted in vain. I thought, looking at her, that she certainly looked much happier and – yes, gayer, than when I had first come to Styles.

Elizabeth Cole and Norton – yes, it might be.

And suddenly, from nowhere, a vague feeling of uneasiness and disquiet assailed me. It was not safe – it was not right – to plan happiness here. There was something malignant about the air of Styles. I felt it now – this minute, felt suddenly old and tired – yes, and afraid.

A minute later the feeling passed. Nobody had noticed it, I think, except Boyd Carrington. He said to me in an undertone a few minutes later: ‘Anything the matter, Hastings?’

‘No, why?’

‘Well – you looked – I can’t quite explain it.’

‘Just a feeling – apprehension.’

‘A premonition of evil?’

‘Yes, if you like to put it that way. A feeling that – that something was going to happen.’

‘Funny. I’ve felt that once or twice. Any idea
what
?’ He was watching me narrowly.

I shook my head. For indeed I had had no definite apprehension of any particular thing. It had only been a wave of deep depression and fear.

Then Judith had come out of the house. She had come slowly, her head held high, her lips pressed together, her face grave and beautiful.

I thought how unlike she was to either me or Cinders. She looked like some young priestess. Norton felt something of that too. He said to her: ‘You look like your namesake might have looked before she cut off the head of Holofernes.’

Judith smiled and raised her eyebrows a little. ‘I can’t remember now why she wanted to.’

‘Oh, strictly on the highest moral grounds for the good of the community.’

The light banter in his tone annoyed Judith. She flushed and went past him to sit by Franklin. She said: ‘Mrs Franklin is feeling much better. She wants us all to come up and have coffee with her this evening.’

IV

Mrs Franklin was certainly a creature of moods, I thought, as we trooped upstairs after dinner. Having made everyone’s life unbearable all day, she was now sweetness itself to everybody.

She was dressed in a negligee of pale eau-de-Nil and was lying on her chaise-longue. Beside her was a small revolving bookcase-table with the coffee apparatus set out. Her fingers, deft and white, dealt with the ritual of coffee making, with some slight aid from Nurse Craven. We were all there with the exception of Poirot who always retired before dinner, Allerton who had not returned from Ipswich, and Mrs and Colonel Luttrell who had remained downstairs.

The aroma of coffee came to our noses – a delicious smell. The coffee at Styles was an uninteresting muddy fluid, so we all looked forward to Mrs Franklin’s brew with freshly ground berries.

Franklin sat on the other side of the table handing the cups as she filled them. Boyd Carrington stood by the foot of the sofa, Elizabeth Cole and Norton were by the window. Nurse Craven had retired to the background by the head of the bed. I was sitting in an armchair wrestling with
The Times
crossword, and reading out the clues.

‘Even love or third party risk?’ I read out. ‘Eight letters.’

‘Probably an anagram,’ said Franklin.

We thought for a minute. I went on. ‘The chaps between the hills are unkind.’

‘Tormentor,’ said Boyd Carrington quickly. ‘Quotation: “And Echo whate’er is asked her answers” – blank. Tennyson. Five letters.’

‘Where,’ suggested Mrs Franklin. ‘Surely that’s right. “And Echo answers where”?’

I was doubtful. ‘It would make a word end in “W”.’

‘Well, lots of words end in “W”. How and now and snow.’

Elizabeth Cole said from the window: ‘The Tennyson quotation is: “And Echo whate’er is asked her answers Death”.’

I heard a quick sharp intake of breath behind me. I looked up. It was Judith. She went past us to the window and out upon the balcony.

I said, as I wrote the last clue in: ‘Even love can’t be an anagram. The second letter now is “A”.’

‘What’s the clue again?’

‘Even love or third party risk? Blank A and six blanks.’

‘Paramour,’ said Boyd Carrington.

I heard the teaspoon rattle on Barbara Franklin’s saucer. I went on to the next clue.

‘“Jealousy is a green-eyed monster,” this person said.’

‘Shakespeare,’ said Boyd Carrington.

