帷幕13

III

I wandered downstairs and out into the garden. There was no one aboutand I strolled through a grove of trees and up to a grassy knoll which wassurmounted by a somewhat earwiggy summer- house in an advancedstage of decrepitude. Here I sat down, lit my pipe, and settled to thinkthings out.

Who was there at Styles who had a fairly definite motive for murderingsomebody else – or who might be made out to have one?

Putting aside the somewhat obvious case of Colonel Luttrell, who, I wasafraid, was hardly likely to take a hatchet to his wife in the middle of arubber, justifiable though that course might be, I could not at first think ofanyone.

The trouble was that I did not really know enough about these people.

Norton, for instance, and Miss Cole? What were the usual motives formurder? Money? Boyd Carrington was, I fancied, the only rich man of theparty. If he died, who would inherit that money? Anyone at present in thehouse? I hardly thought so, but it was a point that might bear enquiry. Hemight, for instance, have left his money to research, making Franklin atrustee. That, with the doctor’s rather injudicious remarks on the subjectof eliminating eighty per cent of the human race, might make out a fairlydamning case against the red-haired doctor. Or possibly Norton or MissCole might be a distant relative and would inherit automatically. Far-fetched but possible. Would Colonel Luttrell, who was an old friend, bene-fit under Boyd Carrington’s will? These possibilities seemed to exhaust themoney angle. I turned to more romantic possibilities. The Franklins. MrsFranklin was an invalid. Was it possible that she was being slowlypoisoned – and would the responsibility for her death be laid at her hus-band’s door? He was a doctor, he had opportunity and means, no doubt.

What about motive? An unpleasant qualm shot across my mind as it oc-curred to me that Judith might be involved. I had good reason to knowhow business-like their relations were – but would the general public be-lieve that? Would a cynical police officer believe it? Judith was a verybeautiful young woman. An attractive secretary or assistant had been themotive for many crimes. The possibility dismayed me.

I considered Allerton next. Could there be any reason for doing awaywith Allerton? If we had to have a murder I would prefer to see Allertonthe victim! One ought to be able to find motives easily for doing away withhim. Miss Cole, though not young, was still a good-looking woman. Shemight, conceivably, be actuated by jealousy if she and Allerton had everbeen on intimate terms, though I had no reason to believe that that wasthe case. Besides, if Allerton was X –

I shook my head impatiently. All this was getting me nowhere. A foot-step on the gravel below attracted my attention. It was Franklin walkingrapidly towards the house, his hands in his pockets, his head thrust for-ward. His whole attitude was one of dejection. Seeing him thus, off guard,I was struck by the fact that he looked a thoroughly unhappy man.

I was so busy staring at him that I did not hear a footfall nearer at hand,and turned with a start when Miss Cole spoke to me.

‘I didn’t hear you coming,’ I explained apologetically as I sprang up.

She was examining the summer-house.

‘What a Victorian relic!’

‘Isn’t it? It’s rather spidery, I’m afraid. Do sit down. I’ll dust the seat foryou.’

For it occurred to me that here was a chance to get to know one of myfellow guests a little better. I studied Miss Cole covertly as I brushed awaycobwebs.

She was a woman of between thirty and forty, slightly haggard, with aclear-cut profile and really very beautiful eyes. There was about her an airof reserve, more – of suspicion. It came to me suddenly that this was a wo-man who had suffered and who was, in consequence, deeply distrustful oflife. I felt that I would like to know more about Elizabeth Cole.

‘There,’ I said with a final flick of the handkerchief, ‘that’s the best I cando.’

‘Thank you.’ She smiled and sat down. I sat down beside her. The seatcreaked ominously but no catastrophe occurred.

Miss Cole said: ‘Do tell me, what were you thinking about when I cameup to you? You seemed quite sunk in thought.’

I said slowly: ‘I was watching Dr Franklin.’

‘Yes?’

I saw no reason for not repeating what had been in my mind.

‘It struck me that he looked a very unhappy man.’ The woman besideme said quietly: ‘But of course he is. You must have realized that.’

I think I showed my surprise. I said, stammering slightly: ‘No – no – Ihaven’t. I’ve always thought of him as absolutely wrapped up in his work.’

‘So he is.’

‘Do you call that unhappiness? I should have said it was the happieststate imaginable.’

‘Oh yes, I’m not disputing it – but not if you’re hampered from doingwhat you feel it’s in you to do. If you can’t, that is to say, produce yourbest.’

