Boyd Carrington said: ‘Ah, but that’s the curious thing. Does the person most concerned ever wish to “put himself out of his misery”, as we say?’
He then told a story which he said was authentic, of a man in terrible pain from inoperable cancer. This man had begged the doctor in attendance to ‘give him something that would finish it all’. The doctor had replied: ‘I can’t do that, old man.’ Later, on leaving, he had placed by the patient some morphia tablets, telling him carefully how many he could safely take and what dose would be dangerous. Although these were left in the patient’s charge and he could easily have taken a fatal quantity, he did not do so. ‘Thus proving,’ said Boyd Carrington, ‘that, in spite of his words, the man preferred his suffering to a swift and merciful release.’
It was then that Judith spoke for the first time, spoke with vigour and abruptly. ‘Of course he would,’ she said. ‘It shouldn’t have been left to him to decide.’
Boyd Carrington asked what she meant.
‘I mean that anyone who’s weak – in pain and ill – hasn’t got the strength to make a decision – they can’t. It must be done for them. It’s the duty of someone who loves them to take the decision.’
‘Duty?’ I queried abruptly.
Judith turned on me. ‘Yes, duty. Someone whose mind is clear and who will take the responsibility.’
Boyd Carrington shook his head. ‘And end up in the dock charged with murder?’
‘Not necessarily. Anyway, if you love someone, you would take the risk.’
‘But look here, Judith,’ said Norton, ‘what you’re suggesting is simply a terrific responsibility to take.’
‘I don’t think it is. People are too afraid of responsibility. They’ll take responsibility where a dog is concerned – why not with a human being?’
‘Well – it’s rather different, isn’t it?’
Judith said: ‘Yes, it’s more important.’
Norton murmured: ‘You take my breath away.’ Boyd Carrington asked curiously: ‘So you’d take the risk, would you?’
‘I think so. I’m not afraid of taking risks.’
Boyd Carrington shook his head. ‘It wouldn’t do, you know. You can’t have people here, there, and everywhere, taking the law into their own hands, deciding matters of life and death.’
Norton said: ‘Actually, you know, Boyd Carrington, most people wouldn’t have the nerve to take the responsibility.’ He smiled faintly as he looked at Judith. ‘Don’t believe you would if it came to the point.’
Judith said composedly: ‘One can’t be sure, of course. I think I should.’
Norton said with a slight twinkle: ‘Not unless you had an axe of your own to grind.’
Judith flushed hotly. She said sharply: ‘That just shows you don’t understand at all. If I had a – a personal motive, I couldn’t do anything. Don’t you see?’ she appealed to us all. ‘It’s got to be absolutely impersonal. You could only take the responsibility of – of ending a life if you were quite sure of your motive. It must be absolutely selfless.’
‘All the same,’ said Norton, ‘you wouldn’t do it.’
Judith insisted: ‘I would. To begin with I don’t hold life as sacred as all you people do. Unfit lives, useless lives – they should be got out of the way. There’s so much mess about. Only people who can make a decent contribution to the community ought to be allowed to live. The others ought to be put painlessly away.’
She appealed suddenly to Boyd Carrington.
‘You agree with me, don’t you?’
He said slowly: ‘In principle, yes. Only the worthwhile should survive.’
‘Wouldn’t you take the law into your own hands if it was necessary?’
Boyd Carrington said slowly: ‘Perhaps. I don’t know . . .’
Norton said quietly: ‘A lot of people would agree with you in theory. But practice is a different matter.’
‘That’s not logical.’
Norton said impatiently: ‘Of course it’s not. It’s really a question of courage. One just hasn’t got the guts, to put it vulgarly.’
Judith was silent. Norton went on.
‘Frankly, you know, Judith, you’d be just the same yourself. You wouldn’t have the courage when it came to it.’
‘Don’t you think so?’
‘I’m sure of it.’
‘I think you’re wrong, Norton,’ said Boyd Carrington. ‘I think Judith has any amount of courage. Fortunately the issue doesn’t present itself.’