‘Was it Othello or Emilia?’ said Mrs Franklin.

‘All too long. The clue is only four letters.’

‘Iago.’

‘I’m
sure
it was Othello.’

‘It wasn’t in
Othello
at all. Romeo said it to Juliet.’

We all voiced our opinions. Suddenly from the balcony Judith cried out: ‘Look, a shooting star. Oh, there’s another.’

Boyd Carrington said: ‘Where? We must wish.’ He went out on the balcony, joining Elizabeth Cole, Norton and Judith. Nurse Craven went out too. Franklin got up and joined them. They stood there, exclaiming, gazing out into the night.

I remained with my head bent over the crossword. Why should
I
wish to see a falling star? I had nothing to wish for . . .

Suddenly Boyd Carrington wheeled back into the room.

‘Barbara, you must come out.’

Mrs Franklin said sharply: ‘No, I can’t. I’m too tired.’

‘Nonsense, Babs. You must come and wish!’ He laughed. ‘Now don’t protest. I’ll carry you.’

And suddenly stooping he picked her up in his arms. She laughed and protested: ‘Bill, put me down – don’t be so silly.’

‘Little girls have got to come out and wish.’ He carried her through the window and set her down on the balcony.

I bent closer over the paper. For I was remembering . . . A clear tropical night, frogs croaking . . . and a shooting star. I was standing there by the window, and I had turned and picked up Cinders and carried her out in my arms to see the stars and wish . . .

The lines of my crossword ran and blurred before my eyes.

A figure detached itself from the balcony and came into the room – Judith.

Judith must never catch me with tears in my eyes. It would never do. Hastily I swung round the bookcase and pretended to be looking for a book. I remembered having seen an old edition of Shakespeare there. Yes, here it was. I looked through
Othello
.

‘What are you doing, Father?’

I mumbled something about the clue, my fingers turning over the pages. Yes, it was Iago.

Judith went on with some other lines:

Her voice rang out, beautiful and deep.

The others were coming back, laughing and talking. Mrs Franklin resumed her place on the chaise-longue, Franklin came back to his seat and stirred his coffee. Norton and Elizabeth Cole finished drinking theirs and excused themselves as they had promised to play bridge with the Luttrells.

Mrs Franklin drank her coffee and then demanded her ‘drops’. Judith got them for her from the bathroom as Nurse Craven had just gone out.

Franklin was wandering aimlessly round the room. He stumbled over a small table. His wife said sharply:

‘Don’t be so clumsy, John.’

‘Sorry, Barbara. I was thinking of something.’

Mrs Franklin said rather affectedly: ‘Such a great bear, aren’t you, darling?’

He looked at her rather abstractedly. Then he said: ‘Nice night, think I’ll take a stroll.’

He went out.

Mrs Franklin said: ‘He
is
a genius, you know. You can tell it from his manner. I really do admire him terrifically. Such a passion for his work.’

‘Yes, yes, clever fellow,’ said Boyd Carrington rather perfunctorily.

Judith left the room abruptly, nearly colliding with Nurse Craven in the doorway.

Boyd Carrington said: ‘What about a game of picquet, Babs?’

‘Oh, lovely. Can you get hold of some cards, Nurse?’

Nurse Craven went to get cards, and I wished Mrs Franklin good night and thanked her for the coffee.

Outside I overtook Franklin and Judith. They were standing looking out of the passage window. They were not speaking, just standing side by side.

Franklin looked over his shoulder as I approached. He moved a step or two, hesitated and said: ‘Coming out for a stroll, Judith?’

My daughter shook her head. ‘Not tonight.’ She added abruptly: ‘I’m going to bed. Good night.’

I went downstairs with Franklin. He was whistling softly to himself and smiling.

I remarked rather crossly, for I was feeling depressed myself: ‘You seem pleased with yourself tonight.’

He admitted it.

‘Yes. I’ve done something that I’ve been meaning to do for a long time. Very satisfactory, that.’