I looked at her, feeling rather puzzled. She went on to explain: ‘Last au-tumn Dr Franklin was offered the chance of going out to Africa and con-tinuing his research work there. He’s tremendously keen, as you know,and has really done first-class work already in the realm of tropical medi-cine.’

‘And he didn’t go?’

‘No. His wife protested. She herself wasn’t well enough to stand the cli-mate and she kicked against the idea of being left behind, especially as itwould have meant very economical living for her. The pay offered was nothigh.’

‘Oh,’ I said. I went on slowly: ‘I suppose he felt that in her state of healthhe couldn’t leave her.’

‘Do you know much about her state of health, Captain Hastings?’

‘Well, I – no – But she is an invalid, isn’t she?’

‘She certainly enjoys bad health,’ said Miss Cole drily. I looked at herdoubtfully. It was easy to see that her sympathies were entirely with thehusband.

‘I suppose,’ I said slowly, ‘that women who are – delicate are apt to beselfish?’

‘Yes, I think invalids – chronic invalids – usually are very selfish. Onecan’t blame them perhaps. It’s so easy.’

‘You don’t think that there’s really very much the matter with MrsFranklin?’

‘Oh, I shouldn’t like to say that. It’s just a suspicion. She always seemsable to do anything she wants to do.’

I reflected in silence for a minute or two. It struck me that Miss Coleseemed very well acquainted with the ramifications of the Franklin mén-age. I asked with some curiosity: ‘You know Dr Franklin well, I suppose?’

She shook her head. ‘Oh, no. I had only met them once or twice beforewe met here.’

‘But he has talked to you about himself, I suppose?’ Again she shook herhead. ‘No, what I have just told you I learnt from your daughter Judith.’

Judith, I reflected, with a moment’s bitterness, talked to everyone exceptme.

Miss Cole went on: ‘Judith is terrifically loyal to her employer and verymuch up in arms on his behalf. Her condemnation of Mrs Franklin’sselfishness is sweeping.’

‘You, too, think she is selfish?’

‘Yes, but I can see her point of view. I – I understand invalids. I can un-derstand, too, Dr Franklin’s giving way to her. Judith, of course, thinks heshould park his wife anywhere and get on with the job. Your daughter’s avery enthusiastic scientific worker.’

‘I know,’ I said rather disconsolately. ‘It worries me sometimes. Itdoesn’t seem natural, if you know what I mean. I feel she ought to be –more human – more keen on having a good time. Amuse herself – fall inlove with a nice boy or two. After all, youth is the time to have one’s fling –not to sit poring over test tubes. It isn’t natural. In our young days wewere having fun – flirting – enjoying ourselves – you know.’

There was a moment’s silence. Then Miss Cole said in a queer cold voice:

‘I don’t know.’

I was instantly horrified. Unconsciously I had spoken as though she andI were contemporaries – but I realized suddenly that she was well over tenyears my junior and that I had been unwittingly extremely tactless.

I apologized as best I could. She cut into my stammering phrases.

‘No, no, I didn’t mean that. Please don’t apologize. I meant just simplywhat I said. I don’t know. I was never what you meant by “young”. I neverhad what is called “a good time”.’

Something in her voice, a bitterness, a deep resentment, left me at a loss.

I said, rather lamely, but with sincerity: ‘I’m sorry.’

She smiled. ‘Oh, well, it doesn’t matter. Don’t look so upset. Let’s talkabout something else.’

I obeyed. ‘Tell me something about the other people here,’ I said. ‘Unlessthey’re all strangers to you.’

‘I’ve known the Luttrells all my life. It’s rather sad that they should haveto do this – especially for him. He’s rather a dear. And she’s nicer thanyou’d think. It’s having had to pinch and scrape all her life that has madeher rather – well – predatory. If you’re always on the make, it does tell inthe end. The only thing I do rather dislike about her is that gushing man-ner.’

‘Tell me something about Mr Norton.’

‘There isn’t really much to tell. He’s very nice – rather shy – just a littlestupid, perhaps. He’s always been rather delicate. He’s lived with hismother – rather a peevish, stupid woman. She bossed him a good deal, Ithink. She died a few years ago. He’s keen on birds and flowers and thingslike that. He’s a very kind person – and he’s the sort of person who sees alot.’

‘Through his glasses, you mean?’

Miss Cole smiled. ‘Well, I wasn’t meaning it quite so literally as that. Imeant more that he notices a good deal. Those quiet people often do. He’sunselfish – and very considerate for a man, but he’s rather – ineffectual, ifyou know what I mean.’

