She seemed pleasurably excited by the arrival of her visitors.
“This is very nice of you, I’m sure, Sir Charles. I’ve heard so much about you from my Violet.” (Violet! Singularly incongruous name for Miss Milray.) “You don’t know how much she admires you. It’s been most interesting for her working with you all these years. Won’t you sit down, Miss Lytton Gore? You’ll excuse my not getting up. I’ve lost the use of my limbs for many years now. The Lord’s will, and I don’t complain, and what I say is one can get used to anything. Perhaps you’d like a little refreshment after your drive down?”
Both Sir Charles and Egg disclaimed the need of refreshment, but Mrs. Milray paid no attention. She clapped her hands in an Oriental manner, and tea and biscuits made their appearance. As they nibbled and sipped, Sir Charles came to the object of their visit.
“I expect you’ve heard, Mrs. Milray, all about the tragic death of Mr. Babbington who used to be vicar here?”
The dumpling nodded its head in vigorous assent.
“Yes, indeed. I’ve read all about the exhumation in the paper. And whoever can have poisoned him I can’t imagine. A very nice man, he was, everyone liked him here—and her, too. And their little children and all.”
“It is indeed a great mystery,” said Sir Charles. “We’re all in despair about it. In fact, we wondered if you could possibly throw any light upon the matter.”
“Me? But I haven’t seen the Babbingtons—let me see—it must be over fifteen years.”
“I know, but some of us have the idea that there might be something in the past to account for his death.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what there could be. They led very quiet lives—very badly off, poor things, with all those children.”
Mrs. Milray was willing enough to reminisce, but her reminiscences seemed to shed little light on the problem they had set out to solve.
Sir Charles showed her the enlargement of a snapshot which included the Dacres, also an early portrait of Angela Sutcliffe and a somewhat blurred reproduction of Miss Wills cut from a newspaper. Mrs. Milray surveyed them all with great interest, but with no signs of recognition.
“I can’t say I remember any of them—of course it’s a long time ago. But this is a small place. There’s not much coming and going. The Agnew girls, the doctor’s daughters—they’re all married and out in the world, and our present doctor’s a bachelor—he’s got a new young partner. Then there were the old Miss Cayleys—sat in the big pew—they’re all dead many years back. And the Richardsons—he died and she went to Wales. And the village people, of course. But there’s not much change there. Violet, I expect, could tell you as much as I could. She was a young girl then and often over at the Vicarage.”
Sir Charles tried to envisage Miss Milray as a young girl and failed.
He asked Mrs. Milray if she remembered anyone of the name of Rushbridger, but the name failed to evoke any response.
Finally they took their leave.
Their next move was a scratch lunch in the baker’s shop. Sir Charles had hankerings for fleshpots elsewhere, but Egg pointed out that they might get hold of some local gossip.
“And boiled eggs and scones will do you no harm for once,” she said severely. “Men are so fussy about their food.”
“I always find eggs so depressing,” said Sir Charles meekly.
The woman who served them was communicative enough. She, too, had read of the exhumation in the paper and had been proportionately thrilled by its being “old vicar.” “I were a child at the time,” she explained. “But I remember him.”
She could not, however, tell them much about him.
After lunch they went to the church and looked through the register of births, marriages and deaths. Here again there seemed nothing hopeful or suggestive.
They came out into the churchyard and lingered. Egg read the names on the tombstones.
“What queer names there are,” she said. “Listen, here’s a whole family of Stavepennys and here’s a Mary Ann Sticklepath.”
“None of them so queer as mine,” murmured Sir Charles.
“Cartwright? I don’t think that’s a queer name at all.”
“I didn’t mean Cartwright. Cartwright’s my acting name, and I finally adopted it legally.”
“What’s your real name?”
“I couldn’t possibly tell you. It’s my guilty secret.”
“Is it as terrible as all that?”
“It’s not so much terrible as humorous.”
