Curtain: Poirot’s Last Case

I broke off as Boyd Carrington came striding round the corner of the house.

As usual, his big, buoyant personality seemed to sweep away shadows and intangible worries. He was so large, so sane, so out-of-doors – one of those lovable, forceful personalities that radiate cheerfulness and common sense.

‘Morning, Hastings, morning, Nurse. Where’s Mrs Franklin?’

‘Good morning, Sir William. Mrs Franklin’s down at the bottom of the garden under the beech tree near the laboratory.’

‘And Franklin, I suppose, is inside the laboratory?’

‘Yes, Sir William – with Miss Hastings.’

‘Wretched girl. Fancy being cooped up doing stinks on a morning like this! You ought to protest, Hastings.’

Nurse Craven said quickly: ‘Oh, Miss Hastings is quite happy. She likes it, you know, and the doctor couldn’t do without her, I’m sure.’

‘Miserable fellow,’ said Boyd Carrington. ‘If I had a pretty girl like your Judith as a secretary, I’d be looking at her instead of at guinea pigs, eh, what?’

It was the kind of joke that Judith would particularly have disliked but it went down quite well with Nurse Craven who laughed a good deal.

‘Oh, Sir William,’ she exclaimed. ‘You really mustn’t say things like that. I’m sure we all know what you’d be like! But poor Dr Franklin is so serious – quite wrapped up in his work.’

Boyd Carrington said cheerfully: ‘Well, his wife seems to have taken up her position where she can keep her eye on her husband. I believe she’s jealous.’