I parted from him downstairs, and looked in on the bridge players for a minute. Norton winked at me when Mrs Luttrell wasn’t looking. The rubber seemed to be progressing with unusual harmony.

Allerton had still not come back. It seemed to me that the house was happier and less oppressive without him.

I went up to Poirot’s room. I found Judith sitting with him. She smiled at me when I came in and did not speak.

‘She has forgiven you,
mon ami
,’ said Poirot – an outrageous remark.

‘Really,’ I spluttered. ‘I hardly think –’

Judith got up. She put an arm round my neck and kissed me. She said: ‘Poor Father. Uncle Hercule shall
not
attack your dignity.
I
am the one to be forgiven. So forgive me and say good night.’

I don’t quite know why, but I said: ‘I’m sorry, Judith. I’m very sorry, I didn’t mean –’

She stopped me. ‘That’s all right. Let’s forget it. Everything’s all right now.’ She smiled a slow, far-away smile. She said again: ‘Everything’s all right now . . .’ and quietly left the room.

When she had gone Poirot looked at me.

‘Well?’ he demanded. ‘What has been happening this evening?’

I spread out my hands. ‘Nothing has happened, or is likely to happen,’ I told him.

Actually I was very wide of the mark. For something did happen that night. Mrs Franklin was taken violently ill. Two more doctors were sent for, but in vain. She died the following morning.

It was not until twenty-four hours later that we learned that her death was due to poisoning by physostigmine.

I

The inquest took place two days later. It was the second time I had attended an inquest in this part of the world.

The coroner was an able middle-aged man with a shrewd glance and a dry manner of speech.

The medical evidence was taken first. It established the fact that death was the result of poisoning by physostigmine, and that other alkaloids of the Calabar bean were also present. The poison must have been taken some time on the preceding evening between seven o’clock and midnight. The police surgeon and his colleague refused to be more precise.

The next witness was Dr Franklin. He created on the whole a good impression. His evidence was clear and simple. After his wife’s death he had checked over his solutions in the laboratory. He had discovered that a certain bottle, which should have contained a strong solution of alkaloids of the Calabar bean with which he had been conducting experiments, had been filled up with ordinary water in which only a trace of the original contents was present. He could not say with certainty when this had been done as he had not used that particular preparation for some days.

The question of access to the laboratory was then gone into. Dr Franklin agreed that the laboratory was usually kept locked and that he usually had the key in his pocket. His assistant, Miss Hastings, had a duplicate key. Anyone who wished to go into the studio had to get the key from her or from himself. His wife had borrowed it occasionally, when she had left things belonging to her in the laboratory. He himself had never brought a solution of physostig-mine into the house or into his wife’s room and he thought that by no possibility could she have taken it accidentally.

Questioned further by the coroner, he said that his wife had for some time been in a low and nervous state of health. There was no organic disease. She suffered from depression and from a rapid alteration of moods.

Of late, he said, she had been cheerful and he had considered her improved in health and spirits. There had been no quarrel between them and they had been on good terms. On the last evening his wife had seemed in good spirits and not melancholy.

He said that his wife had occasionally spoken of ending her life but that he had not taken her remarks seriously. Asked the question definitely, he replied that in his opinion his wife had not been a suicidal type. That was his medical opinion as well as his personal one.

He was followed by Nurse Craven. She looked smart and efficient in her trim uniform and her replies were crisp and professional. She had been in attendance on Mrs Franklin for over two months. Mrs Franklin suffered badly from depression. Witness had heard her say at least three times that she ‘wanted to end it all’, that her life was useless and that she was a millstone round her husband’s neck.

‘Why did she say that? Had there been any altercation between them?’

‘Oh no, but she was aware that her husband had recently been offered an appointment abroad. He had refused that in order not to leave her.’

‘And sometimes she felt morbidly about the fact?’

‘Yes. She would blame her miserable health, and get all worked up.’

‘Did Dr Franklin know about this?’

‘I do not think she often said so to him.’

‘But she was subject to fits of depression.’

