Curtain: Poirot's Last Case (16 page)

‘Cast your mind back, Hastings. Remember the very first evening you played bridge. Norton’s remarks to you afterwards, uttered so loud that you were afraid Colonel Luttrell would hear. Of course! Norton
meant
him to hear! He never lost an opportunity of underlining it, rubbing it in – And finally his efforts culminated in success. It happened under your nose, Hastings, and you never saw how it was done. The foundations were already laid – the increasing sense of a burden borne, of shame at the figure he cut in front of other men, in a deep growing resentment against his wife.

‘Remember exactly what happened. Norton says he is thirsty. (Did he know Mrs Luttrell is in the house and will come upon the scene?) The Colonel reacts immediately as the open-handed host which he is by nature. He offers drinks. He goes to get them. You are all sitting outside the window. His wife arrives – there is the inevitable scene, which he knows is being overheard. He comes out. It might have been glossed over by a good pretence – Boyd Carrington could have done it well. (He has a certain amount of worldly wisdom and a tactful manner, though otherwise he is one of the most pompous and boring individuals that I have ever come across! Just the sort of man you
would
admire!) You yourself could have acquitted yourself not too badly. But Norton rushes into speech, heavily, fatuously, underlining tact until it screams to Heaven and makes things much worse. He babbles of bridge (more recalled humiliations), talks aimlessly of shooting incidents. And prompt on his cue, just as Norton intended, that old woolly-headed ass Boyd Carrington comes out with his story of an Irish batman who shot his brother – a story, Hastings, that
Norton told to Boyd Carrington
, knowing quite well that the old fool would bring it out as his own whenever suitably prompted. You see, the supreme suggestion will
not
come from Norton.
Mon Dieu, non!

‘It is all set, then. The cumulative effect. The breaking point. Affronted in his instincts as a host, shamed before his fellow men, writhing under the knowledge that they are quite convinced he has not got the guts to do anything but submit meekly to bullying – and then the key words of escape. The rook rifle, accidents – man who shot his brother – and suddenly, bobbing up, his wife’s head . . . “quite safe – an accident . . .
I’ll
show them . . . I’ll show
her . . .
damn her! I wish she was dead . . . she
shall
be dead!”

‘He did not kill her, Hastings.
Myself
, I think that, even as he fired, instinctively he missed
because he wanted to miss.
And afterwards – afterwards the evil spell was broken. She was his wife, the woman he loved in spite of everything.

‘One of Norton’s crimes that did not quite come off.

‘Ah, but his next attempt! Do you realize, Hastings, that it was
you
who came next? Throw your mind back – recall everything
. You
, my honest, kindly Hastings! He found every weak spot in your mind – yes, and every decent and conscientious one, too.

‘Allerton is the type of man you instinctively dislike and fear. He is the type of man that you think
ought
to be abolished. And everything you heard about him and thought about him was true. Norton tells you a certain story about him – an entirely true story as far as the facts go. (Though actually the girl concerned was a neurotic type and came of poor stock.)

‘It appeals to your conventional and somewhat old-fashioned instincts. This man is the villain, the seducer, the man who ruins girls and drives them to suicide! Norton induces Boyd Carrington to tackle you also. You are impelled to “speak to Judith”. Judith, as could be predicted, immediately responds by saying she will do as she chooses with her life. That makes you believe the worst.

‘See now the different stops on which Norton plays. Your love for your child. The intense old-fashioned sense of responsibility that a man like you feels for his children. The slight self-importance of your nature: “
I
must do something. It all depends on
me.
” Your feeling of helplessness owing to the lack of your wife’s wise judgement. Your loyalty – I must not fail her. And, on the baser side, your vanity – through association with me you have learned all the tricks of the trade! And lastly, that inner feeling which most men have about their daughters – the unreasoning jealousy and dislike for the man who takes her away from him. Norton played, Hastings, like a virtuoso on all these themes. And you responded.

