Three Act Tragedy (11 page)

“No.”

“He never mentioned it at all?”

“I don't think so.”

“Do you think—it's difficult for you to tell, not knowing him well—but do you think he had anything on his mind?”

“He seemed in very good spirits—even amused by something—some private joke of his own. He told me at dinner that night that he was going to spring a surprise on me.”

“Oh, he did, did he?”

On his way home, Mr. Satterthwaite pondered that statement.

What had been the surprise Sir Bartholomew had intended to spring on his guests?

Would it, when it came, have been as amusing as he pretended?

Or did that gay manner mask a quiet but indomitable purpose? Would anyone ever know?

“F
rankly,” said Sir Charles, “are we any forrader?”

It was a council of war. Sir Charles, Mr. Satterthwaite and Egg Lytton Gore were sitting in the Ship room. A fire burned in the grate, and outside an equinoctial gale was howling.

Mr. Satterthwaite and Egg answered the question simultaneously.

“No,” said Mr. Satterthwaite.

“Yes,” said Egg.

Sir Charles looked from one to the other of them. Mr. Satterthwaite indicated gracefully that the lady should speak first.

Egg was silent a moment or two, collecting her ideas.

“We
are
further on,” she said at last. “We are further on because we haven't found out anything. That sounds nonsense, but it isn't. What I mean is that we had certain vague sketchy ideas; we know now that certain of those ideas are definitely washouts.”

“Progress by elimination,” said Sir Charles.

“That's it.”

Mr. Satterthwaite cleared his throat. He liked to define things.

“The idea of gain we can now put definitely away,” he said. “There does not seem to be anybody who (in detective story parlance) could benefit by Stephen Babbington's death. Revenge seems equally out of the question. Apart from his naturally amiable and peace-loving disposition, I doubt if he were
important
enough to make enemies. So we are back at our last rather sketchy idea—fear. By the death of Stephen Babbington, someone gains security.”

“That's rather well put,” said Egg.

Mr. Satterthwaite looked modestly pleased with himself. Sir Charles looked a little annoyed. His was the star part, not Satterthwaite's.

“The point is,” said Egg, “what are we going to do next—actually
do,
I mean. Are we going to sleuth people, or what? Are we going to disguise ourselves and follow them?”

“My dear child,” said Sir Charles, “I always did set my face against playing old men in beards, and I'm not going to begin now.”

“Then what—?” began Egg.

But she was interrupted. The door opened, and Temple announced:

“Mr. Hercule Poirot.” M. Poirot walked in with a beaming face and greeted three highly astonished people.

“It is permitted,” he said with a twinkle, “that I assist at this conference? I am right, am I not—it is a conference?”

“My dear fellow, we're delighted to see you.” Sir Charles, re
covering from his surprise, shook his guest warmly by the hand and pushed him into a large armchair. “Where have you sprung from so suddenly?”

“I went to call upon my good friend Mr. Satterthwaite in London. They tell me he is away—in Cornwall.
Eh bien,
it leaps to the eye where he has gone. I take the first train to Loomouth, and here I am.”

“Yes,” said Egg. “But why have you come?”

“I mean,” she went on, flushing a little as she realized the possible discourtesy of her words, “you have come for some particular reason?”

“I have come,” said Hercule Poirot, “to admit an error.”

With an engaging smile he turned to Sir Charles and spread out his hands in a foreign gesture.

“Monsieur, it was in this very room that you declared yourself not satisfied. And I—I thought it was your dramatic instinct—I said to myself, he is a great actor, at all costs he must have drama. It seemed, I will admit it, incredible that a harmless old gentleman should have died anything but a natural death. Even now I do not see how poison could have been administered to him, nor can I guess at any motive. It seems absurd—fantastic. And yet—since then, there has been another death, a death under similar circumstances. One cannot attribute it to coincidence. No, there must be a link between the two. And so, Sir Charles, I have come to you to apologize—to say I, Hercule Poirot, was wrong, and to ask you to admit me to your councils.”

Sir Charles cleared his throat rather nervously. He looked a little embarrassed.

“That's extraordinarily handsome of you, M. Poirot. I don't know—taking up a lot of your time—I—”

He stopped, somewhat at a loss. His eyes consulted Mr. Satterthwaite.

“It is very good of you—” began Mr. Satterthwaite.