‘Oh, definitely.’

‘Did she ever specifically mention committing suicide?’

‘I think “I want to end it all” was the phrase she used.’

‘She never suggested any particular method of taking her own life?’

‘No. She was quite vague.’

‘Had there been anything especially to depress her of late?’

‘No. She had been in reasonably good spirits.’

‘Do you agree with Dr Franklin that she was in good spirits on the night of her death?’

Nurse Craven hesitated. ‘Well – she was excited. She’d had a bad day – complained of pain and giddiness. She had seemed better in the evening, but her good spirits were a bit unnatural. She seemed feverish and rather artificial.’

‘Did you see anything of a bottle, or anything that might have contained the poison?’

‘No.’

‘What did she eat and drink?’

‘She had soup, a cutlet, green peas and mashed potatoes, and cherry tart. She had a glass of burgundy with it.’

‘Where did the burgundy come from?’

‘There was a bottle in her room. There was some left afterwards but I believe it was examined and found to be quite all right.’

‘Could she have put the drug in her glass without you seeing?’

‘Oh yes, easily. I was to and fro in the room, tidying up and arranging things. I was not watching her. She had a little despatch case beside her and also a handbag. She could have put anything in the burgundy, or later in the coffee, or in the hot milk she had last thing.’

‘Have you any idea as to what she could have done with the bottle or container if so?’

Nurse Craven considered. ‘Well, I suppose she could have thrown it out of the window later. Or put it in the waste-paper basket, or even washed it out in the bathroom and put it back in the medicine cupboard. There are several empty bottles there. I save them because they come in handy.’

‘When did you last see Mrs Franklin?’

‘At ten-thirty. I settled her for the night. She had hot milk and said she’d like an aspirin.’

‘How was she then?’

The witness considered a minute.

‘Well, really, just as usual . . . No, I’d say she was perhaps just a bit over-excited.’

‘Not depressed?’

‘Well, no, more strung up, so to speak. But if it’s suicide you’re thinking of, it might take her that way. She might feel noble or exalted about it.’

‘Do you consider she was a likely person to take her own life?’

There was a pause. Nurse Craven seemed to be struggling to make up her mind.

‘Well,’ she said at last, ‘I do and I don’t. I – yes, on the whole I do. She was very unbalanced.’

Sir William Boyd Carrington came next. He seemed genuinely upset, but gave his evidence clearly.

He had played picquet with the deceased on the night of her death. He had not noticed any signs of depression then, but in a conversation some days previously Mrs Franklin had mentioned the subject of taking her own life. She was a very unselfish woman, and deeply distressed at feeling that she was hampering her husband’s career. She was devoted to her husband and very ambitious for him. She was sometimes very depressed about her own health.

Judith was called, but she had little to say.

She knew nothing about the removal of the physostigmine from the laboratory. On the night of the tragedy Mrs Franklin had seemed to her much as usual, though perhaps over-excited. She had never heard Mrs Franklin mention suicide.

The last witness was Hercule Poirot. His evidence was given with much emphasis and caused a considerable impression. He described a conversation he had had with Mrs Franklin on the day previous to her decease. She had been very depressed and had expressed several times a wish to be out of it all. She was worried about her health and had confided in him that she had fits of deep melancholy when life did not seem worth living. She said that sometimes she felt it would be wonderful to go to sleep and never wake up.

His next reply caused an even greater sensation.

‘On the morning of June 10th you were sitting outside the laboratory door?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you see Mrs Franklin come out of the laboratory?’

‘I did.’

‘Did she have anything in her hand?’

‘She had a small bottle clasped in her right hand.’

‘You are quite sure of that?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did she show any confusion at seeing you?’

‘She looked startled, that is all.’