The gong sounded from the house.
Judith got up.
She said very distinctly to Norton: ‘You’re wrong, you know. I’ve got more – more guts than you think.’
She went swiftly towards the house. Boyd Carrington followed her saying, ‘Hey, wait for me, Judith.’
I followed, feeling for some reason rather dismayed. Norton, who was always quick to sense a mood, endeavoured to console me.
‘She doesn’t mean it, you know,’ he said. ‘It’s the sort of half-baked idea one has when one is young, but fortunately one doesn’t carry it out. It remains just talk.’
I think Judith overheard, for she cast a furious glance over her shoulder.
Norton dropped his voice. ‘Theories needn’t worry anybody,’ he said. ‘But look here, Hastings –’
‘Yes?’
Norton seemed rather embarrassed. He said: ‘I don’t want to butt in, but what do you know of Allerton?’
‘Of Allerton?’
‘Yes, sorry if I’m being a Nosy Parker, but frankly if I were you I shouldn’t let that girl of yours see too much of him. He’s – well, his reputation isn’t very good.’
‘I can see for myself the sort of rotter he is,’ I said bitterly. ‘But it’s not so easy in these days.’
‘Oh, I know. Girls can look after themselves, as the saying goes. Most of them can, too. But – well – Allerton has rather a special technique in that line.’ He hesitated, then said: ‘Look here, I feel I ought to tell you. Don’t let it go farther, of course – but I do happen to know something pretty foul about him.’
He told it me then and there – and I was able to verify it in every detail later. It was a revolting tale. The story of a girl, sure of herself, modern, independent. Allerton had brought all his technique to bear upon her. Later had come the other side of the picture – the story ended with a desperate girl taking her own life with an overdose of Veronal.
And the horrible part was that the girl in question had been much the same type as Judith – the independent, high-brow kind. The kind of girl who when she does lose her heart, loses it with a desperation and an abandonment that the silly little fluffy type can never know.
I went in to lunch with a horrible sense of foreboding.
Chapter 12
I
‘Is anything worrying you, mon ami?’ asked Poirot that afternoon.
I did not answer him, merely shook my head. I felt that I had no right to burden Poirot with this, my purely personal problem. It was not as though he could help in any way.
Judith would have treated any remonstrances on his part with the smiling detachment of the young towards the boring counsels of the old.
Judith, my Judith . . .
It is hard now to describe just what I went through that day. Afterwards, thinking it over, I am inclined to put something down to the atmosphere of Styles itself. Evil imaginings came easily to the mind there. There was, too, not only the past, but a sinister present. The shadow of murder and a murderer haunted the house.
And to the best of my belief the murderer was Allerton and Judith was losing her heart to him! It was unbelievable – monstrous – and I didn’t know what to do.
It was after lunch that Boyd Carrington drew me aside. He hemmed and hawed a bit before coming to the point. At last he said rather jerkily: ‘Don’t think I’m interfering, but I think you ought to speak to that girl of yours. Give her a word of warning, eh? You know this fellow Allerton – reputation’s pretty bad,
and she – well, it looks rather like a case.’
So easy for these men without children to speak like that! Give her a word of warning?
Would it be any use? Would it make things worse?
If only Cinders were here. She would know what to do, what to say.
I was tempted, I admit, to hold my peace and say nothing. But I reflected after a while that this was really only cowardice. I shrank from the unpleasantness of having things out with Judith. I was, you see, afraid of my tall, beautiful daughter.
I paced up and down the gardens in increasing agitation of mind. My footsteps led me at last to the rose garden, and there, as it were, the decision was taken out of my hands, for Judith was sitting on a seat alone, and in all my life I have never seen an expression of greater unhappiness on any woman’s face.
The mask was off. Indecision and deep unhappiness showed only too plainly.
I took my courage in my hands. I went to her. She did not hear me until I was beside her.
‘Judith,’ I said. ‘For God’s sake, Judith, don’t mind so much.’
She turned on me, startled. ‘Father? I didn’t hear you.’
