Three Act Tragedy. Agatha Christie
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and here, I suppose, she’s a kind of glorified housekeeper. Runs this place like clockwork. And now, if you please, she’s going to leave.’
‘Why?’
‘She says’—Sir Charles rubbed his nose dubiously—‘she says she’s got an invalid mother. Personally I don’t believe it. That kind of woman never had a mother at all. Spontaneously generated from a dynamo. No, there’s something else.’
‘Quite probably,’ said Sir Bartholomew, ‘people have been talking.’
‘Talking?’ The actor stared. ‘Talking—what about?’
‘My dear Charles. You know what talking means.’
‘You mean talking about her—and me? With that face? And at her age?’
‘She’s probably under fifty.’
‘I suppose she is.’ Sir Charles considered the matter. ‘But seriously, Tollie, have you noticed her face? It’s got two eyes, a nose and a mouth, but it’s not what you would call a face—not a female face. The most scandal-loving old cat in the neighbourhood couldn’t seriously connect sexual passion with a face like that.’
‘You underrate the imagination of the British spinster.’
Sir Charles shook his head.
‘I don’t believe it. There’s a kind of hideous respectability about Miss Milray that even a British spinster must recognize. She is virtue and respectability personified—and a damned useful woman. I always choose my secretaries plain as sin.’
‘Wise man.’
Sir Charles remained deep in thought for some minutes. To distract him, Sir Bartholomew asked: ‘Who’s coming this afternoon?’
‘Angie, for one.’
‘Angela Sutcliffe? That’s good.’
Mr Satterthwaite leaned forward interestedly, keen to know the composition of the house-party. Angela Sutcliffe was a well-known actress, no longer young, but with a strong hold on the public and celebrated for her wit and charm. She was sometimes spoken of as Ellen Terry’s successor.
‘Then there are the Dacres.’
Again Mr Satterthwaite nodded to himself. Mrs Dacres was Ambrosine, Ltd, that successful dressmaking establishment. You saw it on programmes—‘Miss Blank’s dresses in the first act by Ambrosine Ltd, Brook Street.’ Her husband, Captain Dacres, was a dark horse in his own racing parlance. He spent a lot of time on race courses—had ridden himself in the Grand National in years gone by. There had been some trouble—nobody knew exactly—though rumours had been spread about. There had been no inquiry—nothing overt, but somehow at mention of Freddie Dacres people’s eyebrows went up a little.
‘Then there’s Anthony Astor, the playwright.’
‘Of course,’ said Mr Satterthwaite. ‘She wrote One-Way Traffic. I saw it twice. It made a great hit.’
He rather enjoyed showing that he knew that Anthony Astor was a woman.
‘That’s right,’ said Sir Charles. ‘I forget what her real name is—Wills, I think. I’ve only met her once. I asked her to please Angela. That’s the lot—of the house-party, I mean.’
‘And the locals?’ asked the doctor.
‘Oh, the locals! Well, there are the Babbingtons—he’s the parson, quite a good fellow, not too parsonical, and his wife’s a really nice woman. Lectures me on gardening. They’re coming—and Lady Mary and Egg. That’s all. Oh, yes, there’s a young fellow called Manders, he’s a journalist, or something. Good-looking young fellow. That completes the party.’
Mr Satterthwaite was a man of methodical nature. He counted heads.
‘Miss Sutcliffe, one, the Dacres, three, Anthony Astor, four, Lady Mary and her daughter, six, the parson and his wife, eight, the young fellow nine, ourselves twelve. Either you or Miss Milray must have counted wrong, Sir Charles.’
‘It couldn’t be Miss Milray,’ said Sir Charles with assurance. ‘That woman’s never wrong. Let me see: Yes, by Jove, you’re right. I have missed out one guest. He’d slipped my memory.’
He chuckled. ‘Wouldn’t be best pleased at that, either. The fellow is the most conceited little devil I ever met.’
Mr Satterthwaite’s eyes twinkled. He had always been of the opinion that the vainest men in creation were actors. He did not exempt Sir Charles Cartwright. This instance of the pot calling the kettle black amused him.
‘Who is the egoist?’ he asked.
‘Rum little beggar,’ said Sir Charles. ‘Rather a celebrated little beggar, though. You may have heard of him. Hercule Poirot. He’s a Belgian.’
‘The detective,’ said Mr Satterthwaite. ‘I have met him. Rather a remarkable personage.’
‘He’s a character,’ said Sir Charles.
‘I’ve never met him,’ said Sir Bartholomew, ‘but I’ve heard a good deal about him. He retired some time ago, though, didn’t he? Probably most of what I’ve heard is legend. Well, Charles, I hope we shan’t have a crime this weekend.’
‘Why? Because we’ve got a detective in the house? Rather putting the cart before the horse, aren’t you, Tollie?’
‘Well, it’s by way of being a theory of mine.’
‘What is your theory, doctor?’ asked Mr Satterthwaite.
‘That events come to people—not people to events. Why do some people have exciting lives and other people dull ones? Because of their surroundings? Not at all. One man may travel to the ends of the earth and nothing will happen to him. There will be a massacre a week before he arrives, and an earthquake the day after he leaves, and the boat that he nearly took will be shipwrecked. And another man may live at Balham and travel to the City every day, and things will happen to him. He will be mixed up with blackmailing gangs and beautiful girls and motor bandits. There are people with a tendency to shipwrecks—even if they go on a boat on an ornamental lake something will happen to it. In the same way men like your Hercule Poirot don’t have to look for crime—it comes to them.’
‘In that case,’ said Mr Satterthwaite, ‘perhaps it is as well that Miss Milray is joining us, and that we are not sitting down thirteen to dinner.’
‘Well,’ said Sir Charles handsomely, ‘you can have your murder, Tollie, if you’re so keen on it. I make only one stipulation—that I shan’t be the corpse.’
And, laughing, the three men went into the house.
The principal interest of Mr Satterthwaite’s life was people.
He was on the whole more interested in women than men. For a manly man, Mr Satterthwaite knew far too much about women. There was a womanish strain in his character which lent him insight into the feminine mind. Women all his life had confided in him, but they had never taken him seriously. Sometimes he felt a little bitter about this. He was, he felt, always in the stalls watching the play, never on the stage taking part in the drama. But in truth the role of onlooker suited him very well.
This evening, sitting in the large room giving on to the terrace, cleverly decorated by a modern firm to resemble a ship’s cabin de luxe, he was principally interested in the exact shade of hair dye attained by Cynthia Dacres. It was an entirely new tone—straight from Paris, he suspected—a curious and rather pleasing effect of greenish bronze. What Mrs Dacres really looked