Curtain

We thanked him and accepted. He got up and went in.

The part of the terrace where we were sitting was just outside the dining-room window, and that window was open.

We heard the Colonel inside – opening a cupboard, then heard the squeak of a corkscrew and the subdued pop as the cork of the bottle came out.

And then, sharp and high came the unofficial voice of Mrs Colonel Luttrell!

'What are you doing, George?'

The Colonel's voice was subdued to a mutter.

We only heard a mumbled word here and there – fellows outside – drink -

The sharp, irritating voice burst out indignantly:

'You'll do no such thing, George. The idea now. How do you think we'll ever make this place pay if you go round standing everybody drinks? Drinks here will be paid for. I've got a business head if you haven't. Why, you'd be bankrupt tomorrow if it wasn't for me! I've got to look after you like a child. Yes, just like a child. You've got no sense at all. Give me that bottle. Give it me, I say.'

Again there was an agonized low protesting mumble.

Mrs Luttrell answered snappishly:

'I don't care whether they do or they don't. The bottle's going back in the cupboard, and I'm going to lock the cupboard too.'

There was the sound of a key being turned in the lock.

'There now. That's the way of it.'

This time the Colonel's voice came more clearly:

'You're going too far, Daisy. I won't have it.'

'You won't have it? And who are you, I'd like to know? Who runs this house? I do. And don't you forget it.'

There was a faint swish of draperies and Mrs Luttrell evidently flounced out of the room.

It was some few moments before the Colonel reappeared. He looked in those few moments to have grown much older and feebler.

There was not one of us who did not feel deeply sorry for him and who would not willingly have murdered Mrs Luttrell.

'Awfully sorry, you chaps,' he said, his voice sounding stiff and unnatural. 'Seem to have run out of whisky.'

He must have realized that we could not have helped overhearing what had passed. If he had not realized it, our manner would soon have told him. We were all miserably uncomfortable, and Norton quite lost his head, hurriedly saying first that he didn't really want a drink – too near dinner, wasn't it, and then elaborately changing the subject and making a series of the most unconnected remarks. It was indeed a bad moment. I myself felt paralyzed and Boyd Carrington, who was the only one of us who might conceivably have managed to pass it off, got no opportunity with Norton's babble.

Out of the tail of my eye I saw Mrs Luttrell stalking away down one of the paths equipped with gardening gloves and a dandelion weeder. She was certainly an efficient woman, but I felt bitterly towards her just then. No human being has a right to humiliate another human being.

Norton was still talking feverishly. He had picked up a wood pigeon and from first telling us how he had been laughed at at his prep school for being sick when he saw a rabbit killed, had gone on to the subject of grouse moors, telling a long and rather pointless story of an accident that had occurred in Scotland when a beater had been shot. We talked of various shooting accidents we had known, and then Boyd Carrington cleared his throat and said:

'Rather an amusing thing happened once with a batman of mine. Irish chap. He had a holiday and went off to Ireland for it. When he came back, I asked him if he had had a good holiday.

''Ah shure, your Honour, best holiday I've ever had in my life!'

''I'm glad of that,' I said, rather surprised at his enthusiasm.

''Ah yes, shure, it was a grand holiday! I shot my brother.'

''You shot your brother!' I exclaimed.

''Ah yes, indade. It's years now that I've been wanting to do it. And there I was on a roof in Dublin and who should I see coming down the street but my brother and I there with a rifle in my hand. A lovely shot it was, though I say it myself. Picked him off as clean as a bird. Ah! It was a foine moment, that, and I'll never forget it!''

Boyd Carrington told a story well, with exaggerated dramatic emphasis, and we all laughed and felt easier. When he got up and strolled off saying he must get a bath before dinner, Norton voiced our feeling by saying with enthusiasm:

'What a splendid chap he is!'

I agreed, and Luttrell said: 'Yes, yes, a good fellow.'

'Always been a success everywhere, so I understand,' said Norton. 'Everything he's turned his hand to has succeeded. Clear-headed, knows his own mind – essentially a man of action. The true successful man.'

Luttrell said slowly:

'Some men are like that. Everything they turn their hand to succeeds. They can't go wrong. Some people – have all the luck.'

Norton gave a quick shake of the head.

'No, no, sir. Not luck,' He quoted with meaning. 'Not in our stars, dear Brutus – but in ourselves.'

Luttrell said: 'Perhaps you're right.'

I said quickly:

'At any rate he's lucky to have inherited Knatton. What a place! But he certainly ought to marry. He'll be lonely there by himself.'

Norton laughed. 'Marry and settle down? And suppose his wife bullies him -'

It was the purest bad luck. The sort of remark that anyone could make. But it was unfortunate in the circumstances, and Norton realized it just at the moment that the words came out. He tried to catch them back, hesitated, stammered, and stopped awkwardly. It made the whole thing worse.

Both he and I began to speak at once. I made some idiotic remark about the evening light. Norton said something about having some bridge after dinner.

Colonel Luttrell took no notice of either of us. He said in a queer, inexpressive voice:

'No, Boyd Carrington won't get bullied by his wife. He's not the sort of man who lets himself get bullied. He's all right. He's a man!'

It was very awkward. Norton began babbling about bridge again. In the middle of it a large wood pigeon came flapping over our heads and settled on the branch of a tree not far away.

Colonel Luttrell picked up his gun.

'There's one of the blighters,' he said.

But before he could take aim the bird had flown off again through the trees where it was impossible to get a shot at it.

At the same moment, however, the Colonel's attention was diverted by a movement on the far slope.

'Damme, there's a rabbit nibbling the bark of those young fruit trees. Thought I'd wired the place.'

He raised the rifle and fired, and as I saw -

There came a scream in a woman's voice. It died in a kind of horrible gurgle.

The rifle fell from the Colonel's hand, his body sagged – he caught his lip.

'My God – it's Daisy.'

I was already running across the lawn. Norton came behind me. I reached the spot and knelt down. It was Mrs Luttrell. She had been kneeling, tying a stake against one of the small fruit trees. The grass was long there so that I realized how it was that the Colonel had not seen her clearly and had only distinguished movement in the grass. The light, too, was confusing. She had been shot through the shoulder and the blood was gushing out.

I bent to examine the wound and looked up at Norton. He was leaning against a tree and was looking green and as though he were going to be sick. He said apologetically:

'I can't stand blood.'

I said sharply: