Curtain hp-39

by Agatha Christie

  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 your 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 wastepaper basket, or even have 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 she 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 overexcited."

  "Not depressed?"

  "Well, no, more strung-up, so to speak. But if it's suicide you're thinking of, it might make 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 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 overexcited. 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 tenth 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 physostigmine 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. M. 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 had 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 bott
le 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…"

  "But you don'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…?"

  Chapter 15

  I

  My memory is a little vague about the events of the days immediately following the inquest on Mrs Franklin. There was, of course, the funeral, which I may say was attended by a large number of the curious of Styles St Mary. It was on that occasion that I was addressed by an old woman with rheumy eyes and an unpleasantly ghoulish manner.

  She accosted me just as we were filing out of the cemetery.

  "Remember you, sir, don't I?"

  "Well – er, possibly -"

  She went on, hardly listening to what I said.

  "Twenty years ago and over. When the old lady died up at the Court. That was the first murder we had to Styles. Won't be the last, I say. Old Mrs Inglethorp, her husband done her in, so we all said. Sure of it, we was." She leered at me cunningly. "Maybe it's the husband this time."

  "What do you mean?" I said sharply. "Didn't you hear the verdict was suicide?"

  "That's what the coroner said. But he might be wrong, don't you think?" She nudged me. "Doctors, they know how to do away with their wives. And she wasn't much good to him seemingly."

  I turned on her angrily and she slunk away, murmuring she hadn't meant anything, only it seemed odd-like, didn't it, happening a second time? "And it's queer you should be there both times, sir, isn't it now?"

  For one fantastic moment I wondered if she suspected me of having really committed both crimes. It was most disturbing. It certainly made me realize what a queer, haunting thing local suspicion is.

  And it was not, after all, so far wrong. For somebody had killed Mrs Franklin.

  As I say, I remember very little of those days. Poirot's health, for one thing, was giving me grave concern. Curtiss came to me with his wooden face slightly disturbed and reported that Poirot had had a somewhat alarming heart attack.

  "Seems to me, sir, he ought to see a doctor."

  I went posthaste to Poirot, who negatived the suggestion most vigorously. It was, I thought, a little unlike him. He had always been, in my opinion, extremely fussy about his health. Distrusting draughts, wrapping up his neck in silk and wool, showing a horror of getting his feet damp, and taking his temperature and retiring to bed at the least suspicion of a chill – "for otherwise it may be for me a fluxion de poitrine!" In most little ailments he had, I knew, always consulted a doctor immediately.

  Now, when he was really ill, the position seemed reversed.

  Yet perhaps that was the real reason. Those other ailments had been trifling. Now, when he was indeed a sick man, he feared, perhaps, admitting the reality of his illness. He made light of it because he was afraid.

  He answered my protests with energy and bitterness.

  "Ah, but I have consulted doctors – not one, but many! I have been to Blank and to Dash (he named two specialists) and they do what? – they send me to Egypt where immediately I am rendered much worse. I have been, too, to R."

  R. was, I knew, a heart specialist. I asked quickly:

  "What did he say?"

  Poirot gave me a sudden quick sidelong glance – and my heart gave a sudden agonized leap.

  He said quietly:

  "He has done for me all that can be done. I have my treatments, my remedies, all close at hand. Beyond that – there is nothing. So you see, Hastings, to call in more doctors would be of no avail. The machine, mon ami, wears out. One cannot, alas, install the new engine and continue to run as before like a motor car."

  "But look here, Poirot, surely there's something. Curtiss -"

  Poirot said sharply: "Curtiss?"

  "Yes, he came to me. He was worried – You had an attack -"

  Poirot nodded gently.

  "Yes, yes. They are, sometimes, these attacks, painful to witness. Curtiss, I think, is not used to these attacks of the heart."

  "Won't you really see a doctor?"

  "It is of no avail, my friend."

  He spoke very gently but with finality. And again my heart felt a painful constriction. Poirot smiled at me. He said:

  "This, Hastings, will be my last case. It will be, too, my most interesting case – and my most interesting criminal. For in X we have a technique superb, magnificent – that arouses admiration in spite of oneself. So far, mon cher, this X has operated with so much ability that he has defeated me – Hercule Poirot! He has developed the attack to which I can find no answer."

  "If you had your health -" I began soothingly.

  But apparently that was not the right thing to say. Hercule Poirot immediately flew into a rage.

  "Ah! Have I got to tell you thirty-six times, and then again thirty-six, that there is no need of physical effort? One needs only – to think."

  "Well – of course – yes, you can do that all right."

  "All right? I can do it superlatively. My limbs they are paralyzed, my heart it plays me the tricks, but my brain, Hastings – my brain it functions without impairment of any kind. It is still of the first excellence, my brain."

  "That," I said soothingly, "is splendid."

  But as I went slowly downstairs, I thought to myself tha
t Poirot's brain was not getting on with things as fast as it might do. First the narrow escape of Mrs Luttrell and now the death of Mrs Franklin. And what were we doing about it? Practically nothing.

  II

  It was the following day that Poirot said to me:

  "You suggested, Hastings, that I should see a doctor."

  "Yes," I said eagerly. "I'd feel much happier if you would."

  "Eh bien, I will consent. I will see Franklin."

  " Franklin?" I looked doubtful.

  "Well, he is a doctor, is he not?"

  "Yes, but – his main line is research, is it not?"

  "Undoubtedly. He would not succeed, I fancy, as a general practitioner. He has not sufficiently what you call the 'side of the bed manner.' But he has the qualifications. In fact I should say that, as the films say, 'he knows his stuff better than most.'"

  I was still not entirely satisfied. Although I did not doubt Franklin 's ability, he had always struck me as a man who was impatient of and uninterested in human ailments. Possibly an admirable attitude for research work, but not so good for any sick persons he might attend.

  However, for Poirot to go so far was a concession, and as Poirot had no local medical attendant, Franklin readily agreed to take a look at him. But he explained that if regular medical attendance was needed, a local practitioner must be called in. He could not attend the case.

  Franklin spent a long time with him.

  When he came out finally, I was waiting for him. I drew him into my room and shut the door.

  "Well?" I demanded anxiously.

  Franklin said thoughtfully:

  "He's a very remarkable man."

  "Oh! That, yes -" I brushed aside this self-evident fact. "But his health?"

  "Oh! His health?" Franklin seemed quite surprised – as though I had mentioned something of no importance at all. "Oh! His health's rotten, of course."

  It was not, I felt, at all a professional way of putting it. And yet I had heard – from Judith – that Franklin had been one of the most brilliant students of his time.

  "How bad is he?" I demanded anxiously.

  He shot me a look.

  "D'you want to know?"