'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:
