帷幕16

II

Up to this time, though I had been faintly worried about my daughter, mypreoccupation over X and the possibility of a crime occurring at any mo-ment had successfully driven more personal problems to the back of mymind.

Now that the blow had fallen, that a crime had been attempted and hadmercifully failed, I was free to reflect on these things. And the more I didso,

the more anxious I became. A chance word spoken one day revealed tome the fact that Allerton was a married man.

Boyd Carrington, who knew all about everyone, enlightened me further.

Allerton’s wife was a devout Roman Catholic. She had left him a short timeafter their marriage. Owing to her religion there had never been any ques-tion of divorce.

‘And if you ask me,’ said Boyd Carrington frankly, ‘it suits the blighterdown to the ground. His intentions are always dishonourable, and a wifein the background suits the book very well.’

Pleasant hearing for a father!

The days after the shooting accident passed uneventfully enough on thesurface, but they accompanied a growing undercurrent of unrest on mypart.

Colonel Luttrell spent much time in his wife’s bedroom. A nurse had ar-rived to take charge of the patient and Nurse Craven was able to resumeher ministrations to Mrs Franklin.

Without wishing to be ill- natured, I must admit that I had observedsigns on Mrs Franklin’s part of irritation at not being the invalid en chef.

The fuss and attention that centred round Mrs Luttrell was clearly verydispleasing to the little lady who was accustomed to her own health beingthe main topic of the day.

She lay about in a hammock chair, her hand to her side, complaining ofpalpitation. No food that was served was suitable for her, and all her exac-tions were masked by a veneer of patient endurance.

‘I do so hate making a fuss,’ she murmured plaintively to Poirot. ‘I feelso ashamed of my wretched health. It’s so – so humiliating always to haveto ask people to be doing things for me. I sometimes think ill health isreally a crime. If one isn’t healthy and insensitive one isn’t fit for thisworld and one should just be put quietly away.’

‘Ah no, madame.’ Poirot, as always, was gallant. ‘The delicate exoticflower has to have the shelter of the greenhouse – it cannot endure thecold winds. It is the common weed that thrives in the wintry air, but it isnot to be prized higher on that account. Consider my case – cramped, twis-ted, unable to move, but I – I do not think of quitting life. I enjoy still whatI can – the food, the drink, the pleasures of the intellect.’

Mrs Franklin sighed and murmured: ‘Ah, but it’s different for you. Youhave no one but yourself to consider. In my case, there is my poor John. Ifeel acutely what a burden I am to him. A sickly useless wife. A millstonehung round his neck.’

‘He has never said that you are that, I am sure.’

‘Oh, not said so. Of course not. But men are so transparent, poor dears.

And John isn’t any good at concealing his feelings. He doesn’t mean, ofcourse, to be unkind, but he’s – well, mercifully for himself he’s a very in-sensitive sort of person. He’s no feelings and so he doesn’t expect anyoneelse to have them. It’s so terribly lucky to be born thick-skinned.’

‘I should not describe Dr Franklin as thick-skinned.’

‘Wouldn’t you? Oh, but you don’t know him as well as I do. Of course Iknow that if it wasn’t for me, he would be much freer. Sometimes, youknow, I get so terribly depressed that I think what a relief it would be toend it all.’

‘Oh, come, madame.’

‘After all, what use am I to anybody? To go out of it all into the Great Un-known …’ she shook her head. ‘And then John would be free.’

‘Great fiddlesticks,’ said Nurse Craven when I repeated this conversationto her. ‘She won’t do anything of the kind. Don’t you worry, Captain Hast-ings. These ones that talk about “ending it all” in a dying- duck voicehaven’t the faintest intention of doing anything of the kind.’

And I must say that once the excitement aroused by Mrs Luttrell’s injuryhad died down, and Nurse Craven was once more in attendance, MrsFranklin’s spirits improved very much.

On a particularly fine morning Curtiss had taken Poirot down to thecorner below the beech trees near the laboratory. This was a favouritespot of his. It was sheltered from any east wind and in fact hardly anybreeze could ever be felt there. This suited Poirot, who abhorred draughtsand was always suspicious of the fresh air. Actually, I think he much pre-ferred to be indoors but had grown to tolerate the outer air when muffledin rugs.

I strolled down to join him and as I got there Mrs Franklin came out ofthe laboratory.

She was most becomingly dressed and looked remarkably cheerful. Sheexplained that she was driving over with Boyd Carrington to see the houseand give expert advice in choosing cretonnes.

‘I left my handbag in the lab yesterday when I was talking to John,’ sheexplained. ‘Poor John, he and Judith have driven into Tadcaster – theywere short of some chemical reagent or other.’

She sank down on a seat near Poirot and shook her head with a comicalexpression. ‘Poor dears – I’m so glad I haven’t got the scientific mind. On alovely day like this it all seems so puerile.’

