Three Act Tragedy (14 page)

“N
ow, 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 to display all the signs of settling down. There's an air
of virtue about him. He'll be handing 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 showed in her eyes as she looked at Mr. Satterthwaite. “He and I were once—well, why deny what everybody knows? It was very pleasant while it lasted…and we're still the best of friends. I suppose that's the reason the Lytton Gore child looks at me so fiercely. She suspects I still have a
tendresse
for Charles. Have I? Perhaps I have. But at any rate I haven't yet written my memoirs describing all my affairs in detail as most of my friends seem to have done. If I did, you know, the girl wouldn't like it. She'd be shocked. Modern girls are easily shocked. Her mother wouldn't be shocked at all. You can't really shock a sweet mid-Victorian. They say so little, but always think the worst….”

Mr. Satterthwaite contented himself with saying:

“I think you are right in suspecting that Egg Lytton Gore mistrusts you.”

Miss Sutcliffe frowned.

“I'm not at all sure that I'm not a little jealous of her…we women are such cats, aren't we? Scratch, scratch, miauw, miauw, purr, purr….”

She laughed.

“Why didn't Charles come and catechize me on this business? Too much nice feeling, I suppose. The man must think
me guilty…Am I guilty, Mr. Satterthwaite? What do you think now?”

She stood up and stretched out a hand.

“All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand—”

She broke off.

“No, I'm not Lady Macbeth. Comedy's my line.”

“There seems also a certain lack of motive,” said Mr. Satterthwaite.

“True. I liked Bartholomew Strange. We were friends. I had no reason for wishing him out of the way. Because we were friends I'd rather like to take an active part in hunting down his murderer. Tell me if I can help in any way.”

“I suppose, Miss Sutcliffe, you didn't see or hear anything that might have a bearing on the crime?”

“Nothing that I haven't already told the police. The house party had only just arrived, you know. His death occurred on that first evening.”

“The butler?”

“I hardly noticed him.”

“Any peculiar behaviour on the part of the guests?”

“No. Of course that boy—what's his name? Manders turned up rather unexpectedly.”

“Did Sir Bartholomew Strange seemed surprised?”

“Yes, I think he was. He said to me just before we went in to dinner that it was an odd business, ‘a new method of gate crashing,' he called it. ‘Only,' he said, ‘it's my wall he's crashed, not my gate.'”

“Sir Bartholomew was in good spirits?”

“Very good spirits!”

“What about this secret passage you mentioned to the police?”

“I believe it led out of the library. Sir Bartholomew promised to show it to me—but of course the poor man died.”

“How did the subject come up?”

“We were discussing a recent purchase of his—an old walnut bureau. I asked if it had a secret drawer in it. I told him I adored secret drawers. It's a secret passion of mine. And he said, ‘No, there wasn't a secret drawer that he knew of—but he had got a secret passage in the house.'”

“He didn't mention a patient of his, a Mrs. de Rushbridger?”

“No.”

“Do you know a place called Gilling, in Kent?”

“Gilling? Gilling, no, I don't think I do. Why?”

“Well, you knew Mr. Babbington before, didn't you?”

“Who is Mr. Babbington?”

“The man who died, or who was killed, at the Crow's Nest.”

“Oh, the clergyman. I'd forgotten his name. No, I'd never seen him before in my life. Who told you I knew him?”

“Someone who ought to know,” said Mr. Satterthwaite boldly.

Miss Sutcliffe seemed amused.

“Dear old man, did they think I'd had an affair with him? Archdeacons are sometimes very naughty, aren't they? So why not vicars? There's the man in the barrel, isn't there? But I must clear the poor man's memory. I'd never seen him before in my life.”

And with that statement Mr. Satterthwaite was forced to rest content.

F
ive Upper Cathcart Road, Tooting, seemed an incongruous home for a satiric playwright. The room into which Sir Charles was shown had walls of a rather drab oatmeal colour with a frieze of laburnum round the top. The curtains were of rose-coloured velvet, there were a lot of photographs and china dogs, the telephone was coyly hidden by a lady with ruffled skirts, there were a great many little tables and some suspicious-looking brasswork from Birmingham via the Far East.

Miss Wills entered the room so noiselessly that Sir Charles, who was at the moment examining a ridiculously elongated pierrot doll lying across the sofa, did not hear her. Her thin voice saying, “How d'you do, Sir Charles. This is really a great pleasure,” made him spin round.

