“There doesn’t seem much there,” said Egg to herself. “A possible motive for the murder of Sir Bartholomew, but very thin. M. Poirot may be able to make something of that. I can’t.”
Seven
CAPTAIN DACRES
Egg had not yet finished her programme for the day. Her next move was to St. John’s House, in which building the Dacres had a flat. St. John’s House was a new block of extremely expensive flats. There were sumptuous window boxes and uniformed porters of such magnificence that they looked like foreign generals.
Egg did not enter the building. She strolled up and down on the opposite side of the street. After about an hour of this she calculated that she must have walked several miles. It was half past five.
Then a taxi drew up at the Mansions, and Captain Dacres alighted from it. Egg allowed three minutes to elapse, then she crossed the road and entered the building.
Egg pressed the doorbell of No. 3. Dacres himself opened the door. He was still engaged in taking off his overcoat.
“Oh,” said Egg. “How do you do? You do remember me, don’t you? We met in Cornwall, and again in Yorkshire.”
“Of course—of course. In at the death both times, weren’t we? Come in, Miss Lytton Gore.”
“I wanted to see your wife. Is she in?”
“She’s round in Bruton Street—at her dressmaking place.”
“I know. I was there today. I thought perhaps she’d be back by now, and that she wouldn’t mind, perhaps, if I came here—only, of course, I suppose I’m being a frightful bother—”
Egg paused appealingly.
Freddie Dacres said to himself:
“Nice-looking filly. Damned pretty girl, in fact.”
Aloud he said:
“Cynthia won’t be back till well after six. I’ve just come back from Newbury. Had a rotten day and left early. Come round to the Seventy-Two Club and have a cocktail?”
Egg accepted, though she had a shrewd suspicion that Dacres had already had quite as much alcohol as was good for him.
Sitting in the underground dimness of the Seventy-Two Club, and sipping a Martini, Egg said: “This is great fun. I’ve never been here before.”
Freddie Dacres smiled indulgently. He liked a young and pretty girl. Not perhaps as much as he liked some other things—but well enough.
“Upsettin’ sort of time, wasn’t it?” he said. “Up in Yorkshire, I mean. Something rather amusin’ about a doctor being poisoned—you see what I mean—wrong way about. A doctor’s a chap who poisons other people.”
He laughed uproariously at his own remark and ordered another pink gin.
“That’s rather clever of you,” said Egg. “I never thought of it that way before.”
“Only a joke, of course,” said Freddie Dacres.
“It’s odd, isn’t it,” said Egg, “that when we meet it’s always at a death.”
“Bit odd,” admitted Captain Dacres. “You mean the old clergyman chap at what’s his name’s—the actor fellow’s place?”
“Yes. It was very queer the way he died so suddenly.”
“Damn’ disturbin’,” said Dacres. “Makes you feel a bit gruey, fellows popping off all over the place. You know, you think ‘my turn next,’ and it gives you the shivers.”
“You knew Mr. Babbington before, didn’t you, at Gilling?”
“Don’t know the place. No, I never set eyes on the old chap before. Funny thing is he popped off just the same way as old Strange did. Bit odd, that. Can’t have been bumped off, too, I suppose?”
“Well, what do you think?”
Dacres shook his head.
“Can’t have been,” he said decisively. “Nobody murders parsons. Doctors are different.”
“Yes,” said Egg. “I suppose doctors are different.”
“’Course they are. Stands to reason. Doctors are interfering devils.” He slurred the words a little. He leant forward. “Won’t let well alone. Understand?”
“No,” said Egg.
“They monkey about with fellows’ lives. They’ve got a damned sight too much power. Oughtn’t to be allowed.”
“I don’t quite see what you mean.”
“M’ dear girl, I’m telling you. Get a fellow shut up—that’s what I mean—put him in hell. God, they’re cruel. Shut him up and keep the stuff from him—and however much you beg and pray they won’t give it you. Don’t care a damn what torture you’re in. That’s doctors for you. I’m telling you—and I know.”