‘You accept things too easily at their face value. You always have done. You accepted quite easily the fact that it was Judith to whom Allerton was talking in the summer-house. Yet you did not
see
her, you did not even
hear her speak.
And incredibly, even the next morning, you
still
thought it was Judith. You rejoiced because she had “changed her mind”.

‘But if you had taken the trouble to examine the
facts
you would have discovered at once that there had never been any question of
Judith
going up to London that day! And you failed to make another most obvious inference. There was someone who
was
going off for the day – and who was furious at not being able to do so. Nurse Craven. Allerton is not a man who confines himself to the pursuit of one woman! His affair with Nurse Craven had progressed much farther than the mere flirtation he was having with Judith.

‘No, stage-management again by Norton. ‘You saw Allerton and Judith kiss. Then Norton shoves you back round the corner. He doubtless knows quite well that Allerton is going to meet Nurse Craven in the summer-house. After a little argument he lets you go but still accompanies you. The sentence you overhear Allerton speaking is magnifi-cent for his purpose and he swiftly drags you away before you have a chance to discover that the woman is not Judith!

‘Yes, the virtuoso! And your reaction is immediate, complete on all those themes! You responded. You made up your mind to do murder.

‘But fortunately, Hastings, you had a friend whose brain still functioned. And not only his brain!

‘I said at the beginning of this that if you have not arrived at the truth it is because you have too trusting a nature. You believe what is said to you. You believed what
I
said to you . . .

‘Yet it was all very easy for you to discover the truth. I had sent George away – why? I had replaced him with a less experienced and clearly much less intelligent man – why? I was not being attended by a doctor – I who have always been careful about my health – I would not hear of seeing one – why?

‘Do you see now why you were necessary to me at Styles? I had to have someone who
accepted what I said without question.
You accepted my statement that I came back from Egypt much worse than when I went. I did not. I came back very much better! You could have found out the fact if you had taken the trouble. But no, you
believed.
I sent away George because I could not have succeeded in making him think that I had suddenly lost all power in my limbs. George is extremely intelligent about what he sees. He would have known that I was shamming.

‘Do you understand, Hastings?
All the time that I was pretending to be helpless, and deceiving Curtiss,
I was not helpless at all.
I could walk – with a limp.

‘I heard you come up that evening. I heard you hesitate and then go into Allerton’s room. And at once I was on the alert. I was already much exercised about your state of mind.

‘I did not delay. I was alone. Curtiss had gone down to supper. I slipped out of my room and across the passage. I heard you in Allerton’s bathroom. And promptly, my friend, in the manner you so much deplore, I dropped to my knees and looked through the keyhole of the bathroom door. One could see through it, fortunately, as there is a bolt and not a key on the inside.

‘I perceived your manipulations with the sleeping tablets. I realized what your idea was.

‘And so, my friend, I acted. I went back to my room. I made my preparations. When Curtiss came up I sent him to fetch you. You came, yawning and explaining that you had a headache. I made at once the big fuss – urged remedies on you. For the sake of peace you consented to drink a cup of chocolate. You gulped it down quickly so as to get away quicker
. But I, too, my friend, have some sleeping tablets.

‘And so, you slept – slept until morning when you awoke your own sane self and were horrified at what you had so nearly done.

‘You were safe now – one does not attempt these things twice – not when one has relapsed into sanity.

‘But it decided
me
, Hastings! For whatever I might not know about other people did not apply to you.
You
are not a murderer, Hastings! But you might have been hanged for one – for a murder committed by another man who in the eyes of the law would be guiltless.

‘You, my good, my honest, my oh so honourable Hastings – so kindly, so conscientious – so innocent!

‘Yes, I must act. I knew that my time was short – and for that I was glad. For the worst part of murder, Hastings, is its effect on the murderer. I, Hercule Poirot, might come to believe myself divinely appointed to deal out death to all and sundry . . . But mercifully there would not be time for that to happen. The end would come soon. And I was afraid that Norton might succeed with someone who was unutterably dear to both of us. I am talking of your daughter . . .

‘And now we come to the death of Barbara Franklin. Whatever your ideas may be on the subject, Hastings, I do not think you have once suspected the truth.