“No, no, it is not good of me. It is the curiosity—and, yes, the hurt to my pride. I must repair my fault. My time—that is nothing—why voyage after all? The language may be different, but everywhere human nature is the same. But of course if I am not welcome, if you feel that I intrude—”

Both men spoke at once.

“No, indeed.”

“Rather not.”

Poirot turned his eyes to the girl.

“And Mademoiselle?”

For a minute or two Egg was silent, and on all three men the same impression was produced.
Egg did not want the assistance of M. Poirot
….

Mr. Satterthwaite thought he knew why. This was the private ploy of Charles Cartwright and Egg Lytton Gore. Mr. Satterthwaite had been admitted—on sufferance—on the clear understanding that he was a negligible third party. But Hercule Poirot was different. His would be the leading rôle. Perhaps, even, Sir Charles might retire in his favour. And then Egg's plans would come to naught.

He watched the girl, sympathizing with her predicament. These men did not understand, but he, with his semi-feminine sensitiveness, realized her dilemma. Egg was fighting for her happiness….

What would she say?

After all what could she say? How could she speak the thoughts
in her mind? “
Go away—go away—your coming may spoil everything—I don't want you here
….”

Egg Lytton Gore said the only thing she could say.

“Of course,” she said with a little smile. “We'd love to have you.”

“G
ood,” said Poirot. “We are colleagues.
Eh bien,
you will put me, if you please,
au courant
of the situation.”

He listened with close attention whilst Mr. Satterthwaite outlined the steps they had taken since returning to England. Mr. Satterthwaite was a good narrator. He had the faculty of creating an atmosphere, of painting a picture. His description of the Abbey, of the servants, of the Chief Constable was admirable. Poirot was warm in his appreciation of the discovery by Sir Charles of the unfinished letters under the gas fire.

“
Ah, mais c'est magnifique, ça!
” he exclaimed ecstatically. “The deduction, the reconstruction—perfect! You should have been a great detective, Sir Charles, instead of a great actor.”

Sir Charles received these plaudits with becoming modesty—his own particular brand of modesty. He had not received compliments on his stage performances for many years without perfecting a manner of acknowledging them.

“Your observation, too, it was very just,” said Poirot, turning to Mr. Satterthwaite. “That point of yours about his sudden familiarity with the butler.”

“Do you think there is anything in this Mrs. de Rushbridger idea?” asked Sir Charles eagerly.

“It is an idea. It suggests—well, it suggests several things, does it not?”

Nobody was quite sure about the several things, but nobody liked to say so, so there was merely an assenting murmur.

Sir Charles took up the tale next. He described his and Egg's visit to Mrs. Babbington and its rather negative result.

“And now you're up to date,” he said. “You know what we do. Tell us: how does it all strike you?”

He leaned forward, boyishly eager.

Poirot was silent for some minutes. The other three watched him.

He said at last:

“Can you remember at all, mademoiselle, what type of port glass Sir Bartholomew had on his table?”

Sir Charles interposed just as Egg was shaking her head vexedly.

“I can tell you that.”

He got up and went to a cupboard, where he took out some heavy cut glass sherry glasses.

“They were a slightly different shape, of course—more rounded—proper port shape. He got them at old Lammersfield's sale—a whole set of table glass. I admired them, and as there were more than he needed, he passed some of them onto me. They're good, aren't they?”

Poirot took the glass and turned it about in his hand.

“Yes,” he said. “They are fine specimens. I thought something of that kind had been used.”

“Why?” cried Egg.

Poirot merely smiled at her.

“Yes,” he went on, “the death of Sir Bartholomew Strange could be explained easily enough; but the death of Stephen Babbington is more difficult. Ah, if only it had been the other way about!”

“What do you mean, the other way about?” asked Mr. Satterthwaite.

Poirot turned to him.

“Consider, my friend. Sir Bartholomew is a celebrated doctor. There might be many reasons for the death of a celebrated doctor. A doctor knows secrets, my friend, important secrets. A doctor has certain powers. Imagine a patient on the borderline of sanity. A word from the doctor, and he will be shut away from the world—what a temptation to an unbalanced brain! A doctor may have suspicions about the sudden death of one of his patients—oh, yes, we can find plenty of motives for the death of a doctor.

“Now, as I say, if only it had been the other way about. If Sir Bartholomew Strange had died
first
and then Stephen Babbington. For Stephen Babbington might have seen something—might have suspected something about the first death.”

