“She must have been a beauty when she was young….”
Not a flaunting beauty, not a rose—no, a modest, charming violet, hiding its sweetness….
His thoughts ran serenely in the idiom of his young days….
He remembered incidents in his own youth.
Presently he found himself telling Lady Mary about his own love affair—the only love affair he had ever had. Rather a poor love affair by the standards of today, but very dear to Mr. Satterthwaite.
He told her about the Girl, and how pretty she was, and of how they had gone together to see the bluebells at Kew. He had meant to propose to her that day. He had imagined (so he put it) that she reciprocated his sentiments. And then, as they were standing looking at the bluebells, she had confided in him…He had discovered that she loved another. And he had hidden the thoughts surging in his breast and had taken up the rôle of the faithful Friend.
It was not, perhaps, a very full-blooded romance, but it sounded well in the dim-faded chintz and eggshell china atmosphere of Lady Mary’s drawing room.
Afterwards Lady Mary spoke of her own life, of her married life, which had not been very happy.
“I was such a foolish girl—girls are foolish, Mr. Satterthwaite. They are so sure of themselves, so convinced they know best. People write and talk a lot of a ‘woman’s instinct.’ I don’t believe, Mr. Satterthwaite, that there is any such thing. There doesn’t seem to be anything that warns girls against a certain type of man. Nothing in themselves, I mean. Their parents warn them, but that’s no good—one doesn’t believe. It seems dreadful to say so, but there is something attractive to a girl in being told anyone is a bad man. She thinks at once that her love will reform him.”
Mr. Satterthwaite nodded gently.
“One knows so little. When one knows more, it is too late.”
She sighed.
“It was all my own fault. My people didn’t want me to marry Ronald. He was well born, but he had a bad reputation. My father told me straight out that he was a wrong ’un. I didn’t believe it. I believed that, for my sake, he would turn over a new leaf….”
She was silent a moment or two, dwelling on the past.
“Ronald was a very fascinating man. My father was quite right about him. I soon found that out. It’s an old-fashioned thing to say—but he broke my heart. Yes, he broke my heart. I was always afraid—of what might come out next.”
Mr. Satterthwaite, always intensely interested in other people’s lives, made a cautious sympathetic noise.
“It may seem a very wicked thing to say, Mr. Satterthwaite, but it was a relief when he got pneumonia and died…Not that I didn’t care for him—I loved him up to the end—but I had no illusions about him any longer. And there was Egg—”
Her voice softened.
“Such a funny little thing she was. A regular little roly-poly, trying to stand up and falling over—just like an egg; that’s how that ridiculous nickname started….”
She paused again.
“Some books that I’ve read these last few years have brought a lot of comfort to me. Books on psychology. It seems to show that in many ways people can’t help themselves. A kind of kink. Sometimes, in the most carefully brought up families you get it. As a boy Ronald stole money at school—money that he didn’t need. I can feel now that he couldn’t help himself…He was born with a kink….”
Very gently, with a small handkerchief, Lady Mary wiped her eyes.
“It wasn’t what I was brought up to believe,” she said apologetically. “I was taught that everyone knew the difference between right and wrong. But somehow—I don’t always think that is so.”
“The human mind is a great mystery,” said Mr. Satterthwaite gently. “As yet, we are going groping our way to understanding. Without acute mania it may nevertheless occur that certain natures lack what I should describe as braking power. If you or I were to say, ‘I hate someone—I wish he were dead,’ the idea would pass from our minds as soon as the words were uttered. The brakes would work automatically. But, in some people the idea, or obsession, holds. They see nothing but the immediate gratification of the idea formed.”
“I’m afraid,” said Lady Mary, “that that’s rather too clever for me.”
“I apologize. I was talking rather bookishly.”
“Did you mean that young people have too little restraint nowadays? It sometimes worries me.”
“No, no, I didn’t mean that at all. Less restraint is, I think, a good thing—wholesome. I suppose you are thinking of Miss—er—Egg.”
