It is all set, then. The cumulative effect. The breaking point. Affronted in his instincts as a host - shamed before his fellow men, writhing under the knowledge that they are quite convinced he has not got the guts to do anything but submit meekly to bullying - and then the key words of escape. The rook rifle, accidents - man who shot his brother - and suddenly, bobbing up, his wife's head... "Quite safe - an accident... I'll show them... I'll show her... damn her! I wish she was dead... She shall be dead!"
He did not kill her, Hastings. Myself, I think that, even as he fired, instinctively he missed because he wanted to miss. And afterwards - afterwards the evil spell was broken. She was his wife, the woman he loved in spite of everything.
One of Norton's crimes that did not quite come off.
Ah, but his next attempt! Do you realize, Hastings, that it was you who came next? Throw your mind back - recall everything. You, my honest, kindly Hastings! He found every weak spot in your mind - yes, and every decent and conscientious one, too.
Allerton is the type of man you instinctively dislike and fear. He is the type of man that you think ought to be abolished. And everything you heard about him and thought about him was true. Norton tells you a certain story about him - an entirely true story as far as the facts go. (Though actually the girl concerned was a neurotic type and came of poor stock.)
It appeals to your conventional and somewhat old-fashioned instincts. This man is the villain, the seducer, the man who ruins girls and drives them to suicide! Norton induces Boyd Carrington to tackle you also. You are impelled to "speak to Judith." Judith, as could be predicted, immediately responds by saying she will do as she chooses with her life. That makes you believe the worst.
See now the different steps on which Norton plays. Your love for your child. The intense old-fashioned sense of responsibility that a man like you feels for his children. The slight self-importance of your nature. "I must do something. It all depends on me." Your feeling of helplessness owing to the lack of your wife's wise judgment. Your loyalty - I must not fail her. And, on the baser side, your vanity - through association with me you have learned all the tricks of the trade! And lastly, that inner feeling which most men have about their daughters - a father's unreasoning jealousy and dislike for the man who takes his daughter away from him. Norton played, Hastings, like a virtuoso on all these tunes. And you responded.
You accept things too easily at their face value. You always have done. You accepted quite easily the fact that it was Judith to whom Allerton was talking in the summerhouse. Yet you did not see her, you did not even hear her speak. And incredibly, even the next morning, you still thought it was Judith. You rejoiced because she had "changed her mind."
But if you had taken the trouble to examine the facts, you would have discovered at once that there had never been any question of Judith going up to London that day! And you failed to make another most obvious inference. There was someone who was going off for the day - and who was furious at not being able to do so. Nurse Craven. Allerton is not a man who confines himself to the pursuit of one woman! His affair with Nurse Craven had progressed much further than the mere flirtation he was having with Judith.
No, stage management again by Norton.
You saw Allerton and Judith kiss. Then Norton shoves you back round the corner. He doubtless knows quite well that Allerton is going to meet Nurse Craven in the summerhouse. After a little argument he lets you go but still accompanies you. The sentence you overhear Allerton speaking is magnificent for his purpose and he swiftly drags you away before you have a chance to discover that the woman is not Judith!
Yes, the virtuoso! And your reaction is immediate, complete on all those themes! You responded. You made up your mind to do murder.
But fortunately, Hastings, you had a friend whose brain still functioned. And not only his brain!
I said at the beginning of this that if you have not arrived at the truth, it is because you have too trusting a nature. You believe what is said to you. You believed what I said to you...
Yet it was all very easy for you to discover the truth. I had sent Georges away - why? I had replaced him with a less experienced and clearly much less intelligent man - why? I was not being attended by a doctor - I, who have always been careful about my health - I would not hear of seeing one - why?
Do you see now why you were necessary to me at Styles? I had to have someone who accepted what I said without question. You accepted my statement that I came back from Egypt much worse than when I went. I did not. I came back very much better! You could have found out the fact if you had taken the trouble. But no, you believed. I sent away Georges because I could not have succeeded in making him think that I had suddenly lost all power in my limbs. Georges is extremely intelligent about what he sees. He would have known that I was shamming.
