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 backchat. 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, he’d gone for a walk. Bit of exercise before changing for dinner.’
‘I see.’
I said uneasily: ‘I don’t think I really believed that theory. It was only –’
Poirot interrupted me. ‘You need not be so remorseful about your suspicions, Hastings. It was an idea quite likely to occur to anyone given the circumstances. Oh, yes, it was all quite natural.’
There was something in Poirot’s manner I did not quite understand. A reserve. His eyes were watching me with a curious expression.
I said slowly: ‘Perhaps. But seeing now how devoted he really is to her –’
Poirot nodded. ‘Exactly. That is often the case, remember. Underneath the quarrels, the misunderstandings, the apparent hostility of everyday life, a real and true affection can exist.’
I agreed. I remembered the gentle affectionate look in little Mrs Luttrell’s eyes as she looked up at her husband stooping over her bed. No more vinegar, no impatience, no ill temper.
Married life, I mused, as I went to bed, was a curious thing.
That something in Poirot’s manner still worried me. That curious watchful look – as though he were waiting for me to see – what?
I was just getting into bed when it came to me. Hit me bang between the eyes.
If Mrs Luttrell had been killed, it would have been a case like those other cases . Colonel Luttrell would, apparently, have killed his wife. It would have been accounted an accident, yet at the same time nobody would have been sure that it was an accident, or whether it had been done on purpose. Insufficient evidence to show it as murder, but quite enough evidence for murder to be suspected.
But that meant – that meant –
What did it mean?
It meant – if anything at all was to make sense – that it was not Colonel Luttrell who shot Mrs Luttrell, but X.
And that was clearly impossible. I had seen the whole thing. It was Colonel Luttrell who had fired the shot. No other shot had been fired.
Unless – But surely that would be impossible. No, perhaps not impossible – merely highly improbable. But possible, yes . . . Supposing that someone else had waited his moment, and at the exact instant when Colonel Luttrell had fired (at a rabbit), this other person had fired at Mrs Luttrell. Then only the one shot would have been heard. Or, even with a slight discrepancy, it would have been put down as an echo. (Now I come to think of it, there had been an echo, surely.)
But no, that was absurd. There were
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, he’d gone for a walk. Bit of exercise before changing for dinner.’
‘I see.’
I said uneasily: ‘I don’t think I really believed that theory. It was only –’
Poirot interrupted me. ‘You need not be so remorseful about your suspicions, Hastings. It was an idea quite likely to occur to anyone given the circumstances. Oh, yes, it was all quite natural.’
There was something in Poirot’s manner I did not quite understand. A reserve. His eyes were watching me with a curious expression.
I said slowly: ‘Perhaps. But seeing now how devoted he really is to her –’
Poirot nodded. ‘Exactly. That is often the case, remember. Underneath the quarrels, the misunderstandings, the apparent hostility of everyday life, a real and true affection can exist.’
I agreed. I remembered the gentle affectionate look in little Mrs Luttrell’s eyes as she looked up at her husband stooping over her bed. No more vinegar, no impatience, no ill temper.
Married life, I mused, as I went to bed, was a curious thing.
That something in Poirot’s manner still worried me. That curious watchful look – as though he were waiting for me to see – what?
I was just getting into bed when it came to me. Hit me bang between the eyes.
If Mrs Luttrell had been killed, it would have been a case like those other cases . Colonel Luttrell would, apparently, have killed his wife. It would have been accounted an accident, yet at the same time nobody would have been sure that it was an accident, or whether it had been done on purpose. Insufficient evidence to show it as murder, but quite enough evidence for murder to be suspected.
But that meant – that meant –
What did it mean?
It meant – if anything at all was to make sense – that it was not Colonel Luttrell who shot Mrs Luttrell, but X.
And that was clearly impossible. I had seen the whole thing. It was Colonel Luttrell who had fired the shot. No other shot had been fired.
Unless – But surely that would be impossible. No, perhaps not impossible – merely highly improbable. But possible, yes . . . Supposing that someone else had waited his moment, and at the exact instant when Colonel Luttrell had fired (at a rabbit), this other person had fired at Mrs Luttrell. Then only the one shot would have been heard. Or, even with a slight discrepancy, it would have been put down as an echo. (Now I come to think of it, there had been an echo, surely.)
But no, that was absurd. There were
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