Three Act Tragedy

would have noticed it.”

“Is that what he said?”

“Yes.”

“I was very interested, I must admit,” said Miss Wills slowly. “You see, I’d never seen a murder at close hand before. A writer’s got to take everything as copy, hasn’t she?”

“I believe that’s a well-known axiom.”

“So naturally,” said Miss Wills, “I tried to notice everything I could.”

This was obviously Miss Wills’s version of Beatrice’s “poking and prying.”

“About the guests?”

“About the guests.”

“And what exactly did you notice?”

The pince-nez shifted.

“I didn’t really find out anything – if I had I’d have told the police, of course,” she added virtuously.

“But you noticed things.”

“I always do notice things. I can’t help it. I’m funny that way.” She giggled.

“And you noticed – what?”

“Oh, nothing – that is – nothing that you’d call anything, Sir Charles. Just little odds and ends about people’s characters. I find people so very interesting. So typical, if you know what I mean.”

“Typical of what?”

“Of themselve. Oh, I can’t explain. I’m ever so silly at saying things.”

She giggled again.

“Your pen is deadlier than your tongue,” said Sir Charles, smiling.

“I don’t think it’s very nice of you to say deadlier, Sir Charles.”

“My dear Miss Wills, admit that with a pen in your hand you’re quite merciless.

“I think you’re horrid, Sir Charles. It’s you who are merciless to me.”

“I must get out of this bog of badinage,” said Sir Charles to himself. He said aloud:

“So you didn’t find out anything concrete, Miss Wills?”

“No – not exactly. At least, there was one thing. Something I noticed and ought to have told the police about, only I forgot.”

“What was that?”

“The butler. He had a kind of strawberry mark on his left wrist. I noticed it when he was handing me vegetables. I suppose that’s the sort of thing which might come in useful.”

“I should say very useful indeed. The police are trying hard to track down that man Ellis. Really, Miss Wills, you are a very remarkable woman. Not one of the servants or guests mentioned such a mark.”

“Most people don’t use their eyes much, do they?” said Miss Wills.

“Where exactly was the mark? And what size was it?”

“If you’ll just stretch out your own wrist” – Sir Charles extended his arm. “Thank you. It was here.” Miss Wills placed an unerring on the spot. “It was about the size, roughly, of a sixpence, and rather the shape of Australia.”

“Thank you, that’s very clear,” said Sir Charles, removing his hand and pulling down his cuffs again.

“You think I ought to write to the police and tell them?”

“Certainly I do. It might be most valuable in tracing the man. Dash it all,” went on Sir Charles with feeling, “in detective stories there’s always some identifying mark on the villain. I thought it was a bit hard that real life should prove so lamentably behindhand.”

“It’s usually a scar in stories,” said Miss Wills thoughtfully.

“A birthmark’s just as good,” said Sir Charles.

He looked boyishly pleased.

“The trouble is,” he went on, “most people are so indeterminate. There’s nothing about them to take hold of.”

Miss Wills looked inquiringly at him.

“Old Babbington, for instance,” went on Sir Charles, “he had a curiously vague personality. Very difficult to lay hold of.”

“His hands were very characteristic,” said Miss Wills. “What I call a scholar’s hands. A little crippled with arthritis, but very refined fingers and beautiful nails.”

“What an observer you are. Ah, but – of course, you knew him before.”

“Knew Mr. Babbington?”

“Yes, I remember his telling me so – where was it he said he had known you?”

Miss Wills shook her head decisively.

“Not me. You must have been mixing me up with someone else – or he was. I’d never met him before.”

“It must be my mistake. I thought – at Gilling -”

He looked at her keenly. Miss Wills appeared quite composed.

“No,” she said.

“Did it ever occur to you, Miss Wills, that he might have been murdered, too?”

“I know you and Miss Lytton Gore think so – or rather you think so.”

“Oh – and – er – what do you think?”

“It doesn’t seem likely,” said Miss Wills.

A little baffled by Miss Wills’s clear lack of interest in the subject Sir Charles started on another tack.

“Did Sir Bartholomew mention a Mrs. de Rushbridger at all?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“She was a patient in his Home. Suffering from nervous breakdown and loss of memory.”

“He mentioned a case of lost memory,” said Miss Wills. “He said you could hypnotise a person and bring their memory back.”

“Did he, now? I wonder – could that be significant?”

Sir Charles frowned and remained lost in thought. Miss Wills said nothing.

“There’s nothing else you could tell me? Nothing about any of the guests?”

It seemed to him there was just the slightest pause before Miss Wills answered.

“No.”

“About Mrs. Dacres? Or Captain Dacres? Or Miss Sutcliffe? Or Mr. Manders?”

He watched her very intently as he pronounced each name.

Once he thought he saw the pince-nez flicker, but he could not be sure.

“I’m afraid there’s nothing I can tell you, Sir Charles.”

“Oh, well!” He stood up. “Satterthwaite will be disappointed.”

“I’m so sorry,” said Miss Wills primly.

“I’m sorry, too, for disturbing you. I expect you were busy writing.”

“I was, as a matter of fact.”

“Another play?”

“Yes. To tell you the truth, I thought of using some of the characters at the house-party at Melfort Abbey.”

“What about libel?”

“That’s quite all right, Sir Charles, I find people never recognise themselves.” She giggled. “Not if, as you said just now, one is really merciless.”

“You mean,” said Sir Charles, “that we all have an exaggerated idea of our own personalities and don’t recognise the truth if it’s sufficiently brutally portrayed. I was quite right, Miss Wills, you are a cruel woman.”

Miss Wills tittered.

“You needn’t be afraid, Sir Charles. Women aren’t usually cruel to men – unless it’s some particular man – they’re only cruel to other women.”

“Meaning you’ve got your analytical knife into some unfortunate female. Which one? Well, perhaps I can