Free Curtain: Poirot's Last Case by Agatha Christie Page B

possibly Norton or Miss Cole might be a distant relative and would inherit automatically. Far-fetched but possible. Would Colonel Luttrell, who was an old friend, benefit under Boyd Carrington’s will? These possibilities seemed to exhaust the money angle. I turned to more romantic possibilities. The Franklins. Mrs Franklin was an invalid. Was it possible that she was being slowly poisoned – and would the responsibility for her death be laid at her husband’s door? He was a doctor, he had opportunity and means, no doubt. What about motive? An unpleasant qualm shot across my mind as it occurred to me that Judith might be involved. I had good reason to know how business-like their relations were – but would the general public believe that? Would a cynical police officer believe it? Judith was a very beautiful young woman. An attractive secretary or assistant had been the motive for many crimes. The possibility dismayed me.
    I considered Allerton next. Could there be any reason for doing away with Allerton? If we had to have a murder I would prefer to see Allerton the victim! One ought to be able to find motives easily for doing away with him. Miss Cole, though not young, was still a good-looking woman. She might, conceivably, be actuated by jealousy if she and Allerton had ever been on intimate terms, though I had no reason to believe that that was the case. Besides, if Allerton was X –
    I shook my head impatiently. All this was getting me nowhere. A footstep on the gravel below attracted my attention. It was Franklin walking rapidly towards the house, his hands in his pockets, his head thrust forward. His whole attitude was one of dejection. Seeing him thus, off guard, I was struck by the fact that he looked a thoroughly unhappy man.
    I was so busy staring at him that I did not hear a footfall nearer at hand, and turned with a start when Miss Cole spoke to me.
    ‘I didn’t hear you coming,’ I explained apologetically as I sprang up.
    She was examining the summer-house.
    ‘What a Victorian relic!’
    ‘Isn’t it? It’s rather spidery, I’m afraid. Do sit down. I’ll dust the seat for you.’
    For it occurred to me that here was a chance to get to know one of my fellow guests a little better. I studied Miss Cole covertly as I brushed away cobwebs.
    She was a woman of between thirty and forty, slightly haggard, with a clear-cut profile and really very beautiful eyes. There was about her an air of reserve, more – of suspicion. It came to me suddenly that this was a woman who had suffered and who was, in consequence, deeply distrustful of life. I felt that I would like to know more about Elizabeth Cole.
    ‘There,’ I said with a final flick of the handkerchief, ‘that’s the best I can do.’
    ‘Thank you.’ She smiled and sat down. I sat down beside her. The seat creaked ominously but no catastrophe occurred.
    Miss Cole said: ‘Do tell me, what were you thinking about when I came up to you? You seemed quite sunk in thought.’
    I said slowly: ‘I was watching Dr Franklin.’
    ‘Yes?’
    I saw no reason for not repeating what had been in my mind.
    ‘It struck me that he looked a very unhappy man.’ The woman beside me said quietly: ‘But of course he is. You must have realized that.’
    I think I showed my surprise. I said, stammering slightly: ‘No – no – I haven’t. I’ve always thought of him as absolutely wrapped up in his work.’
    ‘So he is.’
    ‘Do you call that unhappiness? I should have said it was the happiest state imaginable.’
    ‘Oh yes, I’m not disputing it – but not if you’re hampered from doing what you feel it’s in you to do. If you can’t, that is to say, produce your best.’
    I looked at her, feeling rather puzzled. She went on to explain: ‘Last autumn Dr Franklin was offered the chance of going out to Africa and continuing his research work there. He’s tremendously keen, as you know, and has really done first-class work already in the realm of tropical