Curtain: Poirot’s Last Case. Агата Кристи

I felt that I must know what her reactions were. She was, I knew, a level-headed girl, well able to take care of herself, and I did not think that she would really be taken in by the cheap attraction of a man like Allerton. I suppose, actually, that I tackled her on the subject because I wanted to be reassured on that point.

      Unfortunately, I did not get what I wanted . . . I went about it clumsily, I dare say. There is nothing that young people resent so much as advice from their elders. I tried to make my words quite careless and debonair. I suppose that I failed.

      Judith bristled at once.

      ‘What’s this?’ she said. ‘A paternal warning against the big bad wolf ?’

      ‘No, no, Judith, of course not.’

      ‘I gather you don’t like Major Allerton?’

      ‘Frankly, I don’t. Actually, I don’t suppose you do either.’

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘Well – er – he isn’t your type, is he?’

      ‘What do you consider is my type, Father?’

      Judith can always flurry me. I boggled rather badly. She stood looking at me, her mouth curving upwards in a slightly scornful smile.

      ‘Of course you don’t like him,’ she said. ‘I do. I think he’s very amusing.’

      ‘Oh, amusing – perhaps.’ I endeavoured to pass it off.

      Judith said deliberately: ‘He’s very attractive. Any woman would think so. Men, of course, wouldn’t see it.’

      ‘They certainly wouldn’t.’ I went on, rather clumsily: ‘You were out with him very late the other night –’

      I was not allowed to finish. The storm broke.

      ‘Really, Father, you’re being too idiotic. Don’t you realize that at my age I’m capable of managing my own affairs? You’ve no earthly right to control what I do or whom I choose to make a friend of. It’s this senseless interfering in their children’s lives that is so infuriating about fathers and mothers. I’m very fond of you – but I’m an adult woman and my life is my own. Don’t start making a Mr Barrett of yourself.’

      I was so hurt by this extremely unkind remark that I was quite incapable of replying, and Judith went quickly away.

      I was left with the dismayed feeling that I had done more harm than good.

      I was standing lost in my thoughts when I was roused by the voice of Mrs Franklin’s nurse exclaiming archly: ‘A penny for your thoughts, Captain Hastings!’

      I turned gladly to welcome the interruption.

      Nurse Craven was really a very good-looking young woman. Her manner was, perhaps, a little on the arch and sprightly side, but she was pleasant and intelligent.

      She had just come from establishing her patient in a sunny spot not far from the improvised laboratory.

      ‘Is Mrs Franklin interested in her husband’s work?’ I asked.

      Nurse Craven tossed her head contemptuously. ‘Oh, it’s a good deal too technical for her. She’s not at all a clever woman, you know, Captain Hastings.’

      ‘No, I suppose not.’

      ‘Dr Franklin’s work, of course, can only be appreciated by someone who knows something about medicine. He’s a very clever man indeed, you know. Brilliant. Poor man, I feel so sorry for him.’

      ‘Sorry for him?’

      ‘Yes. I’ve seen it happen so often. Marrying the wrong type of woman, I mean.’

      ‘You think she’s the wrong type for him?’

      ‘Well, don’t you? They’ve nothing at all in common.’

      ‘He seems very fond of her,’ I said. ‘Very attentive to her wishes and all that.’

      Nurse Craven laughed rather disagreeably. ‘She sees to that all right!’

      ‘You think she trades on her – on her ill health?’ I asked doubtfully.

      Nurse Craven laughed. ‘There isn’t much you could teach her about getting her own way. Whatever her ladyship wants happens. Some women are like that – clever as a barrelful of monkeys. If anyone opposes them they just lie back and shut their eyes and look ill and pathetic, or else they have a nerve storm – but Mrs Franklin’s the pathetic type. Doesn’t sleep all night and is all white and exhausted in the morning.’

      ‘But she is really an invalid, isn’t she?’ I asked, rather startled.

      Nurse Craven gave me a rather peculiar glance. She said drily: ‘Oh, of course,’ and then turned the subject rather abruptly.

      She asked me if it was true that I had been here long ago, in the first war.

      ‘Yes, that’s quite true.’

      She lowered her voice. ‘There was a murder here, wasn’t there? So one of the maids was telling me. An old lady?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘And you were here at the time?’

      ‘I was.’

      She gave a slight shiver. She said: ‘That explains it, doesn’t it?’

      ‘Explains what?’

      She gave me a quick sideways glance. ‘The – the atmosphere of the place. Don’t you feel it? I do. Something wrong, if you know what I mean?’

      I was silent a moment considering. Was it true what she had just said? Did the fact that death by violence – by malice aforethought – had taken place in a certain spot leave its impression on that spot so strongly that it was perceptible after many years? Psychic people said so. Did Styles definitely bear traces of that event that had occurred so long ago? Here, within these walls, in these gardens, thoughts of murder had lingered and grown stronger and had at last come to fruition in the final act. Did they still taint the air?

      Nurse Craven broke in on my thoughts by saying abruptly: ‘I was in a house where there was a murder case once. I’ve never forgotten it. One doesn’t, you know. One of my patients. I had to give evidence and everything. Made me feel quite queer. It’s a nasty experience for a girl.’

      ‘It must be. I know myself –’

      I broke off as Boyd Carrington came striding round the corner of the house.

      As usual, his big, buoyant personality seemed to sweep away shadows and intangible worries. He was so large, so sane, so out-of-doors – one of those lovable, forceful personalities that radiate cheerfulness and common sense.

      ‘Morning, Hastings, morning, Nurse. Where’s Mrs Franklin?’

      ‘Good morning, Sir William. Mrs Franklin’s down at the bottom of the garden under the beech tree near the laboratory.’

      ‘And Franklin, I suppose, is inside the laboratory?’

      ‘Yes, Sir William – with Miss Hastings.’

      ‘Wretched girl. Fancy being cooped up doing stinks on a morning like this! You ought to protest, Hastings.’

      Nurse Craven said quickly: ‘Oh, Miss Hastings is quite happy. She likes it, you know, and the doctor couldn’t do without her, I’m sure.’

      ‘Miserable fellow,’ said Boyd Carrington. ‘If I had a pretty girl like your Judith as a secretary, I’d be looking at her instead of at guinea pigs, eh, what?’

      It was the kind of joke that Judith would particularly have disliked but it went down quite well with Nurse Craven who laughed a good deal.

      ‘Oh, Sir William,’ she exclaimed. ‘You really mustn’t say things like that. I’m sure we all know what you’d