attentively. I was hoping that he would be able definitely to pooh-pooh the dreadful suggestion that had by now taken easy control of my mind, but before he had a chance of telling me what he thought, there came a light tap on the door.
It was Nurse Craven. She apologized for disturbing us.
‘I’m sorry, but I thought Doctor was here. The old lady is conscious now and she’s worrying about her husband. She’d like to see him. Do you know where he is, Captain Hastings? I don’t want to leave my patient.’
I volunteered to go and look for him. Poirot nodded approval and Nurse Craven thanked me warmly.
I found Colonel Luttrell in a little morning-room that was seldom used. He was standing by the window looking out.
He turned sharply as I came in. His eyes asked a question. He looked, I thought, afraid.
‘Your wife is conscious, Colonel Luttrell, and is asking for you.’
‘Oh.’ The colour surged up in his cheeks and I realized then how very white he had been before. He said slowly, fumblingly, like an old, old man: ‘She – she – is asking for me? I’ll – I’ll come – at once.’
He was so unsteady as he began shuffling towards the door that I came and helped him. He leaned on me heavily as we went up the stairs. His breathing was coming with difficulty. The shock, as Franklin had prophesied, was severe.
We came to the door of the sick-room. I tapped and Nurse Craven’s brisk, efficient voice called: ‘Come in.’
Still supporting the old man, I went with him into the room. There was a screen round the bed. We came round the corner of it.
Mrs 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 the 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
It was Nurse Craven. She apologized for disturbing us.
‘I’m sorry, but I thought Doctor was here. The old lady is conscious now and she’s worrying about her husband. She’d like to see him. Do you know where he is, Captain Hastings? I don’t want to leave my patient.’
I volunteered to go and look for him. Poirot nodded approval and Nurse Craven thanked me warmly.
I found Colonel Luttrell in a little morning-room that was seldom used. He was standing by the window looking out.
He turned sharply as I came in. His eyes asked a question. He looked, I thought, afraid.
‘Your wife is conscious, Colonel Luttrell, and is asking for you.’
‘Oh.’ The colour surged up in his cheeks and I realized then how very white he had been before. He said slowly, fumblingly, like an old, old man: ‘She – she – is asking for me? I’ll – I’ll come – at once.’
He was so unsteady as he began shuffling towards the door that I came and helped him. He leaned on me heavily as we went up the stairs. His breathing was coming with difficulty. The shock, as Franklin had prophesied, was severe.
We came to the door of the sick-room. I tapped and Nurse Craven’s brisk, efficient voice called: ‘Come in.’
Still supporting the old man, I went with him into the room. There was a screen round the bed. We came round the corner of it.
Mrs 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 the 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
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