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Chapter 4

I went down to dinner that night feeling that the whole of life had becomesuddenly unreal.

Once or twice, while dressing, I had asked myself if possibly Poirot hadimagined the whole thing. After all, the dear old chap was an old man nowand sadly broken in health. He himself might declare his brain was assound as ever – but in point of fact, was it? His whole life had been spentin tracking down crime. Would it really be surprising if, in the end, he wasto fancy crimes where no crimes were? His enforced inaction must havefretted him sorely. What more likely than that he should invent for him-self a new manhunt? Wishful thinking – a perfectly reasonable neurosis.

He had selected a number of publicly reported happenings, and had readinto them something that was not there – a shadowy figure behind them, amad mass murderer. In all probability Mrs Etherington had really killedher husband, the labourer had shot his wife, a young woman had givenher old aunt an overdose of morphia, a jealous wife had polished off herhusband as she had threatened to do, and a crazy spinster had really com-mitted the murder for which she had subsequently given herself up. Infact these crimes were exactly what they seemed!

Against that view (surely the common-sense one) I could only set myown inherent belief in Poirot’s acumen.

Poirot said that a murder had been arranged. For the second time Styleswas to house a crime.

Time would prove or disprove that assertion, but if it were true, it be-hoved us to forestall that happening.

And Poirot knew the identity of the murderer which I did not.

The more I thought about that, the more annoyed I became! Really,frankly, it was damned cheek of Poirot! He wanted my co-operation andyet he refused to take me into his confidence!

Why? There was the reason he gave – surely a most inadequate one! Iwas tired of this silly joking about my ‘speaking countenance’. I could keepa secret as well as anyone. Poirot had always persisted in the humiliatingbelief that I am a transparent character and that anyone can read what ispassing in my mind. He tries to soften the blow sometimes by attributing itto my beautiful and honest character which abhors all form of deceit!

Of course, I reflected, if the whole thing was a chimera of Poirot’s ima-gination, his reticence was easily explained.

I had come to no conclusion by the time the gong sounded, and I wentdown to dinner with an open mind, but with an alert eye, for the detectionof Poirot’s mythical X.

For the moment I would accept everything that Poirot had said as gospeltruth. There was a person under this roof who had already killed fivetimes and who was preparing to kill again. Who was it?

In the drawing-room before we went in to dinner I was introduced toMiss Cole and Major Allerton. The former was a tall, still handsome wo-man of thirty-three or four. Major Allerton I instinctively disliked. He wasa good- looking man in the early forties, broad- shouldered, bronzed offace, with an easy way of talking, most of what he said holding a doubleimplication. He had the pouches under his eyes that come with a dissip-ated way of life. I suspected him of racketing around, of gambling, ofdrinking hard, and of being first and last a womanizer.

Old Colonel Luttrell, I saw, did not much like him either, and Boyd Car-rington was also rather stiff in his manner towards him. Allerton’s successwas with the women of the party. Mrs Luttrell twittered to him de-lightedly, whilst he flattered her lazily and with a hardly concealed imper-tinence. I was also annoyed to see that Judith, too, seemed to enjoy hiscompany and was exerting herself far more than usual to talk to him. Whythe worst type of man can always be relied upon to please and interest thenicest of women has long been a problem beyond me. I knew instinctivelythat Allerton was a rotter – and nine men out of ten would have agreedwith me. Whereas nine women or possibly the whole ten would havefallen for him immediately.

As we sat down at the dinner table and plates of white gluey liquid wereset before us, I let my eyes rove round the table whilst I summed up thepossibilities.

If Poirot were right, and retained his clearness of brain unimpaired, oneof these people was a dangerous murderer – and probably a lunatic aswell.

Poirot had not actually said so, but I presumed that X was probably aman. Which of these men was it likely to be?

Surely not old Colonel Luttrell, with his indecision, and his general air offeebleness. Norton, the man I had met rushing out of the house with field-glasses? It seemed unlikely. He appeared to be a pleasant fellow, rather in-effective and lacking in vitality. Of course, I told myself, many murderershave been small insignificant men – driven to assert themselves by crimefor that very reason. They resented being passed over and ignored. Nortonmight be a murderer of this type. But there was his fondness for birds. Ihave always believed that a love of nature was essentially a healthy signin a man.

Boyd Carrington? Out of the question. A man with a name known allover the world. A fine sportsman, an administrator, a man universallyliked and looked up to. Franklin I also dismissed. I knew how Judith re-spected and admired him.

Major Allerton now. I dwelt on him appraisingly. A nasty fellow if I eversaw one! The sort of fellow who would skin his grandmother. And allglossed over with this superficial charm of manner. He was talking now –telling a story of his own discomfiture and making everybody laugh withhis rueful appreciation of a joke at his expense.

If Allerton was X, I decided, his crimes had been committed for profit insome way.

It was true that Poirot had not definitely said that X was a man. I con-sidered Miss Cole as a possibility. Her movements were restless and jerky– obviously a woman of nerves. Handsome in a hag-ridden kind of way.

Still, she looked normal enough. She, Mrs Luttrell and Judith were the onlywomen at the dinner table. Mrs Franklin was having dinner upstairs inher room, and the nurse who attended to her had her meals after us.

