Curtain by Agatha Christie Page A

collection of twilit people. Grey heads, grey hearts, grey dreams. Myself, sad and lonely, the woman beside me also a bitter and disillusioned creature. Dr Franklin, his ambitions curbed and thwarted, his wife a prey to ill health. Quiet little Norton limping about looking at birds. Even Poirot, the once brilliant Poirot, now a broken, crippled old man.
    How different it had been in the old days - the days when I had first come to Styles. The thought was too much for me - a stifled exclamation of pain and regret came to my lips.
    My companion said quickly:
    “What is it?”
    “Nothing. I was just struck by the contrast - I was here, you know, many years ago, as a young man. I was thinking of the difference between then and now.”
    “I see. It was a happy house then? Everyone was happy here?”
    Curious, sometimes, how one's thoughts seemed to swing in a kaleidoscope. It happened to me now. A bewildering shuffling and reshuffling of memories, of events. Then the mosaic settled into its true pattern.
    My regret had been for the past as the past, not for the reality. For even then, in that far-off time, there had been no happiness at Styles. I remembered dispassionately the real facts. My friend John and his wife, both unhappy and chafing at the life they were forced to lead. Lawrence Cavendish, sunk in melancholy. Cynthia, her girlish brightness dampened by her dependent position. Inglethorp married to a rich woman for her money. No, none of them had been happy. And now, again, no one here was happy. Styles was not a lucky house.
    I said to Miss Cole:
    “I've been indulging in false sentiment. This was never a happy house. It isn't now. Everyone here is unhappy.”
    “No, no. Your daughter -”
    “Judith's not happy.”
    I said it with the certainty of sudden knowledge. No, Judith wasn't happy.
    “Boyd Carrington,” I said doubtfully. “He was saying the other day that he was lonely - but for all that I think he's enjoying himself quite a good deal - what with his house and one thing and another.”
    Miss Cole said sharply:
    “Oh yes, but then Sir William is different. He doesn't belong here like the rest of us do. He's from the outside world - the world of success and independence. He's made a success of his life and he knows it. He's not one of - of the maimed.”
    It was a curious word to choose. I turned and stared at her.
    “Will you tell me,” I asked, “why you used that particular expression?”
    “Because,” she said with a sudden fierce energy, “it's the truth. The truth about me, at any rate. I am maimed.”
    “I can see,” I said gently, “that you have been very unhappy.”
    She said quietly:
    “You don't know who I am, do you?”
    “Er - I know your name -”
    “Cole isn't my name - that is to say, it was my mother's name. I took it - afterwards.”
    “After?”
    “My real name is Litchfield.”
    For a minute or two it didn't sink in - it was just a name vaguely familiar. Then I remembered.
    “Matthew Litchfield.”
    She nodded.
    “I see you know about it. That was what I meant just now. My father was an invalid and a tyrant. He forbade us any kind of normal life. We couldn't ask friends to the house. He kept us short of money. We were - in prison.”
    She paused, her eyes, those beautiful eyes, wide and dark.
    “And then my sister - my sister -”
    She stopped.
    “Please don't - don't go on. It is too painful for you. I know about it. There is no need to tell me.”
    “But you don't know. You can't. Maggie. It's inconceivable - unbelievable. I know that she went to the police, that she gave herself up, that she confessed. But I still sometimes can't believe it! I feel somehow that it wasn't true - that it didn't - that it couldn't have happened like she said it did.”
    “You mean -” I hesitated - “that the facts were at - at variance -”
    She cut me short.
    “No, no. Not that. No, it's Maggie herself. It wasn't like her. It wasn't - it wasn't Maggie!”
    Words trembled on my