Do you understand, Hastings? All the time that I was pretending to be helpless and deceiving Curtiss, I was not helpless at all. I could walk - with a limp.
I heard you come up that evening. I heard you hesitate and then go into Allerton's room. And at once I was on the alert. I was already much exercised about your state of mind.
I did not delay. I was alone. Curtiss had gone down to supper. I slipped out of my room and across the passage. I heard you in Allerton's bathroom. And promptly, my friend, in the manner you so much deplore, I dropped to my knees and I looked through the keyhole of the bathroom door. One could see through it, fortunately, as there is a bolt and not a key on the inside.
I perceived your manipulations with the sleeping tablets. I realized what your idea was.
And so, my friend, I acted. I went back to my room. I made my preparations. When Curtiss came up, I sent him to fetch you. You came, yawning and explaining that you had a headache. I made at once the big fuss - urged remedies on you. For the sake of peace you consented to drink a cup of chocolate. You gulped it down quickly so as to get away quicker. But I, too, my friend, have some sleeping tablets.
And so, you slept - slept until morning, when you awoke your own sane self and were horrified at what you had so nearly done.
You were safe now - one does not attempt these things twice - not when one has relapsed into sanity.
But it decided me, Hastings! For whatever I might not know about other people did not apply to you. You are not a murderer, Hastings! But you might have been hanged for one - for a murder committed by another man who in the eyes of the law would be guiltless.
You, my good, my honest, my oh-so-honourable Hastings - so kindly, so conscientious - so innocent!
Yes, I must act. I knew that my time was short - and for that I was glad. For the worst part of murder, Hastings, is its effect on the murderer. I, Hercule Poirot, might come to believe myself divinely appointed to deal out death to all and sundry... But mercifully, there would not be time for that to happen. The end would come soon. And I was afraid that Norton might succeed with someone who was unutterably dear to us both. I am talking of your daughter...
And now we come to the death of Barbara Franklin. Whatever your ideas may be on the subject, Hastings, I do not think you have once suspected the truth.
For you see, Hastings, you killed Barbara Franklin.
Mais oui, you did!
There was, you see, yet another angle to the triangle. One that I did not fully take into account. As it happened, Norton's tactics there were unseen and unheard by either of us. But I have no doubt that he employed them...
Did it ever enter your mind to wonder, Hastings, why Mrs Franklin was willing to come to Styles? It is not, when you think of it, at all her line of country. She likes comfort, good food and above all social contacts. Styles is not gay - it is not well run - it is in the dead country. And yet it was Mrs Franklin who insisted on spending the summer there.
Yes, there was a third angle - Boyd Carrington. Mrs Franklin was a disappointed woman. That was at the root of her neurotic illness. She was ambitious both socially and financially. She married Franklin because she expected him to have a brilliant career.
He was brilliant, but not in her way. His brilliance would never bring him newspaper notoriety or a Harley Street reputation. He would be known to half a dozen men of his own profession and would publish articles in learned journals. The outside world would not hear of him - and he would certainly not make money.
And here is Boyd Carrington - home from the East - just come into a baronetcy and money, and Boyd Carrington has always felt tenderly sentimental towards the pretty seventeen-year-old girl he nearly asked to marry him. He is going to Styles, he suggests the Franklins come too - and Barbara comes.
How maddening it is for her! Obviously she has lost none of her old charm for this rich, attractive man - but he is old-fashioned - not the type of man to suggest divorce. And John Franklin, too, has no use for divorce. If John Franklin were to die - then she could be Lady Boyd Carrington - and oh, what a wonderful life that would be!
Norton, I think, found her only too ready a tool.
It was all too obvious, Hastings, when you come to think of it. Those first few tentative attempts at establishing how fond she was of her husband. She overdid it a little - murmuring about "ending it all" because she was a drag on him.
And then an entirely new line. Her fears that Franklin might experiment upon himself.
It ought to have been so obvious to us, Hastings! She was preparing us for John Franklin to die of physostigmine poisoning. No question, you see, of anyone trying to poison him - oh no - just pure scientific research. He takes the harmless alkaloid, and it turns out to be harmful after all.
