“I’m a strong man, Miss 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’ quarter. 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
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,” thought 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
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 apologised she recognised 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.
20
“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 display all the signs of settling down. There’s an air of virtue about him. He’ll Bartholomew banding 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 shoed in her eyes as she looked at Mr. Satterthwaite. “He