I went on, knowing that it would be fatal if she managed to turn me back to normal everyday conversation.
‘Oh, my dearest child, don’t think I don’t know, that I can’t see. He isn’t worth it – oh, do believe me, he isn’t worth it.’
Her face, troubled, alarmed, was turned towards me. She said quietly: ‘Do you think you really know what you are talking about?’
‘I do know. You care about this man. But, my dear, it’s no good.’
She smiled sombrely. A heart-breaking smile.
‘Perhaps I know that as well as you do.’
‘You don’t. You can’t. Oh, Judith, what can come of it all? He’s a married man. There can be no future there for you – only sorrow and shame – and all ending in bitter self-loathing.’
Her smile grew wider – even more sorrowful.
‘How fluently you talk, don’t you?’
‘Give it up, Judith – give it all up.’
‘No!’
‘He’s not worth it, my dear.’
She said very quietly and slowly: ‘He’s worth everything in the world to me.’
‘No, no. Judith, I beg of you –’
The smile vanished. She turned on me like an avenging fury.
‘How dare you? How dare you interfere? I won’t stand it. You are never to speak to me of this again. I hate you, I hate you. It’s no business of yours. It’s my life – my own secret inside life!’
She got up. With one firm hand she pushed me aside and went past me. Like an avenging fury. I stared after her, dismayed.
II
I was still there, dazed and helpless, unable to think out my next course of action, some quarter of an hour later.
I was there when Elizabeth Cole and Norton found me.
They were, I realized later, very kind to me. They saw, they must have seen, that I was in a state of great mental perturbation. But tactfully enough they made no slightest allusion to my state of mind. Instead they took me with them on a rambling walk. They were both nature lovers. Elizabeth Cole pointed out wild flowers to me, Norton showed me birds through his field-glasses.
Their talk was gentle, soothing, concerned only with feathered beings and with woodland flora. Little by little I came back to normal, although underneath I was still in a state of the utmost perturbation.
Moreover I was, as people are, convinced that any happening that occurred was connected with my own particular perplexity.
So, therefore, when Norton, his glasses to his eyes, exclaimed: ‘Hullo, if that isn’t a speckled woodpecker. I never –’ and then broke off suddenly, I immediately leapt to suspicion. I held out my hand for the glasses.
‘Let me see.’ My voice was peremptory.
Norton fumbled with the glasses. He said, in a curious hesitating voice: ‘I – I – made a mistake. It’s flown away – at least, as a matter of fact, it was quite a common bird.’
His face was white and troubled, he avoided looking at us. He seemed both bewildered and distressed.
Even now I cannot think I was altogether unreasonable in jumping to the conclusion that he had seen through those glasses of his something that he was determined to prevent my seeing.
Whatever it was that he had seen, he was so thoroughly taken aback by it that it was noticeable to both of us.
His glasses had been trained on a distant belt of woodland. What had he seen there?
I said peremptorily: ‘Let me look.’
I snatched at the glasses. I remember he tried to defend them from me, but he did it clumsily. I seized them roughly.
Norton said weakly: ‘It wasn’t really – I mean, the bird’s gone. I wish –’
My hands shaking a little, I adjusted the glasses to my eyes. They were powerful glasses. I trained them as nearly as I could on the spot where I thought Norton had been looking.
But I saw nothing – nothing but a gleam of white (a girl’s white dress?) disappearing into the trees.
I lowered the glasses. Without a word I handed them back to Norton. He did not meet my eyes. He was looking worried and perplexed.
We walked back to the house together and I remember that Norton was very silent all the way.
III
Mrs Franklin and Boyd Carrington came in shortly after we got back to the house. He had taken her in his car to Tadcaster because she wanted to do some shopping.
She had done it, I gather, pretty thoroughly. Lots of parcels came out of the car and she was looking quite animated, talking and laughing and with quite a colour in her cheeks.
She sent Boyd Carrington up with a particularly fragile purchase and I gallantly received a further consignment.