“Oh—tell it me.”
“Certainly not,” said Sir Charles firmly.
“Please.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“You’d laugh.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“You wouldn’t be able to help laughing.”
“Oh, please tell me. Please, please, please.”
“What a persistent creature you are, Egg. Why do you want to know?”
“Because you won’t tell me.”
“You adorable child,” said Sir Charles a little unsteadily.
“I’m not a child.”
“Aren’t you? I wonder.”
“Tell me,” whispered Egg softly.
A humorous and rueful smile twisted Sir Charles’s mouth.
“Very well, here goes. My father’s name was Mugg.”
“Not really?”
“Really and truly.”
“H’m,” said Egg. “That is a bit catastrophic. To go through life as Mugg—”
“Wouldn’t have taken me far in my career, I agree. I remember,” went on Sir Charles dreamily, “I played with the idea (I was young then) of calling myself Ludovic Castiglione—but I eventually compromised on British alliteration as Charles Cartwright.”
“Are you really Charles?”
“Yes, my godfathers and godmothers saw to that.” He hesitated, then said, “Why don’t you say Charles—and drop the Sir?”
“I might.”
“You did yesterday. When—when—you thought I was dead.”
“Oh, then.” Egg tried to make her voice nonchalant.
Sir Charles said abruptly: “Egg, somehow or other this murder business doesn’t seem real anymore. Today especially, it seems fantastic. I meant to clear the thing up before—before anything else. I’ve been superstitious about it. I’ve associated success in solving problems with—with another kind of success. Oh, damn, why do I beat about the bush? I’ve made love on the stage so often that I’m diffident about it in real life…Is it me or is it young Manders, Egg? I must know. Yesterday I thought it was me….”
“You thought right….”
“You incredible angel,” cried Sir Charles.
“Charles, Charles, you can’t kiss me in a churchyard….”
“I shall kiss you anywhere I please….”
II
“We’ve found out nothing,” said Egg later, as they were speeding back to London.
“Nonsense, we’ve found out the only thing worth finding out…What do I care about dead clergymen or dead doctors? You’re the only thing that matters…You know, my dear, I’m thirty years older than you—are you sure it doesn’t matter?”
Egg pinched his arm gently.
“Don’t be silly…I wonder if the others have found out anything?”
“They’re welcome to it,” said Sir Charles generously.
“Charles—you used to be so keen.”
But Sir Charles was no longer playing the part of the great detective.
“Well, it was my own show. Now I’ve handed over to Moustachios. It’s his business.”
“Do you think he really knows who committed the crimes? He said he did.”
“Probably hasn’t the faintest idea, but he’s got to keep up his professional reputation.”
Egg was silent. Sir Charles said:
“What are you thinking about, darling?”
“I was thinking about Miss Milray. She was so odd in her manner that evening I
told you about. She had just bought the paper about the exhumation, and she said she didn’t know what to do.”
“Nonsense,” said Sir Charles cheerfully. “That woman always knows what to do.”
“Do be serious, Charles. She sounded—worried.”
“Egg, my sweet, what do I care for Miss Milray’s worries? What do I care for anything but you and me?”
“You’d better pay some attention to the trams!” said Egg. “I don’t want to be widowed before I’m a wife.”
They arrived back at Sir Charles’s flat for tea. Miss Milray came out to meet them.
“There is a telegram for you, Sir Charles.”
“Thank you, Miss Milray.” He laughed, a nervous boyish laugh. “Look here, I must tell you our news. Miss Lytton Gore and I are going to get married.”
There was a moment’s pause, and then Miss Milray said:
“Oh! I’m sure—I’m sure you’ll be very happy.”
There was a queer note in her voice. Egg noticed it, but before she could formulate her impression Charles Cartwright had swung round to her with a quick exclamation.
“My God, Egg, look at this. It’s from Satterthwaite.”
He shoved the telegram into her hands. Egg read it, and her eyes opened wide.
