He said that it was more than he had. He'd had a tiresome telephone call from the architect, some building difficulty - a local surveyor cutting up rough. Also worrying letters. And he was afraid he'd let Mrs Franklin overdo herself the day before.
Mrs Franklin was certainly making up for her recent bout of good health and spirits. She was, so I gathered from Nurse Craven, making herself quite impossible.
Nurse Craven had had to give up her day off which had been promised her to go and meet some friends, and she was decidedly sour about it. Since early morning Mrs Franklin had been calling for sal volatile, hot water bottles, various patent foods and drinks, and was unwilling to let Nurse leave the room. She had neuralgia, a pain round the heart, cramps in her feet and legs, cold shivers and I don't know what else.
I may say here and now that neither I nor anyone else was inclined to be really alarmed. We all put it down as part of Mrs Franklin's hypochondriacal tendencies.
This was true of Nurse Craven and Dr Franklin as well.
The latter was fetched from the laboratory, he listened to his wife's complaints, asked her if she would like the local doctor called in (violently negatived by Mrs Franklin), he then mixed her a sedative, soothed her as best he could and went off back to work again.
Nurse Craven said to me:
"He knows, of course, she's just playing up."
"You don't really think there's anything much the matter?"
"Her temperature is normal, and her pulse is perfectly good. Just fuss, if you ask me."
She was annoyed and spoke out more imprudently than usual.
"She likes to interfere with anyone else enjoying themselves. She'd like her husband all worked up, and me running round after her, and even Sir William has got to be made to feel a brute because he 'overtired her yesterday.' She's one of that kind."
Nurse Craven was clearly finding her patient almost impossible today. I gathered that Mrs Franklin had been really extremely rude to her. She was the kind of woman whom nurses and servants instinctively disliked - not only because of the trouble she gave, but because of her manner of doing so.
So, as I say, none of us took her indisposition seriously.
The only exception was Boyd Carrington, who wandered round looking rather pathetically like a small boy who has been scolded.
How many times since then have I gone over and over the events of that day, trying to remember something so far unheeded - some tiny forgotten incident, striving to remember exactly the manner of everybody. How far they were normal, or showed excitement.
Let me, once more, put down exactly what I remember of everybody.
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.