Miss Wills was dressed in a limp jumper suit which hung disconsolately on her angular form. Her stockings were slightly wrinkled, and she had on very high-heeled patent leather slippers.

Sir Charles shook hands, accepted a cigarette, and sat down on the sofa by the pierrot doll. Miss Wills sat opposite him. The light from the window caught her pince-nez and made them give off little flashes.

“Fancy you finding me out here,” said Miss Wills. “My mother will be ever so excited. She just adores the theatre—especially anything romantic. That play where you were a Prince at a University—she's often talked of it. She goes to matinées, you know, and eats chocolates—she's one of that kind. And she does love it.”

“How delightful,” said Sir Charles. “You don't know how charming it is to be remembered. The public memory is short!” He sighed.

“She'll be thrilled at meeting you,” said Miss Wills. “Miss Sutcliffe came the other day, and Mother was thrilled at meeting her.”

“Angela was here?”

“Yes. She's putting on a play of mine, you know:
Little Dog Laughed.
”

“Of course,” said Sir Charles. “I've read about it. Rather intriguing title.”

“I'm so glad you think so. Miss Sutcliffe likes it, too. It's a kind of modern version of the nursery rhyme—a lot of froth and nonsense—Hey diddle diddle and the dish and the spoon scandal. Of course, it all revolves round Miss Sutcliffe's part—everyone dances to her fiddling—that's the idea.”

Sir Charles said:

“Not bad. The world nowadays is rather like a mad nursery rhyme. And the little dog laughed to see such sport, eh?” And he thought suddenly: “Of course this woman's the Little Dog. She looks on and laughs.”

The light shifted from Miss Wills's pince-nez, and he saw her pale-blue eyes regarding him intelligently through them.

“This woman,” thought Sir Charles, “has a fiendish sense of humour.”

Aloud he said:

“I wonder if you can guess what errand has brought me here?”

“Well,” said Miss Wills archly, “I don't suppose it was only to see poor little me.”

Sir Charles registered for a moment the difference between the spoken and the written word. On paper Miss Wills was witty and cynical, in speech she was arch.

“It was really Satterthwaite put the idea into my head,” said Sir Charles. “He fancies himself as being a good judge of character.”

“He's very clever about people,” said Miss Wills. “It's rather his hobby, I should say.”

“And he is strongly of opinion that if there were anything worth noticing that night at Melfort Abbey you 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 themselves. 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 finger 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 a 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 hypnotize 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 recognize 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 recognize 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 guess. Cynthia's not beloved by her own sex.”

Miss Wills said nothing. She continued to smile—rather a catlike smile.

“Do you write your stuff or dictate it?”

“Oh, I write it and send it to be typed.”

“You ought to have a secretary.”

“Perhaps. Have you still got that clever Miss—Miss Milray, wasn't it?”

“Yes, I've got Miss Milray. She went away for a time to look after her mother in the country, but she's back again now. Most efficient woman.”

“So I should think. Perhaps a little impulsive.”

“Impulsive? Miss Milray?”

Sir Charles stared. Never in his wildest flights of fancy had he associated impulse with Miss Milray.

“Only on occasions, perhaps,” said Miss Wills.

Sir Charles shook his head.

“Miss Milray's the perfect robot. Good-bye, Miss Wills. Forgive me for bothering you, and don't forget to let the police know about that thingummybob.”

“The mark on the butler's right wrist? No, I won't forget.”

“Well, good-bye—half a sec.—did you say right wrist? You said left just now.”

“Did I? How stupid of me.”

“Well, which was it?”

Miss Wills frowned and half closed her eyes.

“Let me see. I was sitting so—and he—would you mind, Sir Charles, handing me that brass plate as though it was a vegetable dish. Left side.”

Sir Charles presented the beaten brass atrocity as directed.

“Cabbage, madam?”

“Thank you,” said Miss Wills, “I'm quite sure now. It was the left wrist, as I said first. Stupid of me.”

“No, no,” said Sir Charles. “Left and right are always puzzling.”

He said good-bye for the third time.

As he closed the door he looked back. Miss Wills was not looking at him. She was standing where he had left her. She was gazing at the fire, and on her lips was a smile of satisfied malice.

Sir Charles was startled.

“That woman knows something,” he said to himself. “I'll swear she knows something. And she won't say…But what the devil is it she knows?”