Curtain by Agatha Christie

Luttrell was looking very ill - white and frail, her eyes closed. She opened them as we came round the corner of the screen.
    She said in a small breathless voice:
    “George - George -”
    “Daisy - my dear...”
    One of her arms was bandaged and supported. The other, the free one, moved unsteadily towards him. He took a step forward and clasped her frail little hand in his. He said again:
    “Daisy...” And then, gruffly, “Thank God, you're all right.”
    And looking up at him, seeing his eyes slightly misty, and the deep love and anxiety in them, I felt bitterly ashamed of all our ghoulish imaginings.
    I crept quietly out of the room. Camouflaged accident indeed! There was no disguising that heartfelt note of thankfulness. I felt immeasurably relieved.
    The sound of the gong startled me as I went along the passage. I had completely forgotten the passage of time. The accident had upset everything. Only the cook had gone on as usual and produced dinner at the usual time.
    Most of us had not changed and Colonel Luttrell did not appear. But Mrs Franklin, looking quite attractive in a pale pink evening dress, was downstairs for once and seemed in good health and spirits. Franklin, I thought, was moody and absorbed.
    After dinner, to my annoyance, Allerton and Judith disappeared into the garden together. I sat around a while, listening to Franklin and Norton discussing tropical diseases. Norton was a sympathetic and interested listener, even if he knew little of the subject under discussion.
    Mrs Franklin and Boyd Carrington were talking at the other end of the room. He was showing her some patterns of curtains or cretonnes.
    Elizabeth Cole had a book and seemed deeply absorbed in it. I fancied that she was slightly embarrassed and ill at ease with me. Perhaps not unnaturally so after her confidences of the afternoon. I was sorry about it, all the same, and hoped she did not regret all she had told me. I should have liked to have made it clear to her that I should respect her confidence and not repeat it. However, she gave me no chance.
    After a while I went up to Poirot.
    I found Colonel Luttrell sitting in the circle of light thrown by the one small electric lamp that was turned on.
    He was talking and Poirot was listening. I think the Colonel was speaking to himself rather than to his listener.
    “I remember so well - yes, it was at a hunt ball. She wore white stuff, called tulle, I think it was. Floated all round her. Such a pretty girl - bowled me over then and there. I said to myself, 'That's the girl I'm going to marry.' And by Jove, I brought it off. Awfully pretty way she had with her - saucy, you know, plenty of back chat. Always gave as good as she got, bless her.”
    He chuckled.
    I saw the scene in my mind's eye. I could imagine Daisy Luttrell with a young saucy face and that smart tongue - so charming then, so apt to turn shrewish with the years.
    But it was as that young girl, his first real love, that Colonel Luttrell was thinking of her tonight. His Daisy.
    And again I felt ashamed of what we had said such a few hours previously.
    Of course, when Colonel Luttrell had at last taken himself off to bed, I blurted out the whole thing to Poirot.
    He listened very quietly. I could make nothing of the expression on his face.
    “So that is what you thought, Hastings - that the shot was fired on purpose?”
    “Yes. I feel ashamed now -”
    Poirot waved aside my present feelings.
    “Did the thought occur to you of your own accord, or did someone else suggest it to you?”
    “Allerton said something of the kind,” I said resentfully. “He would, of course.”
    “Anyone else?”
    “Boyd Carrington suggested it.”
    “Ah! Boyd Carrington.”
    “And after all, he's a man of the world and has experience of these things.”
    “Oh, quite so, quite so. He did not see the thing happen, though?”
    “No, be'd gone for a walk. Bit of exercise before changing for dinner.”
    “I see.”
    I said uneasily:
    “I don't