started first on Franklin, but drew a complete blank. Franklin is the one type of man who is quite immune from Norton's kind of insidious suggestion. Franklin has a clear-cut, black and white mind, with an exact knowledge of his own feeling – and a complete disregard for outside pressure. Moreover, the great passion of his life is his work. His absorption in it makes him far less vulnerable.
With Judith, Norton was far more successful. He played very cleverly on the theme of useless lives. It was an article of faith with Judith – and the fact that her secret desires were in accordance with it was a fact that she ignored stridently while Norton knew it to be an ally. He was very clever about it – taking himself the opposite point of view, gently ridiculing the idea that she would ever have the nerve to do such a decisive action. 'It is the kind of thing that all young people say – but never do!' Such an old cheap jibe – and how often it works, Hastings! So vulnerable they are, these children! So ready, though they do not recognize it that way, to take a dare!
And with the useless Barbara out of the way, then the road is clear for Franklin and Judith. That was never said – that was never allowed to come into the open. It was stressed that the personal angle had nothing to do with it – nothing at all. For if Judith once recognized that it had, she would have reacted violently. But with a murder addict so far advanced as Norton, one iron in the fire is not enough. He sees opportunities for pleasure everywhere. He found one in the Luttrells.
Cast your mind back, Hastings. Remember the very first evening you played bridge. Norton's remarks to you afterwards, uttered so loud that you were afraid Colonel Luttrell would hear. Of course! Norton meant him to hear! He never lost an opportunity of underlining it – rubbing it in.
And finally his efforts culminated in success. It happened under your nose, Hastings, and you never saw how it was done. The foundations were already laid – the increasing sense of a burden borne, of shame at the figure he cut in front of other men, in a deep growing resentment against his wife.
Remember exactly what happened. Norton says he is thirsty. (Did he know Mrs Luttrell is in the house and will come upon the scene?) The Colonel reacts immediately as the open-handed host which he is by nature. He offers drinks. He goes to get them. You are all sitting outside the window. His wife arrives – there is the inevitable scene – which he knows is being overheard. He comes out. It might have been glossed over by a good pretence – Boyd Carrington could have done it well. (He has a certain amount of worldly wisdom and a tactful manner – though otherwise he is one of the most pompous and boring individuals that I have ever come across! Just the sort of man you would admire!) You yourself could have acquitted yourself not too badly. But Norton rushes into speech, heavily, fatuously, underlining tact until it screams to heaven and makes things much worse. He babbles of bridge (more recalled humiliations), talks aimlessly of shooting accidents. And prompt on his cue, just as Norton intended, that old woolly-headed ass Boyd Carrington comes out with his story of an Irish batman who shot his brother – a story, Hastings, that Norton told to Boyd Carrington, knowing quite well that the old fool would bring it out as his own whenever suitably prompted. You see, the supreme suggestion will not come from Norton. Mon Dieu, non!
It is all set, then. The cumulative effect. The breaking point. Affronted in his instincts as a host – shamed before his fellow men, writhing under the knowledge that they are quite convinced he has not got the guts to do anything but submit meekly to bullying – and then the key words of escape. The rook rifle, accidents – man who shot his brother – and suddenly, bobbing up, his wife's head… 'Quite safe – an accident… I'll show them… I'll show her… damn her! I wish she was dead… She shall be dead!'
He did not kill her, Hastings. Myself, I think that, even as he fired, instinctively he missed because he wanted to miss. And afterwards – afterwards the evil spell was broken. She was his wife, the woman he loved in spite of everything.
One of Norton's crimes that did not quite come off.
Ah, but his next attempt! Do you realize, Hastings, that it was you who came next? Throw your mind back – recall everything. You, my honest, kindly Hastings! He found every weak spot in your mind – yes, and every decent and conscientious one, too.
Allerton is the type of man you instinctively dislike and fear. He is the type of man that you think ought to be abolished. And everything you heard about him and thought about him was true. Norton tells you a certain story about him – an entirely true story as far as the facts go. (Though actually the girl concerned was a neurotic type and came of poor stock.)
It appeals to your conventional and somewhat old-fashioned instincts. This man is the villain, the seducer, the man who ruins girls and drives them to suicide! Norton induces Boyd Carrington to tackle you also. You are impelled to 'speak to Judith.' Judith, as could be predicted, immediately responds by saying she will do as she chooses with her life. That makes you believe the worst.
See now the different steps on which Norton plays. Your love for your child. The intense old-fashioned sense of responsibility that a man like you feels for his children. The slight self-importance of your nature. 'I must do something. It all depends on me.' Your feeling of helplessness owing to the lack of your wife's wise judgment. Your loyalty – I must not fail her. And, on the baser side, your vanity – through association with me you have learned all the tricks of the trade! And lastly, that inner feeling which most men have about their daughters – a father's unreasoning jealousy and dislike for the man who takes his daughter away from him. Norton played, Hastings, like a virtuoso on all these tunes. And you responded.
You accept things too easily at their face value. You always have done. You accepted quite easily the fact that it was Judith to whom Allerton was talking in the summerhouse. Yet you did not see her, you did not even hear her speak. And incredibly, even the next morning, you still thought it was Judith. You rejoiced because she had 'changed her mind.'
But if you had taken the trouble to examine the facts, you would have discovered at once that there had never been any question of Judith going up to London that day! And you failed to make another most obvious inference. There was someone who was going off for the day – and who was furious at not being able to do so. Nurse Craven. Allerton is not a man who confines himself to the pursuit of one woman! His affair with Nurse Craven had progressed much further than the mere flirtation he was having with Judith.
No, stage management again by Norton.
You saw Allerton and Judith kiss. Then Norton shoves you back round the corner. He doubtless knows quite well that Allerton is going to meet Nurse Craven in the summerhouse. After a little argument he lets you go but still accompanies you. The sentence you overhear Allerton speaking is magnificent for his purpose and he swiftly drags you away before you have a chance to discover that the woman is not Judith!
Yes, the virtuoso! And your reaction is immediate, complete on all those themes! You responded. You made up your mind to do murder.
But fortunately, Hastings, you had a friend whose brain still functioned. And not only his brain!
I said at the beginning of this that if you have not arrived at the truth, it is because you have too trusting a nature. You believe what is said to you. You believed what I said to you…
Yet it was all very easy for you to discover the truth. I had sent Georges away – why? I had replaced him with a less experienced and clearly much less intelligent man – why? I was not being attended by a doctor – I, who have always been careful about my health – I would not hear of seeing one – why?
Do you see now why you were necessary to me at Styles? I had to have someone who accepted what I said without question. You accepted my statement that I came back from Egypt much worse than when I went. I did not. I came back very much better! You could have found out the fact if you had taken the trouble. But no, you believed. I sent away Georges because I could not have succeeded in making him think that I had suddenly lost all power in my limbs. Georges is extremely intelligent about what he sees. He would have known that I was shamming.
Do you understand, Hastings? All the time that I was pretending to be helpless and deceiving Curtiss, I was not helpless at all. I could walk – with a limp.
I heard you come up that evening. I heard you hesitate and then go into Allerton's room. And at once I was on the alert. I was already much exercised about your state of mind.
I did not delay. I was alone. Curtiss had gone down to supper. I slipped out of my room and across the passage. I heard you in Allerton's bathroom. And promptly, my friend, in the manner you so much deplore, I dropped to my knees and I looked through the keyhole of the bathroom door. One could see through it, fortunately, as there is a bolt and not a key on the inside.
I perceived your manipulations with the sleeping tablets. I realized what your idea was.
And so, my friend, I acted. I went back to my room. I made my preparations. When Curtiss came up, I sent
