'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 medicine.'
'And he didn't go?'
'No. His wife protested. She herself wasn't well enough to stand the climate and she kicked against the idea of being left behind, especially as it would have meant very economical living for her. The pay offered was not high.'
'Oh,' I said. I went on slowly: 'I suppose he felt that in her state of health he couldn't leave her.'
'Do you know much about her state of health, Captain Hastings?'
'Well, I – no – But she is an invalid, isn't she?'
'She certainly enjoys bad health,' said Miss Cole drily. I looked at her doubtfully. It was easy to see that her sympathies were entirely with the husband.
'I suppose,' I said slowly, 'that women who are – delicate are apt to be selfish?'
'Yes, I think invalids – chronic invalids – usually are very selfish. One can't blame them perhaps. It's so easy.'
'You don't think that there's really very much the matter with Mrs Franklin?'
'Oh, I shouldn't like to say that. It's just a suspicion. She always seems able to do anything she wants to do.'
I reflected in silence for a minute or two. It struck me that Miss Cole seemed very well acquainted with the ramifications of the Franklin menage. I asked with some curiosity:
'You know Dr Franklin well, I suppose?'
She shook her head.
'Oh no. I had only met them once or twice before we met here.'
'But he has talked to you about himself, I suppose?'
Again she shook her head.
'No, what I have just told you I learnt from your daughter Judith.'
Judith, I reflected with a moment's bitterness, talked to everyone except me.
Miss Cole went on:
'Judith is terrifically loyal to her employer and very much up in arms on his behalf. Her condemnation of Mrs Franklin's selfishness is sweeping.'
'You, too, think she is selfish?'
'Yes, but I can see her point of view. I – I – understand invalids. I can understand, too, Dr Franklin's giving way to her. Judith, of course, thinks he should park his wife anywhere and get on with the job. Your daughter's a very enthusiastic scientific worker.'
'I know,' I said rather disconsolately. 'It worries me sometimes. It doesn't seem natural, if you know what I mean. I feel she ought to be – more human – more keen on having a good time. Amuse herself – fall in love with a nice boy or two. After all, youth is the time to have one's fling – not to sit poring over test tubes. It isn't natural. In our young days we were having fun – flirting – enjoying ourselves – you know.'
There was a moment's silence. Then Miss Cole said in a queer cold voice:
'I don't know.'
I was instantly horrified. Unconsciously I had spoken as though she and I were contemporaries – but I realized suddenly that she was well over ten years my junior and that I had been unwittingly extremely tactless.
I apologized as best I could. She cut into my stammering phrases.
'No, no, I didn't mean that. Please don't apologize. I meant just simply what I said. I don't know. I was never what you mean by 'young.' I never had what is called 'a good time.''
Something in her voice, a bitterness, a deep resentment, left me at a loss. I said rather lamely but with sincerity:
'I'm sorry.'
She smiled.
'Oh, well, it doesn't matter. Don't look so upset. Let's talk about something else.'
I obeyed.
'Tell me something about the other people here,' I said. 'Unless they're all strangers to you.'
'I've known the Luttrells all my life. It's rather sad that they should have to do this – especially for him. He's rather a dear. And she's nicer than you'd think. It's having had to pinch and scrape all her life that has made her rather – well – predatory. If you're always on the make, it does tell in the end. The only thing I do rather dislike about her is that gushing manner.'
'Tell me something about Mr Norton.'
'There isn't really much to tell. He's very nice – rather shy – just a little stupid, perhaps. He's always been rather delicate. He's lived with his mother – rather a peevish, stupid woman. She bossed him a good deal, I think. She died a few years ago. He's keen on birds and flowers and things like that. He's a very kind person – and he's the sort of person who sees a lot.'
'Through his glasses, you mean?'
Miss Cole smiled.
'Well, I wasn't meaning it quite so literally as that. I meant more that he notices a good deal. Those quiet people often do. He's unselfish – and very considerate for a man, but he's rather – ineffectual, if you know what I mean.'
I nodded.
'Oh yes, I know.'
Elizabeth Cole said suddenly, and once more the deep bitter note was in her voice:
'That's the depressing part of places like this. Guest houses run by broken-down gentlepeople. They're full of failures – of people who have never got anywhere and never will get anywhere, of people who – who have been defeated and broken by life, of people who are old and tired and finished.'
Her voice died away. A deep and spreading sadness permeated me. How true it was! Here we were, a collection of twilit people. Grey heads, grey hearts, grey dreams. Myself, sad and lonely, the woman beside me also a bitter and disillusioned creature. Dr Franklin, his ambitions curbed and thwarted, his wife a prey to ill health. Quiet little Norton limping about looking at birds. Even Poirot, the once brilliant Poirot, now a broken, crippled old man.
How different it had been in the old days – the days when I had first come to Styles. The thought was too much for me – a stifled exclamation of pain and regret came to my lips.
