something to do with those inquiries. Say, even, that he employed a private detective to find out a certain fact. He may have told him in the event of this particular suspicion being justified to ring up and use that particular phrase which would convey no hint of the truth to anyone taking it. That would explain his jubilation, it might explain his asking Ellis if he was sure of the name – he himself knowing well there was no such person, really. In fact, the slight lack of balance a person shows when they have brought off what can be described as a long shot.”
“You think there’s no such person as Mrs. de Rushbridger?”
“Well, I think we ought to find out for certain.”
“How?”
“We might run along to the Sanatorium now and ask the Matron.”
“She may think it rather odd.”
Sir Charles laughed.
“You leave it to me,” he said.
They turned aside from the drive and walked in the direction of the Sanatorium.
Mr. Satterthwaite said:
“What about you, Cartwright? Does anything strike you at all? Arising out of our visit to the house, I mean.”
Sir Charles answered slowly.
“Yes, there is something – the devil of it is, I can’t remember what.”
Mr. Satterthwaite stared at him in surprise. The other frowned.
“How can I explain? There was something – something which at the moment struck me as wrong – as unlikely – only – I hadn’t the time to think about it then, I put it aside in my own mind.”
“And now you can’t remember what it was?”
“No – only that at some moment I said to myself, ‘That’s odd.’”
“Was it when we were questioning the servants? Which servant?”
“I tell you I can’t remember. And the more I think the less I shall remember… If I leave it alone, it may come back to me.”
They came into view of the Sanatorium, a big white modern building, divided from the park by palings. There was a gate through which they passed, and they rang the front-door bell and asked for the Matron.
The Matron, when she came, was a tall, middle-aged woman, with an intelligent face and a capable manner. Sir Charles she clearly knew by name as a friend of the late Sir Bartholomew Strange.
Sir Charles explained that he had just come back from abroad, had been horrified to hear of his friend’s death and of the terrible suspicions entertained, and had been up to the house to learn as many details as he could. The Matron spoke in moving terms of the loss Sir Bartholomew would be to them, and of his fine career as a doctor. Sir Charles professed himself anxious to know what was going to happen to the Sanatorium. The Matron explained that Sir Bartholomew had had two partners, both capable doctors, one was in residence at the Sanatorium.
“Bartholomew was very proud of this place, I know,” said Sir Charles.
“Yes, his treatments were a great success.”
“Mostly nerve cases, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“That reminds me – fellow I met out at Monte had some kind of relation coming here. I forget her name now – odd sort of name – Rushbridger – Rusbrigger – something like that.”
“Mrs. de Rushbridger, you mean?”
“That’s it. Is she here now?”
“Oh, yes. But I’m afraid she won’t be able to see you – not for some time yet. She’s having a very strict rest cure. The Matron smiled just a trifle archly. No letters, no exciting visitors… ”
“I say, she’s not very bad, is she?”
“Rather a bad nervous breakdown – lapses of memory, and severe nervous exhaustion. Oh, we shall get her right in time.”
The Matron smiled reassuringly.
“Let me see, haven’t I heard Tollie – Sir Bartholomew – speak of her? She was a friend of his as well as a patient, wasn’t she?”
“I don’t think so, Sir Charles. At least the doctor never said so. She has recently arrived from the West Indies – really, it was very funny, I must tell you. Rather a difficult name for a servant to remember – the parlourmaid here is rather stupid. She came and said to me, ‘Mrs. West India has come,’ and of course I suppose Rushbridger
“Rather – rather – most amusing. Her husband over, too?”
“He’s still out there.”
“Ah, quite – quite. I must be mixing her up with someone else. It was a case the doctor was specially interested in?”
“Cases of amnesia are fairly common, but they’re always interesting to a medical man – the variations, you know. Two cases are seldom alike.”
“Seems all very odd to me. Well, thank you, Matron, I’m glad to have had a little chat with you. I know how much Tollie thought of you. He often spoke about you,” finished Sir Charles mendaciously.
“Oh, I’m glad to hear that”. The Matron flushed and bridled. “Such a splendid man – such a loss to us all. We were absolutely shocked – well, stunned would describe it better. Murder! Who ever would murder Dr. Strange, I said. It’s incredible. That awful butler. I hope the police catch him. And no motive or anything.”
Sir Charles shook his head sadly and they took their departure, going round by the road to the spot where the car awaited them.
In revenge for his enforced quiescence during the interview with the Matron, Mr. Satterthwaite displayed a lively interest in the scene of Oliver Manders’ accident, plying the lodge keeper, a slow-witted man of middle age, with questions.
Yes, that was the place, where the wall was broken away. On a motor cycle the young gentleman was. No, he didn’t see it happen. He heard it, though, and come out to see. The young gentleman was standing there – just where the other gentleman was standing now. He didn’t seem to be hurt. Just looking rueful-like at his bike – and a proper mess that was. Just asked what the name of the place might be, and when he heard it was Sir Bartholomew Strange’s he said, “That’s a piece of luck,” and went on up to the house. A very calm young gentleman he seemed to be – tired like. How he come to have such an accident, the lodge keeper couldn’t see, but he supposed them things went wrong sometimes.
“It was an odd accident,” said Mr. Satterthwaite thoughtfully.
He looked at the wide straight road. No bends, no dangerous crossroads, nothing to cause a motor cyclist to swerve suddenly into a ten-foot wall. Yes, an odd accident.
“What’s in your mind, Satterthwaite?” asked Sir Charles curiously.
“Nothing,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, “nothing.”
“It’s odd, certainly,” said Sir Charles, and he, too, stared at the scene of the accident in a puzzled manner.
They got into the car and drove off.
Mr. Satterthwaite was busy with his thoughts. Mrs. de Rushbridger – Cartwright’s theory wouldn’t work – it wasn’t a code message – there was such a person. But could there be something about the woman herself? Was she perhaps a witness of some kind, or was it just because she was an interesting case that Bartholomew Strange had displayed this unusual elation? Was she, perhaps, an attractive woman? To fall in love at the age of fifty-five did (Mr. Satterthwaite had observed it many a time) change a man’s character completely. It might, perhaps, make him facetious, where before he had been aloof -
His thoughts were interrupted. Sir Charles leant forward.
“Satterthwaite,” he said, “do you mind if we turn back?”
Without waiting for a reply, he took up the speaking tube and gave the order. The car slowed down, stopped, and the chauffeur began to reverse into a convenient lane. A minute or two later they were bowling along the road in the opposite direction.
“What is it?” asked Mr. Satterthwaite.