Thirteen
MRS. DE RUSHBRIDGER
Before catching their train Hercule Poirot and Mr. Satterthwaite had had a brief interview with Miss Lyndon, the late Sir Bartholomew Strange’s secretary. Miss Lyndon had been very willing to help, but had had nothing of importance to tell them. Mrs. de Rushbridger was only mentioned in Sir Bartholomew’s casebook in a purely professional fashion. Sir Bartholomew had never spoken of her save in medical terms.
The two men arrived at the Sanatorium about twelve o’clock. The maid who opened the door looked excited and flushed. Mr. Satterthwaite asked first for the Matron.
“I don’t know whether she can see you this morning,” said the girl doubtfully.
Mr. Satterthwaite extracted a card and wrote a few words on it.
“Please take her this.”
They were shown into a small waiting room. In about five minutes the door opened and the Matron came in. She was looking quite unlike her usual brisk efficient self.
Mr. Satterthwaite rose.
“I hope you remember me” he said. “I came here with Sir Charles Cartwright just after the death of Sir Bartholomew Strange.”
“Yes, indeed, Mr. Satterthwaite, of course I remember; and Sir Charles asked after poor Mrs. de Rushbridger then, and it seems such a coincidence.”
“Let me introduce M. Hercule Poirot.”
Poirot bowed and the Matron responded absently. She went on:
“I can’t understand how you can have had a telegram as you say. The whole thing seems most mysterious. Surely it can’t be connected with the poor doctor’s death in any way? There must be some madman about—that’s the only way I can account for it. Having the police here and everything. It’s really been terrible.”
“The police?” said Mr. Satterthwaite, surprised.
“Yes, since ten o’clock they’ve been here.”
“The police?” said Hercule Poirot.
“Perhaps we could see Mrs. de Rushbridger now,” suggested Mr. Satterthwaite. “Since she asked us to come—”
The Matron interrupted him.
“Oh, Mr. Satterthwaite, then you don’t know!”
“Know what?” demanded Poirot sharply.
“Poor Mrs. de Rushbridger. She’s dead.”
“Dead?” cried Poirot. “Mille Tonnerres! That explains it. Yes, that explains it. I should have seen—” He broke off. “How did she die?”
“It’s most mysterious. A box of chocolates came for her—liqueur chocolates—by post. She ate one—it must have tasted horrible, but she was taken by surprise, I suppose, and she swallowed it. One doesn’t like spitting a thing out.”
“Oui, oui, and if a liquid runs suddenly down your throat, it is difficult.”
“So she swallowed it and called out and Nurse came rushing, but we couldn’t do anything. She died in about two minutes. Then doctor sent for the police, and they came and examined the chocolates. All the top layer had been tampered with, the underneath ones were all right.”
“And the poison employed?”
“They think it’s nicotine.”
“Yes,” said Poirot. “Again nicotine. What a stroke! What an audacious stroke!”
“We are too late,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “We shall never know now what she had to tell us. Unless—unless—she confided in someone?” He glanced interrogatively at the Matron.
Poirot shook his head.
“There will have been no confidences, you will find.”
“We can ask,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “One of the nurses, perhaps?”
“By all means ask,” said Poirot; but he did not sound hopeful.
Mr. Satterthwaite turned to the Matron who immediately sent for the two nurses, on day and night duty respectively, who had been in attendance on Mrs. de Rushbridger, but neither of them could add any information to that already given. Mrs. de Rushbridger had never mentioned Sir Bartholomew’s death, and they did not even know of the despatching of the telegram.
On a request from Poirot, the two men were taken to the dead woman’s room. They found Superintendent Crossfield in charge, and Mr. Satterthwaite introduced him to Poirot.
Then the two men moved over to the bed and stood looking down on the dead woman. She was about forty, dark-haired and pale. Her face was not peaceful—it still showed the agony of her death.
Mr. Satterthwaite said slowly:
“Poor soul….”