I nodded. ‘Oh, yes, I know.’

Elizabeth Cole said suddenly, and once more the deep bitter note was inher voice: ‘That’s the depressing part of places like this. Guest houses runby broken- down gentlepeople. They’re full of failures – of people whohave never got anywhere and never will get anywhere, of people who –who have been defeated and broken by life, of people who are old andtired and finished.’

Her voice died away. A deep and spreading sadness permeated me. Howtrue it was! Here we were, a collection of twilit people. Grey heads, greyhearts, grey dreams. Myself, sad and lonely, the woman beside me also abitter and disillusioned creature. Dr Franklin, eager, ambitious, curbedand thwarted, his wife a prey to ill health. Quiet little Norton limpingabout looking at birds. Even Poirot, the once brilliant Poirot, now abroken, crippled old man.

How different it had been in the old days – the days when I had firstcome to Styles. The thought was too much for me – a stifled exclamation ofpain and regret came to my lips.

My companion said quickly: ‘What is it?’

‘Nothing. I was just struck by the contrast – I was here, you know, manyyears ago, as a young man. I was thinking of the difference between thenand now.’

‘I see. It was a happy house then? Everyone was happy here?’

Curious, sometimes, how one’s thoughts seemed to swing in a kaleido-scope. It happened to me now. A bewildering shuffling and reshuffling ofmemories, of events. Then the mosaic settled into its true pattern.

My regret had been for the past as the past, not for the reality. For eventhen, in that far- off time, there had been no happiness at Styles. I re-membered dispassionately the real facts. My friend John and his wife,both unhappy and chafing at the life they were forced to lead. LaurenceCavendish, sunk in melancholy. Cynthia, her girlish brightness damped byher dependent position. Inglethorp married to a rich woman for hermoney. No, none of them had been happy. And now, again, no one herewas happy. Styles was not a lucky house.

I said to Miss Cole: ‘I’ve been indulging in false sentiment. This wasnever a happy house. It isn’t now. Everyone here is unhappy.’

‘No, no. Your daughter –’

‘Judith’s not happy.’

I said it with the certainty of sudden knowledge. No, Judith wasn’thappy.

‘Boyd Carrington,’ I said doubtfully. ‘He was saying the other day that hewas lonely – but for all that I think he’s enjoying himself quite a good deal– what with his house and one thing and another.’

Miss Cole said sharply: ‘Oh yes, but then Sir William is different. Hedoesn’t belong here like the rest of us do. He’s from the outside world – theworld of success and independence. He’s made a success of his life and heknows it. He’s not one of – of the maimed.’

It was a curious word to choose. I turned and stared at her.

‘Will you tell me,’ I asked, ‘why you used that particular expression?’

‘Because,’ she said with a sudden fierce energy, ‘it’s the truth. The truthabout me, at any rate. I am maimed.’

‘I can see,’ I said gently, ‘that you have been very unhappy.’

She said quietly: ‘You don’t know who I am, do you?’

‘Er – I know your name –’

‘Cole isn’t my name – that is to say, it was my mother’s name. I took it –afterwards.’

‘After?’

‘My real name is Litchfield.’

For a minute or two it didn’t sink in – it was just a name vaguely famil-iar. Then I remembered.

‘Matthew Litchfield.’

She nodded. ‘I see you know about it. That was what I meant just now.

My father was an invalid and a tyrant. He forbade us any kind of normallife. We couldn’t ask friends to the house. He kept us short of money. Wewere – in prison.’

She paused, her eyes, those beautiful eyes, wide and dark.

‘And then my sister – my sister –’

She stopped.

‘Please don’t – don’t go on. It is too painful for you. I know about it.

There is no need to tell me.’

‘But you don’t know. You can’t. Maggie. It’s inconceivable – unbeliev-able. I know that she went to the police, that she gave herself up, that sheconfessed. But I still sometimes can’t believe it! I feel somehow that itwasn’t true – that it didn’t – that it couldn’t have happened like she said itdid.’

‘You mean –’ I hesitated – ‘that the facts were at – at variance –’

She cut me short. ‘No, no. Not that. No, it’s Maggie herself. It wasn’t likeher. It wasn’t – it wasn’t Maggie!’

Words trembled on my lips, but I did not say them. The time had not yetcome when I could say to her: ‘You are right. It wasn’t Maggie …’

 

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