“I think you’d better call her Egg,” said Lady Mary, smiling.
“Thank you. Miss Egg does sound rather ridiculous.”
“Egg’s very impulsive, and once she has set her mind on a thing nothing will stop her. As I said before, I hate her mixing herself up in all this, but she won’t listen to me.”
Mr. Satterthwaite smiled at the distress in Lady Mary’s tone. He thought to himself:
“I wonder if she realizes for one minute that Egg’s absorption in crime is neither more nor less than a new variant of that old, old game—the pursuit of the male by the female? No, she’d be horrified at the thought.”
“Egg says that Mr. Babbington was poisoned also. Do you think that is true, Mr. Satterthwaite? Or do you think it is just one of Egg’s sweeping statements?”
“We shall know for certain after the exhumation.”
“There is to be an exhumation, then?” Lady Mary shivered. “How terrible for poor Mrs. Babbington. I can imagine nothing more awful for any woman.”
“You knew the Babbingtons fairly intimately, I suppose, Lady Mary?”
“Yes, indeed. They are—were—very dear friends of ours.”
“Do you know of anyone who could possibly have had a grudge against the vicar?”
“No, indeed.”
“He never spoke of such a person?”
“No.”
“And they got on well together?”
“They were perfectly mated—happy in each other and in their children. They were badly off, of course, and Mr. Babbington suffered from rheumatoid arthritis. Those were their only troubles.”
“How did Oliver Manders get on with the vicar?”
“Well—” Lady Mary hesitated, “they didn’t hit it off very well. The Babbingtons were sorry for Oliver, and he used to go to the vicarage a good deal in the holidays to play with the Babbington boys—though I don’t think he got on very well with them. Oliver wasn’t exactly a popular boy. He boasted too much of the money he had and the tuck he took back to school, and all the fun he had in London. Boys are rather merciless about that sort of thing.”
“Yes, but later—since he’s been grown up?”
“I don’t think he and the vicarage people have seen much of each other. As a matter of fact Oliver was rather rude to Mr. Babbington one day here, in my house. It was about two years ago.”
“What happened?”
“Oliver made a rather ill-bred attack on Christianity. Mr. Babbington was very patient and courteous with him. That only seemed to make Oliver worse. He said, ‘All you religious people look down your noses because my father and mother weren’t married. I suppose you’d call me the child of sin. Well, I admire people who have the courage of their convictions and don’t care what a lot of hypocrites and parsons think.’ Mr. Babbington didn’t answer, but Oliver went on: ‘You won’t answer that. It’s ecclesiasticism and superstition that’s got the whole world into the mess it’s in. I’d like to sweep away the churches all over the world.’ Mr. Babbington smiled and said, ‘And the clergy, too?’ I think it was his smile that annoyed Oliver. He felt he was not being taken seriously. He said, ‘I hate everything the Church stands for. Smugness, security and hypocrisy. Get rid of the whole canting tribe, I say!’ And Mr. Babbington smiled—he had a very sweet smile—and he said, ‘My dear boy, if you were to sweep away all the churches ever built or planned, you would still have to reckon with God.’”
> “What did young Manders say to that?”
“He seemed taken aback, and then he recovered his temper and went back to his usual sneering tired manner.
“He said, ‘I’m afraid the things I’ve been saying are rather bad form, padre, and not very easily assimilated by your generation.’”
“You don’t like young Manders, do you, Lady Mary?”
“I’m sorry for him,” said Lady Mary defensively.
“But you wouldn’t like him to marry Egg.”
“Oh, no.”
“I wonder why, exactly?”
“Because—because, he isn’t kind…and because—”
“Yes?”
“Because there’s something in him, somewhere, that I don’t understand. Something cold—”
Mr. Satterthwaite looked at her thoughtfully for a minute or two, then he said:
“What did Sir Bartholomew Strange think of him? Did he ever mention him?”
