Three Act Tragedy

“What did you think of Dr. MacDougal’s evidence? Frightfully technical, and all that – close description of the organs – but didn’t it strike you that behind all that bombardment of words he was hedging? What he said amounted to this: that there was nothing to show death had not arisen from natural causes. He didn’t say it was the result of natural causes.”

“Aren’t you splitting hairs a little, my dear?”

“The point is that he did – he was puzzled, but he had nothing to go upon, so he had to take refuge in medical caution. What did Sir Bartholomew Strange think?”

Mr. Satterthwaite repeated some of the physician’s dictums.

“Pooh-poohed it, did he?” said Egg thoughtfully. “Of course, he’s a cautious man – I suppose a Harley Street big bug has to be.”

“There was nothing in the cocktail glass but gin and vermouth,” Mr. Satterthwaite reminded her.

“That seems to settle it. All the same, something that happened after the inquest made me wonder – ”

“Something Sir Bartholomew said to you?”

Mr. Satterthwaite began to feel a pleasant curiosity.

“Not to me – to Oliver. Oliver Manders – he was at dinner that night, but perhaps you don’t remember him.”

“Yes, I remember him very well. Is he a great friend of yours?”

“Used to be. Now we scrap most of the time. He’s gone into his uncle’s office in the city, and he’s getting – well, a bit oily, if you know what I mean. Always talks of chucking it and being a journalist – he writes rather well. But I don’t think it’s any more than talk now. He wants to get rich. I think everybody is rather disgusting about money, don’t you, Mr. Satterthwaite?”

Her youth came home to him then – the crude, arrogant childishness of her.

“My dear,” he said, “so many people are disgusting about so many things.”

“Most people are swine, of course,” agreed Egg cheerfully. “That’s why I’m really cut up about old Mr. Babbington. Because you see, he really was rather a pet. He prepared me for confirmation and all that, and though of course a lot of that business is all bunkum, he really was rather sweet about it. You see, Mr. Satterthwaite, I really believe in Christianity – not like Mother does, with little books and early service, and things – but intelligently and as a matter of history. The Church is all clotted up with the Pauline tradition – in fact the Church is a mess – but Christianity itself is all right. That’s why I can’t be a communist like Oliver. In practice our beliefs would work out much the same, things in common and ownership by all, but the difference – well, I needn’t go into that. But the Babbingtons really were Christians; they didn’t poke and pry and condemn, and they were never unkind about people or things. They were pets – and there was Robin… ”

“Robin?”

“Their son… He was out in India and got killed… I – I had rather a pash on Robin… ”

Egg blinked. Her gaze went out to sea…

Then her attention returned to Mr. Satterthwaite and the present.

“So, you see, I feel rather strongly about this. Supposing it wasn’t a natural death… ”

“My dear child!”

“Well, it’s damned odd! You must admit it’s damned odd.”

“But surely you yourself have just practically admitted that the Babbingtons hadn’t an enemy in the world.”

“That’s what’s so queer about it. I can’t think of any conceivable motive… ”

“Fantastic! There was nothing in the cocktail.”

“Perhaps someone jabbed him with a hypodermic.”

“Containing the arrow poison of the South America Indians,” suggested Mr. Satterthwaite, gently ridiculing.

Egg grinned.

“That’s it. The good old untraceable stuff. Oh, well, you’re all very superior about it. Some day, perhaps, you’ll find out we are right.”

“We?”

“Sir Charles and I.” She flushed slightly.

Mr. Satterthwaite thought in the words and metre of his generation when Quotations for All Occasions was to be found in every bookcase.

“Of more than twice her years,

Seam’d with an ancient swordcut on the cheek,

And bruised and bronzed, she lifted up her eyes

And loved him, with that love which was her doom.”

He felt a little ashamed of himself for thinking in quotations – Tennyson, too, was very little thought of nowadays. Besides, though Sir Charles was bronzed he was not scarred, and Egg Lytton Gore, though doubtless capable of a healthy passion, did not look at all likely to perish of love and drift about rivers on a barge. There was nothing of the lily maid of Astolat about her.

“Except,” thought Mr. Satterthwaite, “her youth… ”

Girls were always attracted to middle-aged men with interesting pasts. Egg seemed to be no exception to this rule.

“Why hasn’t he ever married?” she asked abruptly.

“Well… ” Mr. Satterthwaite paused. His own answer, put bluntly, would have been, “Caution,” but he realised that such a word would be unacceptable to Egg Lytton Gore.

Sir Charles Cartwright had had plenty of affairs with women, actresses and others, but he had always managed to steer clear of matrimony. Egg was clearly seeking for a more romantic explanation.

“That girl who died of consumption – some actress, name began with an M – wasn’t he suppose to be very fond of her?”

Mr. Satterthwaite remembered the lady in question. Rumour had coupled Charles Cartwright’s name with hers, but only very slightly, and Mr. Satterthwaite did not for a moment believe that Sir Charles had remained unmarried in order to be faithful to her memory. He conveyed as much tactfully.

“I suppose he’s had lots of affairs,” said Egg.

“Er – h’m – probably,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, feeling Victorian.

“I like men to have affairs,” said Egg. “It shows they’re not queer or anything.”

Mr. Satterthwaite’s Victorianism suffered a further pang. He was at a loss for a reply. Egg did not notice his discomfiture. She went on musingly.

“You know, Sir Charles is really cleverer than you’d think. He poses a lot, of course, dramatises himself; but behind all that he’s got brains. He’s far better sailing a boat than you’d ever think, to hear him talk. You’d think, to listen to him, that it was all pose, but it isn’t. It’s the same about this business. You think it’s all done for effect – that he wants to play the part of the great detective. All I say is: I think he’d play it rather well.”

“Possibly,” agreed Mr. Satterthwaite.

The inflection of his voice showed his feelings clearly enough. Egg pounced on them and expressed them in words.

“But your view is that ‘Death of a Clergyman’ isn’t a thriller. It’s merely ‘Regrettable Incident at a Dinner Party.’ Purely a social catastrophe. What did M. Poirot think? He ought to know.”

“M. Poirot advised us to wait for the analysis of the cocktail; but in his opinion everything was quite all right.”

“Oh, well,” said Egg, “he’s getting old. He’s a back number.” Mr. Satterthwaite winced. Egg went on, unconscious of brutality: “Come home and have tea with Mother. She likes you. She said so.”

Delicately flattered, Mr. Satterthwaite accepted the invitation.

On arrival Egg volunteered to ring up Sir Charles and explain the non-appearance of his guest.

Mr. Satterthwaite sat down in the tiny sitting room with its faded chintzes and its well-polished pieces of old furniture. It was a Victorian room, what Mr. Satterthwaite called in his own mind a lady’s room, and he approved of it.

His conversation with Lady Mary was agreeable, nothing brilliant, but pleasantly chatty. They spoke of Sir Charles. Did Mr. Satterthwaite know him well? Not intimately, Mr. Satterthwaite said. He had a financial interest in