ABC Murders - Agatha Christie [45]
“One can’t hope for much improvement, of course, but some new treatment has made things a little easier for her. Dr. Logan is quite pleased with her condition.”
“But it is true, is it not, that she can never recover?”
“Oh, we never actually say that,” said Nurse Capstick, a little shocked by this plain speaking.
“I suppose her husband’s death was a terrible shock to her?”
“Well, M. Poirot, if you understand what I mean, it wasn’t as much of a shock as it would have been to anyone in full possession of her health and faculties. Things are dimmed for Lady Clarke in her condition.”
“Pardon my asking, but was she deeply attached to her husband and he to her?”
“Oh, yes, they were a very happy couple. He was very worried and upset about her, poor man. It’s always worse for a doctor, you know. They can’t buoy themselves up with false hopes. I’m afraid it preyed on his mind very much to begin with.”
“To begin with? Not so much afterwards?”
“One gets used to everything, doesn’t one? And then Sir Carmichael had his collection. A hobby is a great consolation to a man. He used to run up to sales occasionally, and then he and Miss Grey were busy recataloguing and rearranging the museum on a new system.”
“Oh, yes—Miss Grey. She has left, has she not?”
“Yes—I’m very sorry about it—but ladies do take these fancies sometimes when they’re not well. And there’s no arguing with them. It’s better to give in. Miss Grey was very sensible about it.”
“Had Lady Clarke always disliked her?”
“No—that is to say, not disliked. As a matter of fact, I think she rather liked her to begin with. But there, I mustn’t keep you gossiping. My patient will be wondering what has become of us.”
She led us upstairs to a room on the first floor. What had at one time been a bedroom had been turned into a cheerful-looking sitting room.
Lady Clarke was sitting in a big armchair near the window. She was painfully thin, and her face had the grey, haggard look of one who suffers much pain. She had a slightly faraway, dreamy look, and I noticed that the pupils of her eyes were mere pinpoints.
“This is M. Poirot whom you wanted to see,” said Nurse Capstick in her high, cheerful voice.
“Oh, yes, M. Poirot,” said Lady Clarke vaguely.
She extended her hand.
“My friend Captain Hastings, Lady Clarke.”
“How do you do? So good of you both to come.”
We sat down as her vague gesture directed. There was a silence. Lady Clarke seemed to have lapsed into a dream.
Presently with a slight effort she roused herself.
“It was about Car, wasn’t it? About Car’s death. Oh, yes.”
She sighed, but still in a faraway manner, shaking her head.
“We never thought it would be that way round…I was so sure I should be the first to go…” She mused a minute or two. “Car was very strong—wonderful for his age. He was never ill. He was nearly sixty—but he seemed more like fifty…Yes, very strong….”
She relapsed again into her dream. Poirot, who was well acquainted with the effects of certain drugs and of how they give their taker the impression of endless time, said nothing.
Lady Clarke said suddenly:
“Yes—it was good of you to come. I told Franklin. He said he wouldn’t forget to tell you. I hope Franklin isn’t going to be foolish…he’s so easily taken in, in spite of having knocked about the world so much. Men are like that…They remain boys…Franklin, in particular.”
“He has an impulsive nature,” said Poirot.
“Yes—yes…And very chivalrous. Men are so foolish that way. Even Car—” Her voice tailed off.
She shook her head with a febrile impatience.
“Everything’s so dim…One’s body is a nuisance, M. Poirot, especially when it gets the upper hand. One is conscious of nothing else—whether the pain will hold off or not—nothing else seems to matter.”
“I know, Lady Clarke. It is one of the tragedies of this life.”
“It makes me so stupid. I cannot even remember what it was I wanted to say to you.”
“Was it something about your husband’s death?”
“Car’s death? Yes, perhaps…Mad, poor creature—the murderer, I mean. It’s all the noise and the speed nowadays—people