His face twitched painfully. His little pinpoint pupils stared past her.
“It’s hell, I tell you—hell. And they call it curing you! Pretend they’re doing a decent action. Swine!”
“Did Sir Bartholomew Strange—?” began Egg cautiously.
He took the words out of her mouth.
“Sir Bartholomew Strange. Sir Bartholomew Humbug. I’d like to know what goes on in that precious Sanatorium of his. Nerve cases. That’s what they say. You’re in there and you can’t get out. And they say you’ve gone of your own free will. Free will! Just because they get hold of you when you’ve got the horrors.”
He was shaking now. His mouth drooped suddenly.
“I’m all to pieces,” he said apologetically. “All to pieces.” He called to the waiter, pressed Egg to have another drink, and when she refused, ordered one himself.
“That’s better,” he said as he drained the glass. “Got my nerve back now. Nasty business losing your nerve. Mustn’t make Cynthia angry. She told me not to talk.” He nodded his head once or twice. “Wouldn’t do to tell the police all this,” he said. “They might think I’d bumped old Strange off. Eh? You realize, don’t you, that someone must have done it? One of us must have killed him. That’s a funny thought. Which of us? That’s the question.”
“Perhaps you know which,” said Egg.
“What d’you say that for? Why should I know?”
He looked at her angrily and suspiciously.
“I don’t know anything about it, I tell you. I wasn’t going to take that damnable ‘cure’ of his. No matter what Cynthia said—I wasn’t going to take it. He was up to something—they were both up to something. But they couldn’t fool me.”
He drew himself up.
“I’m a shtrong man, Mish Lytton Gore.”
“I’m sure you are,” said Egg. “Tell me, do you know anything of a Mrs. de Rushbridger who is at the Sanatorium?”
“Rushbridger? Rushbridger? Old Strange said something about her. Now what was it? Can’t remember anything.”
He sighed, shook his head.
“Memory’s going, that’s what it is. And I’ve got enemies—a lot of enemies. They may be spying on me now.”
He looked round uneasily. Then he leant across the table to Egg.
“What was that woman doing in my room that day?”
“What woman?”
“Rabbit-faced woman. Writes plays. It was the morning after—after he died. I’d just come up from breakfast. She came out of my room and went through the baize door at the end of the passage—went through into the servants’ quarters. Odd, eh? Why did she go into my room? What did she think she’d find there? What did she want to go nosing about for, anyway? What’s it got to do with her?” He leaned forward confidentially. “Or do you think it’s true what Cynthia says?”
“What does Mrs. Dacres say?”
“Says I imagined it. Says I was ‘seeing things.’” He laughed uncertainly. “I do see things now and again. Pink mice—snakes—all that sort of thing. But seein’ a woman’s different…I did see her. She’s a queer fish, that woman. Nasty sort of eye she’s got. Goes through you.”
He leaned back on the soft couch. He seemed to be dropping asleep.
Egg got up.
“I must be going. Thank you very much, Captain Dacres.”
“Don’t thank me. Delighted. Absolutely delighted….”
His voice tailed off.
“I’d better go before he passes out altogether,” tho
ught Egg.
She emerged from the smoky atmosphere of the Seventy-Two Club into the cool evening air.
Beatrice, the housemaid, had said that Miss Wills poked and pried. Now came this story from Freddie Dacres. What had Miss Wills been looking for? What had she found? Was it possible that Miss Wills knew something?
Was there anything in this rather muddled story about Sir Bartholomew Strange? Had Freddie Dacres secretly feared and hated him?
It seemed possible.
But in all this no hint of any guilty knowledge in the Babbington case.
“How odd it would be,” said Egg to herself, “if he wasn’t murdered after all.”
And then she caught her breath sharply as she caught sight of the words on a newspaper placard a few feet away:
“CORNISH EXHUMATION CASE—RESULT.”
Hastily she held out a penny and snatched a paper. As she did so she collided with another woman doing the same thing. As Egg apologized she recognized Sir Charles’s secretary, the efficient Miss Milray.