He looked across at Hercule Poirot. There was a strange expression on the little Belgian’s face. Something about it made Mr. Satterthwaite shiver….
Mr. Satterthwaite said:
“Someone knew she was going to speak, and killed her…She was killed in order to prevent her speaking….”
Poirot nodded.
“Yes, that is so.”
“She was murdered to prevent her telling us what she knew.”
“Or what she did not know…But let us not waste time…There is much to be done. There must be no more deaths. We must see to that.”
Mr. Satterthwaite asked curiously:
“Does this fit in with your idea of the murderer’s identity?”
“Yes, it fits…But I realize one thing: The murderer is more dangerous than I thought…We must be careful.”
Superintendent Crossfield followed them out of the room and learnt from them of the telegram which had been received by them. The telegram had been handed in at Melfort Post Office, and on inquiry there it was elicited that it had been handed in by a small boy. The young lady in charge remembered it, because the message had excited her very much, mentioning, as it did, Sir Bartholomew Strange’s death.
After some lunch in company with the superintendent, and after despatching a telegram to Sir Charles, the quest was resumed.
At six o’clock that evening the small boy who had handed in the telegram was found. He told his story promptly. He had been given the telegram by a man dressed in shabby clothes. The man told him that the telegram had been given him by a “loony lady” in the “House in the Park.” She had dropped it out of the window wrapped round two half-crowns. The man was afraid to be mixed up in some funny business, and was tramping in the other direction, so he had given the boy two and six and told him to keep the change.
A search would be instituted for the man. In the meantime there seemed nothing more to be done, and Poirot and Mr. Satterthwaite returned to London.
It was close on midnight when the two men arrived back in town. Egg had gone back to her mother, but Sir Charles met them, and the three men discussed the situation.
“Mon ami,” said Poirot, “be guided by me. Only one thing will solve this case—the little grey cells of the brain. To rush up and down England, to hope that this person and that will
tell us what we want to know—all such methods are amateurish and absurd. The truth can only be seen from within.”
Sir Charles looked slightly sceptical.
“What do you want to do, then?”
“I want to think. I ask of you twenty-four hours—in which to think.”
Sir Charles shook his head with a slight smile.
“Will thinking tell you what it was this woman could have said if she lived?”
“I believe so.”
“It hardly seems possible. However, M. Poirot, you must have it your own way. If you can see through this mystery, it’s more than I can. I’m beaten, and I confess it. In any case, I’ve other fish to fry.”
Perhaps he hoped to be questioned, but if so his expectation was disappointed. Mr. Satterthwaite did indeed look up alertly, but Poirot remained lost in thought.
“Well, I must be off,” said the actor. “Oh, just one thing. I’m rather worried about—Miss Wills.”
“What about her?”
“She’s gone.”
Poirot stared at him.
“Gone? Gone where?”
“Nobody knows…I was thinking things over after I got your telegram. As I told you at the time, I felt convinced that that woman knew something she hadn’t told us. I thought I’d have a last shot at getting it out of her. I drove out to her house—it was about half past nine when I got there—and asked for her. It appears she left home this morning—went up to London for the day—that’s what she said. Her people got a telegram in the evening saying she wasn’t returning for a day or so and not to worry.”
“And were they worrying?”
“I gather they were, rather. You see, she hadn’t taken any luggage with her.”
“Odd,” murmured Poirot.
“I know. It seems as though—I don’t know. I feel uneasy.”
“I warned her,” said Poirot. “I warned everyone. You remember I said to them, ‘Speak now.’”
“Yes, yes. Do you think that she, too—?”
“I have my ideas,” said Poirot. “For the moment I prefer not to discuss them.”
“First, the butler—Ellis—then Miss Wills. Where is Ellis? It’s incredible that the police have never been able to lay hands on him.”
“They have not looked for his body in the right place,” said Poirot.
Three Act Tragedy Page 17