He sighed and then resumed.

“But one cannot have a case as one would like to have it. One must take a case as it is. Just one little idea I should like to suggest. I suppose it is not possible that Stephen Babbington's death was an accident—that the poison (if poison there was) was intended for Sir
Bartholomew Strange, and that, by mistake, the wrong man was killed.”

“That's an ingenious idea,” said Sir Charles. His face, which had brightened, fell again. “But I don't believe it will work. Babbington came into this room about four minutes before he was taken ill. During that time the only thing that passed his lips was half a cocktail—there was nothing in that cocktail—”

Poirot interrupted him.

“That you have already told me—but suppose, for the sake of argument, that there was something in that cocktail. Could it have been intended for Sir Bartholomew Strange and did Mr. Babbington drink it by mistake?”

Sir Charles shook his head.

“Nobody who knew Tollie at all well would have tried poisoning him in a cocktail.”

“Why?”

“Because he never drank them.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

Poirot made a gesture of annoyance.

“Ah—this business—it goes all wrong. It does not make sense….”

“Besides,” went on Sir Charles, “I don't see how any one glass could have been mistaken for another—or anything of that kind. Temple carried them round on a tray and everyone helped themselves to any glass they fancied.”

“True,” murmured Poirot. “One cannot force a cocktail like one forces a card. What is she like, this Temple of yours? She is the maid who admitted me tonight—yes?”

“That's right. I've had her three or four years—nice steady girl—knows her work. I don't know where she came from—Miss Milray would know all about that.”

“Miss Milray, that is your secretary? The tall woman—somewhat of the Grenadier?”

“Very much of the Grenadier,” agreed Sir Charles.

“I have dined with you before on various occasions, but I do not think I met her until that night.”

“No, she doesn't usually dine with us. It was a question of thirteen, you see.”

Sir Charles explained the circumstances, to which Poirot listened very attentively.

“It was her own suggestion that she should be present? I see.”

He remained lost in thought a minute, then he said:

“Might I speak to this parlourmaid of yours, this Temple?”

“Certainly, my dear fellow.”

Sir Charles pressed a bell. It was answered promptly.

“You rang, sir?”

Temple was a tall girl of thirty-two or three. She had a certain smartness—her hair was well brushed and glossy, but she was not pretty. Her manner was calm and efficient.

“M. Poirot wants to ask you a few questions,” said Sir Charles.

Temple transferred her superior gaze to Poirot.

“We are talking of the night when Mr. Babbington died here,” said Poirot. “You remember that night?”

“Oh, yes, sir.”

“I want to know exactly how cocktails were served.”

“I beg your pardon, sir.”

“I want to know about the cocktails. Did you mix them?”

“No, sir, Sir Charles likes doing that himself. I brought in the bottles—the vermouth, the gin, and all that.”

“Where did you put them?”

“On the table there, sir.”

She indicated a table by the wall.

“The tray with the glasses stood here, sir. Sir Charles, when he had finished mixing and shaking, poured out the cocktails into the glasses. Then I took the tray round and handed it to the ladies and gentlemen.”

“Were all the cocktails on the tray you handed?”

“Sir Charles gave one to Miss Lytton Gore, sir; he was talking to her at the time, and he took his own. And Mr. Satterthwaite”—her eyes shifted to him for a moment—“came and fetched one for a lady—Miss Wills, I think it was.”

“Quite right,” said Mr. Satterthwaite.

“The others I handed, sir; I think everyone took one except Sir Bartholomew.”

“Will you be so very obliging, Temple, as to repeat the performance. Let us put cushions for some of the people. I stood here, I remember—Miss Sutcliffe was there.”

With Mr. Satterthwaite's help, the scene was reconstructed. Mr. Satterthwaite was observant. He remembered fairly well where everyone had been in the room. Then Temple did her round. They ascertained that she had started with Mrs. Dacres, gone onto Miss Sutcliffe and Poirot, and had then come to Mr. Babbington, Lady Mary and Mr. Satterthwaite, who had been sitting together.

This agreed with Mr. Satterthwaite's recollection.

Finally Temple was dismissed.

“Pah,” cried Poirot. “It does not make sense. Temple is the
last person to handle those cocktails, but it was impossible for her to tamper with them in any way, and, as I say, one cannot force a cocktail on a particular person.”