Her talk was quicker and more nervous than usual. ‘Frightfully hot, isn’t it? I think there’s going to be a storm. This weather must break soon. They say, you know, there’s quite a water shortage. The worst drought there’s been for years.’
She went on, turning to Elizabeth Cole: ‘What have you all been doing with yourselves? Where’s John? He said he’d got a headache and was going to walk it off. Very unlike him to have a headache. I think, you know, he’s worried about his experiments. They aren’t going right or something. I wish he’d talk more about things.’
She paused and then addressed Norton: ‘You’re very silent, Mr Norton. Is anything the matter? You look –
you look scared. You haven’t seen the ghost of old Mrs Whoever-it-was?’
Norton started. ‘No, no. I haven’t seen any ghosts. I – I was just thinking of something.’
It was at that moment that Curtiss came through the doorway wheeling Poirot in his invalid chair.
He stopped with it in the hall, preparatory to taking his master out and carrying him up the stairs.
Poirot, his eyes suddenly alert, looked from one to the other of us.
He said sharply: ‘What is it? Is anything the matter?’
None of us answered for a minute, then Barbara Franklin said with a little artificial laugh: ‘No, of course not. What should be the matter? It’s just – perhaps thunder coming? I – oh dear – I’m terribly tired. Bring those things up, will you, Captain Hastings? Thank you so much.’
I followed her up the stairs and along the east wing. Her room was the end one on that side.
Mrs Franklin opened the door. I was behind her, my arms full of parcels.
She stopped abruptly in the doorway. By the window Boyd Carrington was having his palm examined by Nurse Craven.
He looked up and laughed a little sheepishly. ‘Hullo, I’m having my fortune told. Nurse is no end of a hand-reader.’
‘Really? I had no idea of that.’ Barbara Franklin’s voice was sharp. I had an idea that she was annoyed with Nurse Craven. ‘Please take these things, Nurse, will you? And you might mix me an egg-flip. I feel very tired. A hot-water bottle, too, please. I’ll get to bed as so
on as possible.’
‘Certainly, Mrs Franklin.’
Nurse Craven moved forward. She showed no signs of anything but professional concern.
Mrs Franklin said: ‘Please go, Bill, I’m terribly tired.’
Boyd Carrington looked very concerned. ‘Oh, I say, Babs, has it been too much for you? I am sorry. What a thoughtless fool I am. I shouldn’t have let you overtire yourself.’
Mrs Franklin gave him her angelic martyr’s smile. ‘I didn’t want to say anything. I do hate being tiresome.’
We two men went out of the room, somewhat abashed, and left the two women together.
Boyd Carrington said contritely: ‘What a damned fool I am. Barbara seemed so bright and gay I forgot all about tiring her. Hope she’s not knocked herself up.’
I said mechanically: ‘Oh, I expect she’ll be all right after a night’s rest.’
He went down the stairs. I hesitated and then went along the other wing towards my own room, and Poirot’s. The little man would be expecting me. For the first time I was reluctant to go to him. I had so much to occupy my thoughts, and I still had that dull sick feeling at the pit of my stomach.
I went slowly along the corridor.
From inside Allerton’s room I heard voices. I don’t think I meant consciously to listen though I stopped for a minute automatically outside his door. Then, suddenly, the door opened and my daughter Judith came out.
She stopped dead when she saw me. I caught her by the arm and hustled her along into my room. I was suddenly intensely angry.
‘What do you mean by going to that fellow’s room?’ She looked at me steadily. She showed no anger now, only complete coldness. For some few seconds she did not reply.
I shook her by the arm. ‘I won’t have it, I tell you. You don’t know what you are doing.’
She said then, in a low biting voice: ‘I think you have a perfectly filthy mind.’
I said: ‘I dare say I have. It’s a reproach your generation is fond of levelling at mine. We have, at least, certain standards. Understand this, Judith, I forbid you absolutely to have anything more to do with that man.’
She looked at me steadily. Then she said quietly: ‘I see. So that’s it.’
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