夜雨聆风said slowly: ‘Perhaps. But seeing now how devoted he really is to her –’
Poirot nodded. ‘Exactly. That is often the case, remember. Underneaththe quarrels, the misunderstandings, the apparent hostility of everydaylife, a real and true affection can exist.’
I agreed. I remembered the gentle affectionate look in little Mrs Lut-trell’s eyes as she looked up at her husband stooping over her bed. Nomore 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 watch-ful 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 theeyes.
If Mrs Luttrell had been killed, it would have been a case like those othercases. Colonel Luttrell would, apparently, have killed his wife. It wouldhave been accounted an accident, yet at the same time nobody would havebeen sure that it was an accident, or whether it had been done on pur-pose. Insufficient evidence to show it as murder, but quite enough evid-ence for murder to be suspected.
But that meant – that meant –