Standing side by side, they both sought the stop-press news. Yes, there it was.
“RESULT OF CORNISH EXHUMATION.”
The words danced before Egg’s eyes. Analysis of the organs…Nicotine….
“So he was murdered,” said Egg.
“Oh, dear,” said Miss Milray. “This is terrible—terrible—”
Her rugged countenance was distorted with emotion. Egg looked at her in surprise. She had always regarded Miss Milray as something less than human.
“It upsets me,” said Miss Milray, in explanation. “You see, I’ve known him all my life.”
“Mr. Babbington?”
“Yes. You see, my mother lives at Gilling, where he used to be vicar. Naturally it’s upsetting.”
“Oh, of course.”
“In fact,” said Miss Milray, “I don’t know what to do.”
She flushed a little before Egg’s look of astonishment.
“I’d like to write to Mrs. Babbington,” she said quickly. “Only it doesn’t seem quite—well, quite…I don’t know what I had better do about it.”
Somehow, to Egg, the explanation was not quite satisfying.
Eight
ANGELA SUTCLIFFE
“Now, are you a friend or are you a sleuth? I simply must know.”
Miss Sutcliffe flashed a pair of mocking eyes as she spoke. She was sitting in a straight-backed chair, her grey hair becomingly arranged, her legs were crossed and Mr. Satterthwaite admired the perfection of her beautifully shod feet and her slender ankles. Miss Sutcliffe was a very fascinating woman, mainly owing to the fact that she seldom took anything seriously.
“Is that quite fair?” asked Mr. Satterthwaite.
“My dear man, of course it’s fair. Have you come here for the sake of my beautiful eyes, as the French say so charmingly, or have you, you nasty man, come just to pump me about murders?”
“Can you doubt that your first alternative is the correct one?” asked Mr. Satterthwaite with a little bow.
“I can and I do,” said the actress with energy. “You are one of those people who look so mild, and really wallow in blood.”
“No, no.”
“Yes, yes. The only thing I can’t make up my mind about is whether it is an insult or a compliment to be considered a potential murderess. On the whole, I think it’s a compliment.”
She cocked her head a little on one side and smiled that slow bewitching smile that never failed.
Mr. Satterthwaite thought to himself:
“Adorable creature.”
Aloud he said, “I will admit, dear lady, that the death of Sir Bartholomew Strange has interested me considerably. I have, as you perhaps know, dabbled in such doings before….”
He paused modestly, perhaps hoping that Miss Sutcliffe would show some knowledge of his activities. However, she merely asked:
“Tell me one thing—is there anything in what that girl said?”
“Which girl, and what did she say?”
“The Lytton Gore girl. The one who is so fascinated by Charles. (What a wretch Charles is—he will do it!) She thinks that that nice old man down in Cornwall was murdered, too.”
“What do you think?”
“Well, it certainly happened just the same way…She’s an intelligent girl, you know. Tell me—is Charles serious?”
“I expect your views on the subject are likely to be much more valuable than mine,” said Mr. Satterthwaite.
“What a tiresomely discreet man you are,” cried Miss Sutcliffe. “Now I”—she sighed—“am appallingly indiscreet….”
She fluttered an eyelash at him.
“I know Charles pretty well. I know men pretty well. He seems to me to display all the signs of settling down. There’s an air of virtue about him. He’ll be handing round the plate and founding a family in record time—that’s my view. How dull men are when they decide to settle down! They lose all their charm.”
“I’ve often wondered why Sir Charles has never married,” said Mr. Satterthwaite.
“My dear, he never showed any signs of wanting to marry. He wasn’t what they call a marrying man. But he was a very attractive man…” She sighed. A slight twinkle showed in her eyes as she looked at Mr. Satterthwaite. “He and I were once—well, why deny what everybody knows? It was very pleasant while it lasted…and we’re still the best of friends. I suppose that’s the reason the Lytton Gore child looks at me so fiercely. She suspects I still have a tendresse for Charles. Have I? Perhaps I have. But at any rate I haven’t yet written my memoirs describing all my affairs in detail as most of my friends seem to have done. If I did, you know, the girl wouldn’t like it. She’d be shocked. Modern girls are easily shocked. Her mother wouldn’t be shocked at all. You can’t really shock a sweet mid-Victorian. They say so little, but always think the worst….”
