Curtain - Agatha Christie [36]
Boyd Carrington, who knew all about everyone, enlightened me further. Allerton’s wife was a devout Roman Catholic. She had left him a short time after their marriage. Owing to her religion there had never been any question of divorce.
‘And if you ask me,’ said Boyd Carrington frankly, ‘it suits the blighter down to the ground. His intentions are always dishonourable, and a wife in the background suits the book very well.’
Pleasant hearing for a father!
The days after the shooting accident passed uneventfully enough on the surface, but they accompanied a growing undercurrent of unrest on my part.
Colonel Luttrell spent much time in his wife’s bedroom. A nurse had arrived to take charge of the patient and Nurse Craven was able to resume her ministrations to Mrs Franklin.
Without wishing to be ill-natured, I must admit that I had observed signs 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 very displeasing to the little lady who was accustomed to her own health being the main topic of the day.
She lay about in a hammock chair, her hand to her side, complaining of palpitation. No food that was served was suitable for her, and all her exactions were masked by a veneer of patient endurance.
‘I do so hate making a fuss,’ she murmured plaintively to Poirot. ‘I feel so ashamed of my wretched health. It’s so – so humiliating always to have to ask people to be doing things for me. I sometimes think ill health is really a crime. If one isn’t healthy and insensitive one isn’t fit for this world and one should just be put quietly away.’
‘Ah no, madame.’ Poirot, as always, was gallant. ‘The delicate exotic flower has to have the shelter of the greenhouse – it cannot endure the cold winds. It is the common weed that thrives in the wintry air, but it is not to be prized higher on that account. Consider my case – cramped, twisted, unable to move, but I – I do not think of quitting life. I enjoy still what I can – the food, the drink, the pleasures of the intellect.’
Mrs Franklin sighed and murmured: ‘Ah, but it’s different for you. You have no one but yourself to consider. In my case, there is my poor John. I feel acutely what a burden I am to him. A sickly useless wife. A millstone hung 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, of course, to be unkind, but he’s – well, mercifully for himself he’s a very insensitive sort of person. He’s no feelings and so he doesn’t expect anyone else 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 I know that if it wasn’t for me, he would be much freer. Sometimes, you know, I get so terribly depressed that I think what a relief it would be to end it all.’
‘Oh, come, madame.’
‘After all, what use am I to anybody? To go out of it all into the Great Unknown . . .’ she shook her head. ‘And then John would be free.’
‘Great fiddlesticks,’ said Nurse Craven when I repeated this conversation to her. ‘She won’t do anything of the kind. Don’t you worry, Captain Hastings. These ones that talk about “ending it all” in a dying-duck voice haven’t the faintest intention of doing anything of the kind.’
And I must say that once the excitement aroused by Mrs Luttrell’s injury had died down, and Nurse Craven was once more in attendance, Mrs Franklin’s spirits improved very much.
On a particularly fine morning Curtiss had taken Poirot down to the corner below the beech trees near the laboratory. This was a favourite spot of his. It was sheltered from any east wind and in fact hardly any breeze could ever be felt there. This suited Poirot, who abhorred draughts and was always suspicious of the fresh air. Actually, I think he much preferred to be indoors but had grown to