‘For you see, Hastings,
you
killed Barbara Franklin.

‘Mais oui
, you did!

‘There was, you see, yet another angle to the triangle. One that I did not fully take into account. As it happened, Norton’s tactics there were unseen and unheard by either of us. But I have no doubt that he employed them . . .

‘Did it ever enter your mind to wonder, Hastings, why Mrs Franklin was willing to come to Styles? It is not, when you think of it, at all her line of country. She likes comfort, good food and above all social contacts. Styles is not gay; it is not well run; it is in the dead country. And yet it was Mrs Franklin who insisted on spending the summer there.

‘Yes, there was a third angle. Boyd Carrington. Mrs Franklin was a disappointed woman. That was at the root of her neurotic illness. She was ambitious both socially and financially. She married Franklin because she expected him to have a brilliant career.

‘He was brilliant but not in her way. His brilliance would never bring him newspaper notoriety, or a Harley Street reputation. He would be known to half a dozen men of his own profession and would publish articles in learned journals. The outside world would not hear of him – and he would certainly not make money.

‘And here is Boyd Carrington – home from the East – just come into a baronetcy and money, and Boyd Carrington has always felt tenderly sentimental towards the pretty seventeen-year-old girl he nearly asked to marry him. He is going to Styles, he suggests the Franklins come too – and Barbara comes.

‘How maddening it is for her! Obviously she has lost none of her old charm for this rich attractive man, but he is old-fashioned – not the type of man to suggest divorce. And John Franklin, too, has no use for divorce. If John Franklin were to die, then she could be Lady Boyd Carrington – and oh what a wonderful life that would be!

‘Norton, I think, found her only too ready a tool.

‘It was all too obvious, Hastings, when you come to think of it. Those first few tentative attempts at establishing how fond she was of her husband. She overdid it a little – murmuring about “ending it all” because she was a drag on him.

‘And then an entirely new line. Her fears that Franklin might experiment upon himself.

‘It ought to have been so obvious to us, Hastings! She was preparing us for John Franklin to die of physostigmine poisoning. No question, you see, of anyone trying to poison him – oh no – just pure scientific research. He takes the harmless alkaloid, and it turns out to be harmful after all.

‘The only thing was it was a little too swift. You told me that she was not pleased to find Boyd Carrington having his fortune told by Nurse Craven. Nurse Craven was an attractive young woman with a keen eye for men. She had had a try at Dr Franklin and had not met with success. (Hence her dislike for Judith.) She is carrying on with Allerton, but she knows quite well he is not serious. Inevitable that she should cast her eye on the rich and still attractive Sir William – and Sir William was, perhaps, only too ready to be attracted. He had already noticed Nurse Craven as a healthy, good-looking girl.

‘Barbara Franklin has a fright and decides to act quickly. The sooner she is a pathetic, charming and not inconsolable widow the better.

‘And so, after a morning of nerves, she sets the scene.

‘Do you know,
mon ami
, I have some respect for the Calabar bean. This time, you see, it worked. It spared the innocent and slew the guilty.

‘Mrs Franklin asks you all up to her room. She makes coffee with much fuss and display. As you tell me, her own coffee is beside her, her husband’s on the other side of the bookcase-table.

‘And then there are the shooting stars and everyone goes out and only you, my friend, are left, you and your crossword puzzle and your memories – and to hide emotion you swing round the bookcase to find a quotation in Shakespeare.

‘And so they come back and Mrs Franklin drinks the coffee full of the Calabar bean alkaloids that were meant for dear scientific John, and John Franklin drinks the nice plain cup of coffee that was meant for clever Mrs Franklin.

‘But you will see, Hastings, if you think a minute, that although I realized what had happened, I saw that there was only one thing to be done. I could not
prove
what had happened. And if Mrs Franklin’s death was thought to be anything but suicide suspicion would inevitably fall on either Franklin or Judith. On two people who were utterly and completely innocent. So I did what I had a perfect right to do, laid stress on and put conviction into, my repetition of Mrs Franklin’s extremely unconvincing remarks on the subject of putting an end to herself.