Mr. Satterthwaite contented himself with saying:
“I think you are right in suspecting that Egg Lytton Gore mistrusts you.”
Miss Sutcliffe frowned.
“I’m not at all sure that I’m not a little jealous of her…we women are such cats, aren’t we? Scratch, scratch, miauw, miauw, purr, purr….”
She laughed.
“Why didn’t Charles come and catechize me on this business? Too much nice feeling, I suppose. The man must think me guilty…Am I guilty, Mr. Satterthwaite? What do you think now?”
She stood up and stretched out a hand.
“All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand—”
She broke off.
“No, I’m not Lady Macbeth. Comedy’s my line.”
“There seems also a certain lack of motive,” said Mr. Satterthwaite.
“True. I liked Bartholomew Strange. We were friends. I had no reason for wishing him out of the way. Because we were friends I’d rather like to take an active part in hunting down his murderer. Tell me if I can help in any way.”
“I suppose, Miss Sutcliffe, you didn’t see or hear anything that might have a bearing on the crime?”
“Nothing that I haven’t already told the police. The house party had only just arrived, you know. His death occurred on that first evening.”
“The butler?”
“I hardly noticed him.”
“Any peculiar behaviour on the part of the guests?”
“No. Of course that boy—what’s his name? Manders turned up rather unexpectedly.”
“Did Sir Bartholomew Strange seemed surprised?”
“Yes, I think he was. He said to me just before we went in to dinner that it was an odd business, ‘a new method of gate crashing,’ he called it. ‘Only,’ he said, ‘it’s my wall he’s crashed, not my gate.’”
“Sir Bartholomew was in good spirits?”
“Very good spirits!”
“What about this secret passage you mentioned to the police?”
“I believe it led out of the library. Sir Bartholomew promised to show it to me—but of course the poor man di
ed.”
“How did the subject come up?”
“We were discussing a recent purchase of his—an old walnut bureau. I asked if it had a secret drawer in it. I told him I adored secret drawers. It’s a secret passion of mine. And he said, ‘No, there wasn’t a secret drawer that he knew of—but he had got a secret passage in the house.’”
“He didn’t mention a patient of his, a Mrs. de Rushbridger?”
“No.”
“Do you know a place called Gilling, in Kent?”
“Gilling? Gilling, no, I don’t think I do. Why?”
“Well, you knew Mr. Babbington before, didn’t you?”
“Who is Mr. Babbington?”
“The man who died, or who was killed, at the Crow’s Nest.”
“Oh, the clergyman. I’d forgotten his name. No, I’d never seen him before in my life. Who told you I knew him?”
“Someone who ought to know,” said Mr. Satterthwaite boldly.
Miss Sutcliffe seemed amused.
“Dear old man, did they think I’d had an affair with him? Archdeacons are sometimes very naughty, aren’t they? So why not vicars? There’s the man in the barrel, isn’t there? But I must clear the poor man’s memory. I’d never seen him before in my life.”
And with that statement Mr. Satterthwaite was forced to rest content.
Nine
MURIEL WILLS
Five Upper Cathcart Road, Tooting, seemed an incongruous home for a satiric playwright. The room into which Sir Charles was shown had walls of a rather drab oatmeal colour with a frieze of laburnum round the top. The curtains were of rose-coloured velvet, there were a lot of photographs and china dogs, the telephone was coyly hidden by a lady with ruffled skirts, there were a great many little tables and some suspicious-looking brasswork from Birmingham via the Far East.
Miss Wills entered the room so noiselessly that Sir Charles, who was at the moment examining a ridiculously elongated pierrot doll lying across the sofa, did not hear her. Her thin voice saying, “How d’you do, Sir Charles. This is really a great pleasure,” made him spin round.