The only thing was it was a little too swift. You told me that she was not pleased to find Boyd Carrington having his fortune told by Nurse Craven. Nurse Craven was an attractive young woman with a keen eye for men. She had had a try at Dr Franklin and had not met with success. (Hence her dislike for Judith.) She is carrying on with Allerton - but she knows quite well he is not serious. Inevitable that she should cast her eye on the rich and still attractive Sir William. And Sir William was, perhaps, only too ready to be attracted. He had already noticed Nurse Craven as a healthy, good-looking girl.
Barbara Franklin has a fright and decides to act quickly. The sooner she is a pathetic, charming and not inconsolable widow, the better.
And so, after a morning of nerves, she sets the scene.
Do you know, mon ami, I have some respect for the Calabar bean. This time, you see, it worked. It spared the innocent and slew the guilty.
Mrs Franklin asks you all up to her room. She makes coffee with much fuss and display. As you tell me, her own coffee is beside her, her husband's on the other side of the bookcase table.
And then there are the shooting stars and everyone goes out and only you, my friend, are left - you and your crossword puzzle and your memories - and to hide emotion, you swing round the bookcase to find a quotation in Shakespeare.
And so they come back and Mrs Franklin drinks the coffee full of the Calabar bean alkaloids that were meant for dear scientific John, and John Franklin drinks the nice plain cup of coffee that was meant for clever Mrs Franklin.
But you will see, Hastings, if you think a minute, that although I realized what had happened, I saw that there was only one thing to be done. I could not prove what had happened. And if Mrs Franklin's death was thought to be anything but suicide, suspicion would inevitably fall on either Franklin or Judith. On two people who were utterly and completely innocent. So I did what I had a perfect right to do - laid stress on, and put conviction into, my repetition of Mrs Franklin's extremely unconvincing remarks on the subject of putting an end to herself.
I could do it - and I was probably the only person who could. For you see my statement carried weight. I am a man experienced in the matter of committing murder. If I am convinced it is suicide, well then, it will be accepted as suicide.
It puzzled you, I could see, and you were not pleased. But mercifully you did not suspect the true danger.
But will you think of it after I am gone? Will it come into your mind, lying there like some dark serpent that now and then raises its head and says: "Suppose Judith...?"
It may do. And therefore I am writing this. You must know the truth.
There was one person whom the verdict of suicide did not satisfy. Norton. He was balked, you see, of his pound of flesh. As I say, he is a sadist. He wants the whole gamut of emotion, suspicion, fear, the coils of the law. He was deprived of all that. The murder he had arranged had gone awry.
But presently he saw what one may call a way of recouping himself. He began to throw out hints. Earlier on he had pretended to see something through his glasses. Actually he intended to convey the exact impression that he did convey - namely, that he saw Allerton and Judith in some compromising attitude. But not having said anything definite, he could use that incident in a different way.
Supposing, for instance, that he says he saw Franklin and Judith. That will open up an interesting new angle of the suicide case! It may, perhaps, throw doubts on whether it was suicide...
So, mon ami, I decided that what had to be done must be done at once. I arranged that you should bring him to my room that night...
I will tell you now exactly what happened. Norton, no doubt, would have been delighted to tell me his arranged story. I gave him no time. I told him, clearly and definitely, all that I knew about him.
He did not deny it. No, mon ami, he sat back in his chair and smirked. Mais oui, there is no other word for it - he smirked. He asked me what I thought I was going to do about this amusing idea of mine. I told him that I proposed to execute him.
"Ah," he said, "I see. The dagger or the cup of poison?"
We were about to have chocolate together at the time. He has a sweet tooth, M. Norton.
"The simplest," I said, "would be the cup of poison."
And I handed him the cup of chocolate I had just poured out.
"In that case," he said, "would you mind my drinking from your cup instead of from mine?"
I said: "Not at all." In effect, it was quite immaterial. As I have said, I, too, take the sleeping tablets. The only thing is that since I have been taking them every night for a considerable period, I have acquired a certain tolerance, and a dose that would send M. Norton to sleep would have very little effect upon me. The dose was in the chocolate itself. We both had the same. His portion took effect in due course, mine had little effect upon me, especially when counteracted with a dose of my strychnine tonic.