‘You must not let scientists hear you say that, madame.’

‘No, of course not.’ Her face changed. It grew serious. She said quietly:

‘You mustn’t think, M. Poirot, that I don’t admire my husband. I do. I thinkthe way he just lives for his work is really – tremendous.’

There was a little tremor in her voice.

A suspicion crossed my mind that Mrs Franklin rather liked playing dif-ferent roles. At this moment she was being the loyal and hero-worship-ping wife.

She leaned forward, placing an earnest hand on Poirot’s knee. ‘John,’

she said, ‘is really a – a kind of saint. It makes me quite frightened some-times.’

To call Franklin a saint was somewhat overstating the case, I thought,but Barbara Franklin went on, her eyes shining.

‘He’ll do anything – take any risk – just to advance the sum of humanknowledge. That is pretty fine, don’t you think?’

‘Assuredly, assuredly,’ said Poirot quickly.

‘But sometimes, you know,’ went on Mrs Franklin, ‘I’m really nervousabout him. The lengths to which he’ll go, I mean. This horrible bean thinghe’s experimenting with now. I’m so afraid he’ll start experimenting onhimself.’

‘He’d take every precaution, surely,’ I said.

She shook her head with a slight, rueful smile. ‘You don’t know John.

Did you never hear about what he did with that new gas?’

I shook my head.

‘It was some new gas they wanted to find out about. John volunteered totest it. He was shut up in a tank for something like thirty-six hours, takinghis pulse and temperature and respiration, to see what the after-effectswere and if they were the same for men as for animals. It was a frightfulrisk, so one of the professors told me afterwards. He might easily havepassed out altogether. But that’s the sort of person John is – absolutely ob-livious of his own safety. I think it’s rather wonderful, don’t you, to be likethat? I should never be brave enough.’

‘It needs, indeed, high courage,’ said Poirot, ‘to do these things in coldblood.’

Barbara Franklin said: ‘Yes, it does. I’m awfully proud of him, you know,but at the same time it makes me rather nervous, too. Because, you see,guinea pigs and frogs are no good after a certain point. You want the hu-man reaction. That’s why I feel so terrified that John will go and dose him-self with this nasty ordeal bean and that something awful might happen.’

She sighed and shook her head. ‘But he only laughs at my fears. He reallyis a sort of saint, you know.’

At this moment Boyd Carrington came towards us. ‘Hullo, Babs, ready?’

‘Yes, Bill, waiting for you.’

‘I do hope it won’t tire you too much.’

‘Of course it won’t. I feel better today than I have for ages.’

She got up, smiled prettily at us both, and walked up the lawn with hertall escort.

‘Dr Franklin, the modern saint – h’m,’ said Poirot.

‘Rather a change of attitude,’ I said. ‘But I think the lady is like that.’

‘Like what?’

‘Given to dramatizing herself in various roles. One day the misunder-stood, neglected wife, then the self-sacrificing, suffering woman who hatesto be a burden on the man she loves. Today it’s the hero- worshippinghelpmate. The trouble is that all the roles are slightly overdone.’

Poirot said thoughtfully: ‘You think Mrs Franklin, do you not, rather afool?’

‘Well, I wouldn’t say that – yes, perhaps not a very brilliant intellect.’

‘Ah, she is not your type.’

‘Who is my type?’ I snapped.

Poirot replied unexpectedly: ‘Open your mouth and shut your eyes andsee what the fairies will send you –’

I was prevented from replying because Nurse Craven came trippinghastily across the grass. She gave us a smile with a brilliant flash of teeth,unlocked the door of the lab, passed inside and reappeared with a pair ofgloves.

‘First a hanky and now gloves, always something left behind,’ she ob-served as she sped back with them to where Barbara Franklin and BoydCarrington were waiting.

Mrs Franklin, I reflected, was that rather feckless type of woman who al-ways did leave things behind, shedding her possessions and expectingeverybody to retrieve them as a matter of course and even, I fancied, wasrather proud of herself for so doing. I had heard her more than once mur-mur complacently: ‘Of course I’ve got a head like a sieve.’

I sat looking after Nurse Craven as she ran across the lawn and out ofsight. She ran well, her body was vigorous and well balanced. I said im-pulsively: ‘I should think a girl must get fed up with that sort of life. Imean when there isn’t much nursing to be done – when it’s just fetch andcarry. I don’t suppose Mrs Franklin is particularly considerate or kindly.’

Poirot’s response was distinctly annoying. For no reason whatever, heclosed his eyes and murmured: ‘Auburn hair.’

Undoubtedly Nurse Craven had got auburn hair, but I did not see whyPoirot should choose just this minute to comment upon it.

I made no reply.

 

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