"He'll do anything - take any risk - just to advance the sum of human knowledge. That is pretty fine, don't you think?"
"Assuredly, assuredly," said Poirot quickly.
"But sometimes, you know," went on Mrs Franklin, "I'm really nervous about him. The lengths to which he'll go, I mean. This horrid bean thing he's experimenting with now. I'm so afraid that he'll start experimenting on himself."
"He'd take every precaution, surely," I said.
She shook her head with a slight, rueful smile.
"You don't know John. Did you ever hear about what he did with that new gas?"
I shook my head.
"It was some new gas they wanted to find out about. John volunteered to test it. He was shut up in a tank for something like thirty-six hours - taking his pulse and temperature and respiration - to see what the aftereffects were and if they were the same for men as for animals. It was a frightful risk, so one of the professors told me afterwards. He might easily have passed out altogether. But that's the sort of person John is - absolutely oblivious of his own safety. I think it's rather wonderful, don't you, to be like that? I should never be brave enough."
"It needs, indeed, high courage," said Poirot, "to do these things in cold blood."
Barbara Franklin said:
"Yes, it does. I'm awfully proud of him, you know, but at the same time it makes me rather nervous, too. Because, you see, guinea pigs and frogs are no good after a certain point. You want the human reaction. That's why I feel so terrified that John will go and dose himself with this nasty ordeal bean and that something awful might happen." She sighed and shook her head. "But he only laughs at my fears. He really is a sort of saint, you know."
At this moment Boyd Carrington came towards us.
"Hullo, Babs, ready?"
"Yes, Bill, waiting for you."
"I do hope it won't tire you too much."
"Of course it won't. I feel better today than I have for ages."
She got up, smiled prettily at us both, and walked up the lawn with her tall escort.
"Dr Franklin - the modern saint -h'm," said Poirot.
"Rather a change of attitude," I said. "But I think the lady is like that."
"Like what?"
"Given to dramatizing herself in various roles. One day the misunderstood neglected wife, then the self-sacrificing suffering woman who hates to be a burden on the man she loves. Today it's the hero-worshipping helpmate. The trouble is that all the roles are slightly overdone."
Poirot said thoughtfully:
"You think Mrs Franklin, do you not, rather a fool?"
"Well, I wouldn't say that - yes, perhaps not a very brilliant intellect."
"Ah, she is not your type."
"Who is my type?" I snapped.
Poirot replied unexpectedly:
"Open your mouth and shut your eyes and see what the fairies will send you -"
I was prevented from replying because Nurse Craven came tripping hastily across the grass. She gave us a smile with a brilliant flash of teeth, unlocked the door of the lab, passed inside and reappeared with a pair of gloves.
"First a hanky and now gloves, always something left behind," she observed as she sped back with them to where Barbara Franklin and Boyd Carrington were waiting.
Mrs Franklin, I reflected, was that rather feckless type of woman who always did leave things behind, shedding her possessions and expecting everybody to retrieve them as a matter of course, and even, I fancied, was rather proud of herself for so doing. I had heard her more than once murmur complacently:
"Of course I've got a head like a sieve."
I sat looking after Nurse Craven as she ran across the lawn and out of sight. She ran well, her body was vigorous and well balanced. I said impulsively:
"I should think a girl must get fed up with that sort of life. I mean when there isn't much nursing to be done - when it's just fetch and carry. I don't suppose Mrs Franklin is particularly considerate or kindly."
Poirot's response was distinctly annoying. For no reason whatever, he closed his eyes and murmured:
"Auburn hair."
Undoubtedly Nurse Craven had auburn hair - but I did not see why Poirot should choose just this minute to comment upon it.
I made no reply.
Chapter 11
It was, I think, on the following morning before lunch that a conversation took place which left me vaguely disquieted.
There were four of us - Judith, myself, Boyd Carrington and Norton.
Exactly how the subject started, I am not sure, but we were talking of euthanasia - the case for and against it.
Boyd Carrington, as was natural, did most of the talking, Norton putting in a word or two here and there, and Judith sitting silent but closely attentive.
I myself had confessed that though there seemed, on the face of it, every reason to support the practice, yet in actuality I felt a sentimental shrinking from it. Besides, I said, I thought it would put too much power in the hands of relatives.
Norton agreed with me. He added that he thought it should only be done by the wish and consent of the patient himself where death after prolonged suffering was certain.
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 make the decision."
"Duty?" I queried dubiously.
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 on 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," said Judith. "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 often 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 further, 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 of much the same type as Judith - the independent highbrow 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
"Is anything worrying you, mon ami?" asked Poirot that afternoon.
I did not answer, 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 all 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.
