Poirot leaned back with a sigh.
'Enfin! I am very tired. Send Curtiss to me. You understand your job now. You are active, you can get about, you can follow people about, talk to them, spy upon them unobserved -' (I nearly uttered an indignant protest, but quelled it. It was too old an argument.) 'You can listen to conversations, you have knees that will still bend and permit you to kneel and look through keyholes -'
'I will not look through keyholes,' I interrupted hotly.
Poirot closed his eyes.
'Very well, then. You will not look through keyholes. You will remain the English gentleman and someone will be killed. It does not matter, that. Honour comes first with an Englishman. Your honour is more important than somebody else's life. Bien! It is understood.'
'No, but dash it all, Poirot -'
Poirot said coldly:
'Send Curtiss to me. Go away. You are obstinate and extremely stupid and I wish that there were someone else whom I could trust, but I suppose I shall have to put up with you and your absurd ideas of fair play. Since you cannot use your grey cells as you do not possess them, at any rate use your eyes, your ears and your nose if need be in so far as the dictates of honour allow.'
II
It was on the following day that I ventured to broach an idea which had come into my mind more than once. I did so a little dubiously, for one never knows how Poirot may react!
I said:
'I've been thinking, Poirot. I know I'm not much of a fellow. You've said I'm stupid. Well, in a way it's true. And I'm only half the man I was. Since Cinders' death -'
I stopped. Poirot made a gruff noise indicative of sympathy.
I went on:
'But there is a man here who could help us – just the kind of man we need. Brains, imagination, resource – used to making decisions and a man of wide experience. I'm talking of Boyd Carrington. He's the man we want, Poirot. Take him into your confidence. Put the whole thing before him.'
Poirot opened his eyes and said with immense decision:
'Certainly not.'
'But why not? You can't deny that he's clever – a good deal cleverer than I am.'
'That,' said Poirot with biting sarcasm, 'would be easy. But dismiss the idea from your mind, Hastings. We take no one into our confidence. That is understood – hein? You comprehend, I forbid you to speak of this matter.'
'All right, if you say so, but really Boyd Carrington -'
'Ah ta ta! Boyd Carrington. Why are you so obsessed with Boyd Carrington? What is he, after all? A big man who is pompous and pleased with himself because people have called him 'Your Excellency.' A man with – yes, a certain amount of tact and charm of manner. But he is not so wonderful, your Boyd Carrington. He repeats himself, he tells the same story twice – and what is more, his memory is so bad that he tells back to you the story that you have told to him. A man of outstanding ability? Not at all. An old bore – a windbag – enfin – the stuffed shirt!'
'Oh,' I said as enlightenment came to me.
It was quite true that Boyd Carrington's memory was not good. And he had actually been guilty of a gaffe which I now saw had annoyed Poirot a good deal. Poirot had told him a story of his police days in Belgium, and only a couple of days afterwards, when several of us were assembled in the garden, Boyd Carrington had in bland forgetfulness told the same story back again to Poirot, prefacing it with the remark: 'I remember the Chef de la Surete in Paris telling me -'
I now perceived that this had rankled!
Tactfully, I said no more and withdrew.
III
I wandered downstairs and out into the garden. There was no one about and I scrolled through a grove of trees and up to a grassy knoll which was surmounted by a somewhat earwiggy summerhouse in an advanced stage of decrepitude. Here I sat down, lit my pipe, and settled down to think things out.
Who was there at Styles who had a fairly definite motive for murdering somebody else – or who might be made out to have one?
Putting aside the somewhat obvious case of Colonel Luttrell who, I was afraid, was hardly likely to take a hatchet to his wife in the middle of a rubber, justifiable though that course might be, I could not at first think of anyone.
The trouble was that I did not really know enough about these people. Norton, for instance, and Miss Cole? What were the usual motives for murder? Money? Boyd Carrington was, I fancied, the only rich man of the party. If be died, who would inherit that money? Anyone at present in the house? I hardly thought so, but it was a point that might bear inquiry. He might, for instance, have left his money to research, making Franklin a trustee. That, with the doctor's rather injudicious remarks on the subject of eliminating 80 per cent of the human race, might make out a fairly damning case against the red-haired doctor. Or 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 businesslike 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 summerhouse.
'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.
