“Look here, M. Poirot. You went down to Churston, I know, and saw my sister-in-law. Did she say—or hint—I mean—did she suggest at all—?”

He stopped, embarrassed.

Poirot answered with a face of blank innocence that aroused my strongest suspicions.

“Comment? Did your sister-in-law say, hint, or suggest—what?”

Franklin Clarke got rather red.

“Perhaps you think this isn’t a time for butting in with personal things—”

“Du tout!”

“But I feel I’d like to get things quite straight.”

“An admirable course.”

This time I think Clarke began to suspect Poirot’s bland face of concealing some inner amusement. He ploughed on rather heavily.

“My sister-in-law’s an awfully nice woman—I’ve been very fond of her always—but of course she’s been ill some time—and in that kind of illness—being given drugs and all that—one tends to—well, to fancy things about people!”

“Ah?”

By now there was no mistaking the twinkle in Poirot’s eye.

But Franklin Clarke, absorbed in his diplomatic task, was past noticing it.

“It’s about Thora—Miss Grey,” he said.

“Oh, it is of Miss Grey you speak?” Poirot’s tone held innocent surprise.

“Yes. Lady Clarke got certain ideas in her head. You see, Thora—Miss Grey is well, rather a goodlooking girl—”

“Perhaps—yes,” conceded Poirot.

“And women, even the best of them, are a bit catty about other women. Of course, Thora was invaluable to my brother—he always said she was the best secretary he ever had—and he was very fond of her, too. But it was all perfectly straight and aboveboard. I mean, Thora isn’t the sort of girl—”

“No?” said Poirot helpfully.

“But my sister-in-law got it into her head to be—well—jealous, I suppose. Not that she ever showed anything. But after Car’s death, when there was a question of Miss Grey staying on—well, Charlotte cut up rough. Of course, it’s partly the illness and the morphia and all that—Nurse Capstick says so—she says we mustn’t blame Charlotte for getting these ideas into her head—”

He paused.

“Yes?”

“What I want you to understand, M. Poirot, is that there isn’t anything in it at all. It’s just a sick woman’s imaginings. Look here”—he fumbled in his pocket—“here’s a letter I received from my brother when I was in the Malay States. I’d like you to read it because it shows exactly what terms they were on.”

Poirot took it. Franklin came over beside him and with a pointing finger read some of the extracts out loud.

“—things go on here much as usual. Charlotte is moderately free from pain. I wish one could say more. You may remember Thora Grey? She is a dear girl and a greater comfort to me than I can tell you. I should not have known what to do through this bad time but for her. Her sympathy and interest are unfailing. She has an exquisite taste and flair for beautiful things and shares my passion for Chinese art. I was indeed lucky to find her. No daughter could be a closer or more sympathetic companion. Her life had been a difficult and not always a happy one, but I am glad to feel that here she has a home and true affection.

“You see,” said Franklin, “that’s how my brother felt to her. He thought of her like a daughter. What I feel so unfair is the fact that the moment my brother is dead, his wife practically turns her out of the house! Women really are devils, M. Poirot.”

“Your sister-in-law is ill and in pain, remember.”

“I know. That’s what I keep saying to myself. One mustn’t judge her. All the same, I thought I’d show you this. I don’t want you to get a false impression of Thora from anything Lady Clarke may have said.”

Poirot returned the le

Tags: Agatha Christie Hercule Poirot Mystery
Source: readsnovelonline.net