Boyd Carrington, as I have said, looked uncomfortable and rather guilty. He seemed to think that he had been rather overexuberant the day before and had been selfish in not thinking more of the frail health of his companion. He had been up once or twice to inquire about Barbara Franklin, and Nurse Craven, herself not in the best of tempers, had been tart and snappish with him. He had even been to the village and purchased a box of chocolates. This had been sent down. 'Mrs Franklin couldn't bear chocolates.'
Rather disconsolately, he opened the box in the smoking room and Norton and I and he all solemnly helped ourselves.
Norton, I now think, had definitely something on his mind that morning. He was abstracted; once or twice his brows drew together as though he were puzzling over something.
He was fond of chocolates, and ate a good many in an abstracted fashion.
Outside the weather bad broken. Since ten o'clock the rain had been pouring down.
It had not the melancholy that sometimes accompanies a wet day. Actually it was a relief to us all.
Poirot had been brought down by Curtiss about midday and ensconced in the drawing room. Here Elizabeth Cole had joined him and was playing the piano to him. She had a pleasant touch, and played Bach and Mozart – both favourite composers of my friend's.
Franklin and Judith came up from the garden about a quarter to one. Judith looked white and strained. She was very silent, looked vaguely about her as though lost in a dream, and then went away. Franklin sat down with us. He, too, looked tired and absorbed, and he had, too, the air of a man very much on edge.
I said, I remember, something about the rain being a relief, and he said quickly:
'Yes. There are times – when something's got to break -'
And somehow – I got the impression that it was not merely of the weather that he spoke. Awkward as always in his movements, he jerked against the table and upset half the chocolates. With his usual startled air, he apologized – apparently to the box:
'Oh, sorry.'
It ought to have been funny, but somehow it wasn't. He bent quickly and picked up the spilt chocolates.
Norton asked him if he had had a tiring morning.
His smile flashed out then – eager, boyish, very much alive.
'No – no – just realized, suddenly, I've been on the wrong track. Much simpler process altogether is what's needed. Can take a short cut now.'
He stood swaying slightly to and fro on his feet, his eyes absent yet resolved.
'Yes, short cut. Much the best way.'
III
If we were all nervy and aimless in the morning, the afternoon was unexpectedly pleasant. The sun came out, the temperature was cool and fresh. Mrs Luttrell was brought down and sat on the verandah. She was in excellent form – exercising her charm and manner with less gush than usual, and with no latent hint of vinegar in reserve. She chaffed her husband, but gently and with a kind of affection, and he beamed at her. It was really delightful to see them on such good terms.
Poirot permitted himself to be wheeled out also, and he was in good spirits too. I think he liked seeing the Luttrells on such a friendly footing with each other. The Colonel was looking years younger. His manner seemed less vacillating, he tugged less at his moustache. He even suggested that there might be some bridge that evening.
'Daisy here misses her bridge.'
'Indeed I do,' said Mrs Luttrell.
Norton suggested it would be tiring for her.
'I'll play one rubber,' said Mrs, Luttrell, and added with a twinkle: 'And I'll behave myself and not bite poor George's head off.'
'My dear,' protested her husband, 'I know I'm a shocking player.'
'And what of that?' said Mrs Luttrell. 'Doesn't it give me grand pleasure badgering and bullying you about it?'
It made us all laugh. Mrs Luttrell went on:
'Oh, I know my faults, but I'm not going to give them up at my time of life. George has just got to put up with me.'
Colonel Luttrell looked at her quite fatuously.
I think it was seeing them both on such good terms that led to a discussion on marriage and divorce that took place later in the day.
Were men and women actually happier by reason of the greater facilities afforded for divorce, or was it often the case that a temporary period of irritation and estrangement – or trouble over a third person – gave way after a while to a resumption of affection and friendliness?
It is odd sometimes to see how much at variance people's ideas are with their own personal experiences.
My own marriage had been unbelievably happy and successful, and I am essentially an old-fashioned person, yet I was on the side of divorce – of cutting one's losses and starting afresh. Boyd Carrington, whose marriage had been unhappy, yet held for an indissoluble marriage bond. He had, he said, the utmost reverence for the institution of marriage. It was the foundation of the state.
Norton, with no ties and no personal angle, was of my way of thinking. Franklin, the modern scientific thinker, was, strangely enough, resolutely opposed to divorce. It offended, apparently, his ideal of clear-cut thinking and action. One assumed certain responsibilities. Those must be carried through and not shirked or set aside. A contract, he said, is a contract. One enters upon it of one's own free will, and must abide by it. Anything else resulted in what he called a mess. Loose ends, half-dissolved ties.
Leaning back in his chair, his long legs kicking vaguely at a table, he said:
'A man chooses his wife. She's his responsibility until she dies – or he does.'
Norton said rather comically:
'And sometimes – oh, blessed death, eh?'
We laughed, and Boyd Carrington said:
'You needn't talk, my lad; you've never been married.'
Shaking his head, Norton said:
'And now I've left it too late.'
'Have you?' Boyd Carrington's glance was quizzical. 'Sure of that?'
It was just at that moment that Elizabeth Cole joined us. She had been up with Mrs Franklin.
I wondered if it was my fancy, or did Boyd Carrington look meaningly from her to Norton, and was it possible that Norton blushed?
It put a new idea into my head and I looked searchingly at Elizabeth Cole. It was true that she was still a comparatively young woman. Moreover, she was quite a handsome one. In fact a very charming and sympathetic person who was capable of making any man happy. And she and Norton had spent a good deal of time together of late. In their hunts for wild flowers and birds, they had become friends; I remembered how she had spoken of Norton being such a kind person.
Well, if so, I was glad for her sake. Her starved and barren girlhood would not stand in the way of her ultimate happiness. The tragedy that had shattered her life would not have been enacted in vain. I thought, looking at her, that she certainly looked much happier and – yes, gayer, than when I had first come to Styles.
Elizabeth Cole and Norton – yes, it might be. And suddenly, from nowhere, a vague feeling of uneasiness and disquiet assailed me. It was not safe – it was not right – to plan happiness here. There was something malignant about the air of Styles. I felt it now – this minute. Felt suddenly old and tired – yes, and afraid.
A minute later the feeling had passed. Nobody had noticed it, I think, except Boyd Carrington. He said to me in an undertone a few minutes later:
'Anything the matter, Hastings?'
'No, why?'