“He said, I remember, that he found young Manders an interesting study. He said that he reminded him of a case he was treating at the moment in his nursing home. I said that I thought Oliver looked particularly strong and healthy, and he said, ‘Yes, his health’s all right, but he’s riding for a fall.’”
She paused and then said:
“I suppose Sir Bartholomew was a very clever nerve specialist.”
“I believe he was very highly thought of by his own colleagues.”
“I liked him,” said Lady Mary.
“Did he ever say anything to you about Babbington’s death?”
“No.”
“He never mentioned it at all?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Do you think—it’s difficult for you to tell, not knowing him well—but do you think he had anything on his mind?”
“He seemed in very good spirits—even amused by something—some private joke of his own. He told me at dinner that night that he was going to spring a surprise on me.”
“Oh, he did, did he?”
On his way home, Mr. Satterthwaite pondered that statement.
What had been the surprise Sir Bartholomew had intended to spring on his guests?
Would it, when it came, have been as amusing as he pretended?
Or did that gay manner mask a quiet but indomitable purpose? Would anyone ever know?
Three
REENTER HERCULE POIROT
“Frankly,” said Sir Charles, “are we any forrader?”
It was a council of war. Sir Charles, Mr. Satterthwaite and Egg Lytton Gore were sitting in the Ship room. A fire burned in the grate, and outside an equinoctial gale was howling.
Mr. Satterthwaite and Egg answered the question simultaneously.
“No,” said Mr. Satterthwaite.
“Yes,” said Egg.
Sir Charles looked from one to the other of them. Mr. Satterthwaite indicated gracefully that the lady should speak first.
Egg was silent a moment or two, collecting her ideas.
“We are further on,” she said at last. “We are further on because we haven’t found out anything. That sounds nonsense, but it isn’t. What I mean is that we had certain vague sketchy ideas; we know now that certain of those ideas are definitely washouts.”
“Progress by elimination,” said Sir Charles.
“That’s it.”
Mr. Satterthwaite cleared his throat. He liked to define things.
“The idea of gain we can now put definitely away,” he said. “There does not seem to be anybody who (in detective story parlance) could benefit by Stephen Babbington’s death. Revenge seems equally out of the question. Apart from his naturally amiable and peace-loving disposition, I doubt if he were important enough to make enemies. So we are back at our last rather sketchy idea—fear. By the death of Stephen Babbington, someone gains security.”
“That’s rather well put,” said Egg.
Mr. Satterthwaite looked modestly pleased with himself. Sir Charles looked a little annoyed. His was the star part, not Satterthwaite’s.
“The point is,” said Egg, “what are we going to do next—actually do, I mean. Are we going to sleuth people, or what? Are we going to disguise ourselves and follow them?”
“My dear child,” said Sir Charles, “I always did set my face against playing old men in beards, and I’m not going to begin now.”
“Then what—?” began Egg.
But she was interrupted. The door opened, and Temple announced:
“Mr. Hercule Poirot.” M. Poirot walked in with a beaming face and greeted three highly astonished people.
“It is permitted,” he said with a twinkle, “that I assist at this conference? I am right, am I not—it is a conference?”
“My dear fellow, we’re delighted to see you.” Sir Charles, recovering from his surprise, shook his guest warmly by the hand and pushed him into a large armchair. “Where have you sprung from so suddenly?”
“I went to call upon my good friend Mr. Satterthwaite in London. They tell me he is away—in Cornwall. Eh bien, it leaps to the eye where he has gone. I take the first train to Loomouth, and here I am.”
“Yes,” said Egg. “But why have you come?”
“I mean,” she went on, flushing a little as she realized the possible discourtesy of her words, “you have come for some particular reason?”
“I have come,” said Hercule Poirot, “to admit an error.”
With an engaging smile he turned to Sir Charles and spread out his hands in a foreign gesture.