“It's instinctive to take the one nearest to you,” said Sir Charles.

“Possibly that might work by handing the tray to the person first—but even then it would be very uncertain. The glasses are close together; one does not look particularly nearer than another. No, no, such a haphazard method could not be adopted. Tell me, Mr. Satterthwaite, did Mr. Babbington put his cocktail down, or did he retain it in his hand?”

“He put it down on this table.”

“Did anyone come near that table after he had done so?”

“No. I was the nearest person to him, and I assure you I did not tamper with it in any way—even if I could have done so unobserved.”

Mr. Satterthwaite spoke rather stiffly. Poirot hastened to apologize.

“No, no, I am not making an accusation—
quelle idée!
But I want to be very sure of my facts. According to the analysis there was nothing out of the way in that cocktail—now it seems that, apart from that analysis there
could
have been nothing put in it. The same results from two different tests. But Mr. Babbington ate or drank nothing else, and if he was poisoned by pure nicotine, death would have resulted very rapidly. You see where that leads us?”

“Nowhere, damn it all,” said Sir Charles.

“I would not say that—no, I would not say that. It suggests a very monstrous idea—which I hope and trust cannot be true. No, of course it is not true—the death of Sir Bartholomew proves that…And yet—”

He frowned, lost in thought. The others watched him curiously. He looked up.

“You see my point, do you not? Mrs. Babbington was not at Melfort Abbey, therefore Mrs. Babbington is cleared of suspicion.”

“Mrs. Babbington—but no one has even dreamed of suspecting her.”

Poirot smiled beneficently.

“No? It is a curious thing that. The idea occurred to me at once—but at once. If the poor gentleman is not poisoned by the cocktail, then he must have been poisoned a very few minutes before entering the house. What way could there be? A capsule? Something, perhaps, to prevent indigestion. But who, then, could tamper with that? Only a wife. Who might, perhaps, have a motive that no one outside could possibly suspect? Again a wife.”

“But they were devoted to each other,” cried Egg indignantly. “You don't understand a bit.”

Poirot smiled kindly at her.

“No. That is valuable. You know, but I do not. I see the facts unbiased by any preconceived notions. And let me tell you something, mademoiselle—in the course of my experience I have known five cases of wives murdered by devoted husbands, and twenty-two of husbands murdered by devoted wives.
Les femmes,
they obviously keep up appearances better.”

“I think you're perfectly horrid,” said Egg. “I know the Babbingtons are not like that. It's—it's monstrous!”

“Murder is monstrous, mademoiselle,” said Poirot, and there was a sudden sternness in his voice.

He went on in a lighter tone.

“But I—who see only the facts—agree that Mrs. Babbington
did not do this thing. You see, she was not at Melfort Abbey. No, as Sir Charles has already said, the guilt must lie on a person who was present on both occasions—one of the seven on your list.”

There was a silence.

“And how do you advise us to act?” asked Satterthwaite.

“You have doubtless already your plan?” suggested Poirot.

Sir Charles cleared his throat.

“The only feasible thing seems to be a process of elimination,” he said. “My idea was to take each person on that list and consider them guilty until they are proved innocent. I mean that we are to feel convinced ourselves that there
is
a connection between that person and Stephen Babbington, and we are to use all our ingenuity to find out what that connection can be. If we find no connection, then we pass onto the next person.”

“It is good psychology, that,” approved Poirot. “And your methods?”

“That we have not yet had time to discuss. We should welcome your advice on that point, M. Poirot. Perhaps you yourself—”

Poirot held up a hand.

“My friend, do not ask me to do anything of an active nature. It is my lifelong conviction that any problem is best solved by thought. Let me hold what is called, I believe, the watching brief. Continue your investigations which Sir Charles is so ably directing—”

“And what about me?” thought Mr. Satterthwaite. “These actors! Always in the limelight playing the star part!”

“You will, perhaps, from time to time require what we may describe as Counsel's opinion. Me, I am the Counsel.”

He smiled at Egg.

“Does that strike you as the sense, mademoiselle?”

“Excellent,” said Egg. “I'm sure your experience will be very useful to us.”

Her face looked relieved. She glanced at her watch and gave an exclamation.

“I must go home. Mother will have a fit.”

“I'll drive you home,” said Sir Charles.

They went out together.