Curtain: Poirot's Last Case: Hercule Poirot Investigates (Hercule Poirot series Book 39) by Agatha Christie

Author:Agatha Christie [Christie, Agatha]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9780061741005
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2006-10-03T00:00:00+00:00

Twelve

I

“Is anything worrying you, mon ami?” asked Poirot that afternoon.

I did not answer him, merely shook my head. I felt that I had no right to burden Poirot with this, my purely personal problem. It was not as though he could help in any way.

Judith would have treated any remonstrances on his part with the smiling detachment of the young towards the boring counsels of the old.

Judith, my Judith. . . .

It is hard now to describe just what I went through that day. Afterwards, thinking it over, I am inclined to put something down to the atmosphere of Styles itself. Evil imaginings came easily to the mind there. There was, too, not only the past, but a sinister present. The shadow of murder and a murderer haunted the house.

And to the best of my belief the murderer was Allerton and Judith was losing her heart to him! It was unbelievable—monstrous—and I didn’t know what to do.

It was after lunch that Boyd Carrington drew me aside. He hemmed and hawed a bit before coming to the point. At last he said rather jerkily: “Don’t think I’m interfering, but I think you ought to speak to that girl of yours. Give her a word of warning, eh? You know this fellow Allerton—reputation’s pretty bad, and she—well, it looks rather like a case.”

So easy for these men without children to speak like that! Give her a word of warning?

Would it be any use? Would it make things worse?

If only Cinders were here. She would know what to do, what to say.

I was tempted, I admit, to hold my peace and say nothing. But I reflected after a while that this was really only cowardice. I shrank from the unpleasantness of having things out with Judith. I was, you see, afraid of my tall, beautiful daughter.

I paced up and down the gardens in increasing agitation of mind. My footsteps led me at last to the rose garden, and there, as it were, the decision was taken out of my hands, for Judith was sitting on a seat alone, and in all my life I have never seen an expression of greater unhappiness on any woman’s face.

The mask was off. Indecision and deep unhappiness showed only too plainly.

I took my courage in my hands. I went to her. She did not hear me until I was beside her.

“Judith,” I said. “For God’s sake, Judith, don’t mind so much.”

She turned on me, startled. “Father? I didn’t hear you.”

I went on, knowing that it would be fatal if she managed to turn me back to normal everyday conversation.

“Oh, my dearest child, don’t think I don’t know, that I can’t see. He isn’t worth it—oh, do believe me, he isn’t worth it.”

Her face, troubled, alarmed, was turned towards me. She said quietly: “Do you think you really know what you are talking about?”

“I do know. You care about this man. But, my dear, it’s no good.”

She smiled sombrely. A heartbreaking smile.

“Perhaps I know that as well as you do.

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