“Monsieur, it was in this very room that you declared yourself not satisfied. And I—I thought it was your dramatic instinct—I said to myself, he is a great actor, at all costs he must have drama. It seemed, I will admit it, incredible that a harmless old gentleman should have died anything but a natural death. Even now I do not see how poison could have been administered to him, nor can I guess at any motive. It seems absurd—fantastic. And yet—since then, there has been another death, a death under similar circumstances. One cannot attribute it to coincidence. No, there must be a link between the two. And so, Sir Charles, I have come to you to apologize—to say I, Hercule Poirot, was wrong, and to ask you to admit me to your councils.”
Sir Charles cleared his throat rather nervously. He looked a little embarrassed.
“That’s extraordinarily handsome of you, M. Poirot. I don’t know—taking up a lot of your time—I—”
He stopped, somewhat at a loss. His eyes consulted Mr. Satterthwaite.
“It is very good of you—” began Mr. Satterthwaite.
“No, no, it is not good of me. It is the curiosity—and, yes, the hurt to my pride. I must repair my fault. My time—that is nothing—why voyage after all? The language may be different, but everywhere human nature is the same. But of course if I am not welcome, if you feel that I intrude—”
Both men spoke at once.
“No, indeed.”
“Rather not.”
Poirot turned his eyes to the girl.
“And Mademoiselle?”
For a minute or two Egg was silent, and on all three men the same impression was produced. Egg did not want the assistance of M. Poirot….
Mr. Satterthwaite thought he knew why. This was the private ploy of Charles Cartwright and Egg Lytton Gore. Mr. Satterthwaite had been admitted—on sufferance—on the clear understanding that he was a negligible third party. But Hercule Poirot was different. His would be the leading rôle. Perhaps, even, Sir Charles might retire in his favour. And then Egg’s plans would come to naught.
He watched the girl, sympathizing with her predicament. These men did not understand, but he, with his semi-feminine sensitiveness, realized her dilemma. Egg was fighting for her happiness….
What would she say?
After all what could she say? How could she speak the thoughts in her mind? “Go away—go away—your coming may spoil everything—I don’t want you here….”
Egg Lytton Gore said the only thing she could say.
&nbs
p; “Of course,” she said with a little smile. “We’d love to have you.”
Four
A WATCHING BRIEF
“Good,” said Poirot. “We are colleagues. Eh bien, you will put me, if you please, au courant of the situation.”
He listened with close attention whilst Mr. Satterthwaite outlined the steps they had taken since returning to England. Mr. Satterthwaite was a good narrator. He had the faculty of creating an atmosphere, of painting a picture. His description of the Abbey, of the servants, of the Chief Constable was admirable. Poirot was warm in his appreciation of the discovery by Sir Charles of the unfinished letters under the gas fire.
“Ah, mais c’est magnifique, ça!” he exclaimed ecstatically. “The deduction, the reconstruction—perfect! You should have been a great detective, Sir Charles, instead of a great actor.”
Sir Charles received these plaudits with becoming modesty—his own particular brand of modesty. He had not received compliments on his stage performances for many years without perfecting a manner of acknowledging them.
“Your observation, too, it was very just,” said Poirot, turning to Mr. Satterthwaite. “That point of yours about his sudden familiarity with the butler.”
“Do you think there is anything in this Mrs. de Rushbridger idea?” asked Sir Charles eagerly.
“It is an idea. It suggests—well, it suggests several things, does it not?”
Nobody was quite sure about the several things, but nobody liked to say so, so there was merely an assenting murmur.
Sir Charles took up the tale next. He described his and Egg’s visit to Mrs. Babbington and its rather negative result.
“And now you’re up to date,” he said. “You know what we do. Tell us: how does it all strike you?”
He leaned forward, boyishly eager.
Poirot was silent for some minutes. The other three watched him.
He said at last:
“Can you remember at all, mademoiselle, what type of port glass Sir Bartholomew had on his table?”