And at once I had a shock. The dossiers of X's cases were gone. I had seen them there only a day or two previously when Poirot unlocked it. That was proof, if I had been needing it, that X had been at work. Either Poirot had destroyed those papers himself (most unlikely) or else X had done so.
X. X. That damned fiend X.
But the case was not empty. I remembered Poirot's promise that I should find other indications which X would not know about.
Were these the indications?
There was a copy of one of Shakespeare's plays, Othello, in a small cheap edition. The other book was the play John Ferguson by St John Ervine. There was a marker in it at the third act.
I stared at the two books blankly.
Here were the clues that Poirot had left for me – and they meant nothing to me at all!
What could they mean?
The only thing I could think of was a code of some kind. A word code based on the plays.
But if so, how was I to get at it?
There were no words, no letters, underlined anywhere. I tried gentle heat with no result.
I read the third act of John Ferguson carefully through. A most admirable and thrilling scene where the 'wanting' Clutie John sits and talks and which ends with the younger Ferguson going out to seek for the man who has wronged his sister. Masterly character drawing – but I could hardly think that Poirot had left them to improve my taste in literature!
And then, as I turned the leaves of the book over, a slip of paper fell out. It bore a phrase in Poirot's handwriting:
'Talk to my valet Georges.'
Well, here was something. Possibly the key to the code, if code it was, had been left with Georges. I must get hold of his address and go to see him.
But first there was the sad business of burying my dear friend.
Here was the spot where he had lived when he first came to this country. He was to lie here at the last.
Judith was very kind to me in these days.
She spent a lot of time with me and helped to make all the arrangements. She was gentle and sympathetic. Elizabeth Cole and Boyd Carrington were very kind, too.
Elizabeth Cole was less affected by Norton's death than I should have thought. If she felt any deep grief, she kept it to herself.
And so it was all ended…
II
Yes, I must put it down.
It must be said.
The funeral was over. I was sitting with Judith, trying to make a few sketchy plans for the future.
She said then:
'But you see, dear, I shan't be here.'
'Not here?'
'I shan't be in England.'
I stared at her.
'I haven't liked to tell you before, Father. I didn't want to make things worse for you. But you've got to know now. I hope you won't mind too much. I'm going to Africa, you see, with Dr Franklin.'
I burst out at that. It was impossible. She couldn't do a thing like that. Everyone would be bound to talk. To be an assistant to him in England and especially when his wife was alive was one thing, but to go abroad with him to Africa was another. It was impossible and I was going to forbid it absolutely. Judith must not do such a thing!
She didn't interrupt. She let me finish. She smiled very faintly.
'But, dearest,' she said, 'I'm not going as his assistant. I'm going as his wife.'
It hit me between the eyes.
I said – or rather stammered – 'Al – Allerton?'
She looked faintly amused.
'There was never anything in that. I would have told you so if you hadn't made me so angry. Besides, I wanted you to think, well – what you did think. I didn't want you to know it was – John.'
'But I saw him kiss you one night – on the terrace.'
She said impatiently:
'Oh, I daresay. I was miserable that night. These things happen. Surely you know that?'
I said:
'You can't marry Franklin yet – so soon.'
'Yes, I can. I want to go out with him, and you've just said yourself it's easier. We've nothing to wait for – now.'
Judith and Franklin. Franklin and Judith.
Do you understand the thoughts that came into my mind – the thoughts that had lain under the surface for some time?
Judith with a bottle in her hand, Judith with her young, passionate voice declaring that useless lives should go to make way for useful ones. Judith whom I loved and whom Poirot also had loved. Those two people that Norton had seen – had they been Judith and Franklin? But if so – if so – No, that couldn't be true. Not Judith. Franklin, perhaps – a strange man, a ruthless man, a man who, if he made up his mind to murder, might murder again and again.
Poirot had been willing to consult Franklin.
Why? What had he said to him that morning?
But not Judith. Not my lovely, grave young Judith.
And yet how strange Poirot had looked. How those words had rung out: 'You may prefer to say: 'Ring down the curtain'…'
And suddenly a fresh idea struck me. Monstrous! Impossible! Was the whole story of X a fabrication? Had Poirot come to Styles because he feared a tragedy in the Franklin menage? Had he come to watch over Judith? Was that why he had resolutely told me nothing? Because the whole story of X was a fabrication, a smoke screen?
Was the whole heart of the tragedy Judith, my daughter?
Othello! It was Othello I had taken from the bookcase that night when Mrs Franklin had died. Was that the clue?
Judith that night looking, so someone had said, like her namesake before she cut off the head of Holofernes. Judith – with death in her heart?
Chapter 19
I am writing this in Eastbourne.
I came to Eastbourne to see Georges, formerly Poirot's valet.
Georges had been with Poirot many years. He was a competent, matter-of-fact man, with absolutely no imagination. He always stated things literally and took them at their face value.
Well, I went to see him. I told him about Poirot's death, and Georges reacted as Georges would react. He was distressed and grieved and managed very nearly to conceal the fact.