After dinner I was standing by the drawing-room window looking outinto the garden and thinking back to the time when I had seen CynthiaMurdoch, a young girl with auburn hair, run across that lawn. Howcharming she had looked in her white overall …Lost in thoughts of the past, I started when Judith passed her armthrough mine and led me with her out of the window on to the terrace.

She said abruptly: ‘What’s the matter?’

I was startled. ‘The matter? What do you mean?’

‘You’ve been so queer all through the evening. Why were you staring ateveryone at dinner?’

I was annoyed. I had had no idea I had allowed my thoughts so muchsway over me.

‘Was I? I suppose I was thinking of the past. Seeing ghosts perhaps.’

‘Oh, yes, of course you stayed here, didn’t you, when you were a youngman? An old lady was murdered here, or something?’

‘Poisoned with strychnine.’

‘What was she like? Nice or nasty?’

I considered the question.

‘She was a very kind woman,’ I said slowly. ‘Generous. Gave a lot tocharity.’

‘Oh, that kind of generosity.’

Judith’s voice sounded faintly scornful. Then she asked a curious ques-tion: ‘Were people – happy here?’

No, they had not been happy. That, at least, I knew. I said slowly: ‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because they felt like prisoners. Mrs Inglethorp, you see, had all themoney – and – doled it out. Her stepchildren could have no life of theirown.’

I heard Judith take a sharp breath. The hand on my arm tightened.

‘That’s wicked – wicked. An abuse of power. It shouldn’t be allowed. Oldpeople, sick people, they shouldn’t have the power to hold up the lives ofthe young and strong. To keep them tied down, fretting, wasting theirpower and energy that could be used – that’s needed. It’s just selfishness.’

‘The old,’ I said drily, ‘have not got a monopoly of that quality.’

‘Oh, I know, Father, you think the young are selfish. So we are, perhaps,but it’s a clean selfishness. At least we only want to do what we wantourselves, we don’t want everybody else to do what we want, we don’twant to make slaves of other people.’

‘No, you just trample them down if they happen to be in your way.’

Judith squeezed my arm. She said: ‘Don’t be so bitter! I don’t really domuch trampling – and you’ve never tried to dictate our lives to any of us.

We are grateful for that.’

‘I’m afraid,’ I said honestly, ‘that I’d have liked to, though. It was yourmother who insisted you should be allowed to make your own mistakes.’

Judith gave my arm another quick squeeze. She said: ‘I know. You’dhave liked to fuss over us like a hen! I do hate fuss. I won’t stand it. Butyou do agree with me, don’t you, about useful lives being sacrificed to use-less ones?’

‘It does sometimes happen,’ I admitted. ‘But there’s no need for drasticmeasures … It’s up to anybody just to walk out, you know.’

‘Yes, but is it? Is it?’

Her tone was so vehement that I looked at her in some astonishment. Itwas too dark to see her face clearly. She went on, her voice low andtroubled: ‘There’s so much – it’s difficult – financial considerations, a senseof responsibility, reluctance to hurt someone you’ve been fond of – allthose things, and some people are so unscrupulous – they know just howto play on all those feelings. Some people – some people are like leeches!’

‘My dear Judith,’ I exclaimed, taken aback by the positive fury of hertone.

She seemed to realize that she had been over- vehement, for shelaughed, and withdrew her arm from mine.

‘Was I sounding very intense? It’s a matter I feel rather hotly about. Yousee, I’ve known a case … An old brute. And when someone was braveenough to – to cut the knot and set the people she loved free, they calledher mad. Mad? It was the sanest thing anyone could do – and the bravest!’

A horrible qualm passed over me. Where, not long ago, had I heardsomething like that?

‘Judith,’ I said sharply. ‘Of what case are you talking?’

‘Oh, nobody you know. Some friends of the Franklins. Old man calledLitchfield. He was quite rich and practically starved his wretched daugh-ters – never let them see anyone, or go out. He was mad really, but not suf-ficiently so in the medical sense.’

‘And the eldest daughter murdered him,’ I said.

‘Oh, I expect you read about it? I suppose you would call it murder – butit wasn’t done from personal motives. Margaret Litchfield went straight tothe police and gave herself up. I think she was very brave. I wouldn’t havehad the courage.’

‘The courage to give yourself up or the courage to commit murder?’

‘Both.’

‘I’m very glad to hear it,’ I said severely, ‘and I don’t like to hear youtalking of murder as justified in certain cases.’ I paused, and added: ‘Whatdid Dr Franklin think?’

‘Thought it served him right,’ said Judith. ‘You know, Father, somepeople really ask to be murdered.’

‘I won’t have you talking like this, Judith. Who’s been putting these ideasinto your head?’

‘Nobody.’

‘Well, let me tell you that it’s all pernicious nonsense.’

‘I see. We’ll leave it at that.’ She paused. ‘I came really to give you a mes-sage from Mrs Franklin. She’d like to see you if you don’t mind coming upto her bedroom.’

‘I shall be delighted. I’m so sorry she was feeling too ill to come down todinner.’

‘She’s all right,’ said Judith unfeelingly. ‘She just likes making a fuss.’

The young are very unsympathetic.

 

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