She extended her hand.
“My friend Captain Hastings, Lady Clarke.”
“How do you do? So good of you both to come.”
We sat down as her vague gesture directed. There was a silence. Lady Clarke seemed to have lapsed into a dream.
Presently with a slight effort she roused herself.
“It was about Car, wasn’t it? About Car’s death. Oh, yes.”
She sighed, but still in a faraway manner, shaking her head.
“We never thought it would be that way round…I was so sure I should be the first to go…” She mused a minute or two. “Car was very strong—wonderful for his age. He was never ill. He was nearly sixty—but he seemed more like fifty…Yes, very strong….”
She relapsed again into her dream. Poirot, who was well acquainted with the effects of certain drugs and of how they give their taker the impression of endless time, said nothing.
Lady Clarke said suddenly:
“Yes—it was good of you to come. I told Franklin. He said he wouldn’t forget to tell you. I hope Franklin isn’t going to be foolish…he’s so easily taken in, in spite of having knocked about the world so much. Men are like that…They remain boys…Franklin, in particular.”
“He has an impulsive nature,” said Poirot.
“Yes—yes…And very chivalrous. Men are so foolish that way. Even Car—” Her voice tailed off.
She shook her head with a febrile impatience.
“Everything’s so dim…One’s body is a nuisance, M. Poirot, especially when it gets the upper hand. One is conscious of nothing else—whether the pain will hold off or not—nothing else seems to matter.”
“I know, Lady Clarke. It is one of the tragedies of this life.”
“It makes me so stupid. I cannot even remember what it was I wanted to say to you.”
“Was it something about your husband’s death?”
“Car’s death? Yes, perhaps…Mad, poor creature—the murderer, I mean. It’s all the noise and the speed nowadays—people can’t stand it. I’ve always been sorry for mad people—their heads must feel so queer. And then, being shut up—it must be so terrible. But what else can one do? If they kill people…” She shook her head—gently pained. “You haven’t caught him yet?” she asked.
“No, not yet.”
“He must have been hanging round here that day.”
“There were so many strangers about, Lady Clarke. It is the holiday season.”
“Yes—I forgot…But they keep down by the beaches, they don’t come up near the house.”
“No stranger came to the house that day.”
“Who says so?” demanded Lady Clarke, with a sudden vigour.
Poirot looked slightly taken aback.
“The servants,” he said. “Miss Grey.”
Lady Clarke said very distinctly:
“That girl is a liar!”
I started on my chair. Poirot threw me a glance.