The coroner proceeded to his summing up. They must make up their minds, he said, how the deceased came to her death. They would have no difficulty in assigning the cause of death, the medical evidence had told them that. Deceased was poisoned by physostig-mine sulphate. All they had to decide was whether she took it accidentally or by intent, or if it was administered to her by some other person. They had heard that deceased had fits of melancholy, that she was in poor health, and that while there was no organic disease, she was in a bad nervous condition. Mr Hercule Poirot, a witness whose name must carry weight, had asserted positively that he had seen Mrs Franklin come out of the laboratory with a small bottle in her hand and that she seemed startled to see him. They might come to the conclusion that she had taken the poison from the laboratory with the intention of doing away with herself. She seemed to be suffering from an obsession that she was standing in her husband’s light and obstructing his career. It was only fair to Dr Franklin to say that he seemed to have been a kind and affectionate husband, and that he had never expressed annoyance at her delicacy, or complained that she hindered his career. The idea seemed to be entirely her own. Women in a certain condition of nervous collapse did get these persistent ideas. There was no evidence to show at what time or in what vehicle the poison was taken. It was, perhaps, a little unusual that the bottle which originally contained the poison had not been found, but it was possible that, as Nurse Craven suggested, Mrs Franklin had washed it and put it away in the bathroom cupboard from where she may have originally taken it. It was for the jury to make their own decision.

The verdict was arrived at after only a short delay.

The jury found that Mrs Franklin took her own life while temporarily of unsound mind.

II

Half an hour later I was in Poirot’s room. He was looking very exhausted. Curtiss had put him to bed and was reviving him with a stimulant.

I was dying to talk but I had to contain myself until the valet had finished and left the room.

Then I burst out. ‘Was that true, Poirot, what you said? That you saw a bottle in Mrs Franklin’s hand when she came out of the laboratory?’

A very faint smile crept over Poirot’s bluish-tinged lips. He murmured: ‘Did not
you
see it, my friend?’

‘No, I did not.’

‘But you might not have noticed,
hein
?’

‘No, perhaps not. I certainly can’t swear she didn’t have it.’ I looked at him doubtfully. ‘The question is, are you speaking the truth?’

‘Do you think I would lie, my friend?’

‘I wouldn’t put it past you.’

‘Hastings, you shock and surprise me. Where is now your simple faith?’

‘Well,’ I conceded. ‘I don’t suppose you would really commit perjury.’

Poirot said mildly: ‘It would not be perjury. It was not on oath.’

‘Then it was a lie?’

Poirot waved his hand automatically. ‘What I have said,
mon ami
, is said. It is unnecessary to discuss it.’

‘I simply don’t understand you!’ I cried. ‘What don’t you understand?’

‘Your evidence – all that about Mrs Franklin’s having talked about committing suicide, about her being depressed.’

‘
Enfin
, you heard her say such things yourself.’

‘Yes. But it was only one of many moods. You didn’t make that clear.’

‘Perhaps I did not want to.’

I stared at him. ‘You
wanted
the verdict to be suicide?’

Poirot paused before replying. Then he said: ‘I think, Hastings, that you do not appreciate the gravity of the situation. Yes, if you like, I wanted the verdict to be suicide . . .’

I said: ‘But you didn’t think – yourself – that she did commit suicide?’

Slowly Poirot shook his head.

I said: ‘You think – that she was murdered?’

‘Yes, Hastings, she was murdered.’

‘Then why try to hush it up, to have it labelled and put aside as suicide? That stops all enquiry.’

‘Precisely.’

‘You want that?’

‘Yes.’

‘But
why
?’

‘Is it conceivable that you do not see? Never mind – let us not go into that. You must take my word for it that it
was
murder – deliberate preconceived murder. I told you, Hastings, that a crime would be committed here, and that it was unlikely we should be able to prevent it – for the killer is both ruthless and determined.’

I shivered. I said: ‘And what happens next?’

Poirot smiled. ‘The case is solved – labelled and put away as suicide. But you and I, Hastings, go on working underground, like moles. And, sooner or later,
we get X
.’

I said: ‘And supposing that, meanwhile, someone else is killed?’

Poirot shook his head. ‘I do not think so. Unless, that is, somebody saw something or knows something, but if so, surely, they would have come forward to say so . . . ?’