She shook her head, unable to express herself further.
Mr Satterthwaite felt curiously intimate. He said quietly and plainly:
‘All the same, Lady Mary, you wouldn’t like your girl to marry a man twice her own age.’
Her answer surprised him.
‘It might be safer so. If you do that, at least you know where you are. At that age a man’s follies and sins are definitely behind him; they are not—still to come…’
Before Mr Satterthwaite could say any more, Egg rejoined them.
‘You’ve been a long time, darling,’ said her mother.
‘I was talking to Sir Charles, my sweet. He’s all alone in his glory.’ She turned reproachfully to Mr Satterthwaite. ‘You didn’t tell me the house-party had flitted.’
‘They went back yesterday—all but Sir Bartholomew Strange. He was staying till tomorrow, but he was recalled to London by an urgent telegram this morning. One of his patients was in a critical condition.’
‘It’s a pity,’ said Egg. ‘Because I meant to study the house-party. I might have got a clue.’
‘A clue to what, darling?’
‘Mr Satterthwaite knows. Oh, well, it doesn’t matter. Oliver’s still here. We’ll rope him in. He’s got brains when he likes.’
When Mr Satterthwaite arrived back at Crow’s Nest he found his host sitting on the terrace overlooking the sea.
‘Hullo, Satterthwaite. Been having tea with the Lytton Gores?’
‘Yes. You don’t mind?’
‘Of course not. Egg telephoned…Odd sort of girl, Egg…’
‘Attractive,’ said Mr Satterthwaite.
‘H’m, yes, I suppose she is.’
He got up and walked a few aimless steps.
‘I wish to God,’ he said suddenly and bitterly, ‘that I’d never come to this cursed place.’
Chapter 5
Flight From A Lady
Mr Satterthwaite thought to himself: ‘He’s got it badly.’
He felt a sudden pity for his host. At the age of fifty-two, Charles Cartwright, the gay debonair breaker of hearts, had fallen in love. And, as he himself realized, his case was doomed to disappointment. Youth turns to youth.
‘Girls don’t wear their hearts on their sleeves,’ thought Mr Satterthwaite. ‘Egg makes a great parade of her feeling for Sir Charles. She wouldn’t if it really meant anything. Young Manders is the one.’
Mr Satterthwaite was usually fairly shrewd in his assumptions.
Still, there was probably one factor that he did not take into account, because he was unaware of it himself. That was the enhanced value placed by age on youth. To Mr Satterthwaite, an elderly man, the fact that Egg might prefer a middle-aged man to a young one was frankly incredible. Youth was to him so much the most magical of all gifts.
He felt strengthened in his beliefs when Egg rang up after dinner and demanded permission to bring Oliver along and ‘have a consultation’.
Certainly a handsome lad, with his dark, heavy-lidded eyes and easy grace of movement. He had, it seemed, permitted himself to be brought—a tribute to Egg’s energy; but his general attitude was lazily sceptical.
‘Can’t you talk her out of it, sir?’ he said to Sir Charles. ‘It’s this appallingly healthy bucolic life she leads that makes her so energetic. You know, Egg, you really are detestably hearty. And your tastes are childish—crime—sensation—and all that bunk.’
‘You’re a sceptic, Manders?’
‘Well, sir, really. That dear old bleating fellow. It’s fantastic to think of anything else but natural causes.’
‘I expect you’re right,’ said Sir Charles.
Mr Satterthwaite glanced at him. What part was Charles Cartwright playing tonight. Not the ex-Naval man—not the international detective. No, some new and unfamiliar rôle.
It came as a shock to Mr Satterthwaite when he realized what that rôle was. Sir Charles was playing second fiddle. Second fiddle to Oliver Manders.
He sat back with his head in shadow watching those two, Egg and Oliver, as they disputed—Egg hotly, Oliver languidly.
Sir Charles looked older than usual—old and tired.
More than once Egg appealed to him—hotly and confidently—but his response was lacking.
It was eleven o’clock when they left. Sir Charles went out on the terrace with them and offered the loan of an electric torch to help them down the stony path.
But there was no need of a torch. It was a beautiful moonlit night. They set off together, their voices growing fainter as they descended.
Moonlight or no moonlight, Mr Sattherthwaite was not going to risk a chill. He returned to the Ship-room. Sir Charles stayed out on the terrace a little while longer.
When he came in he latched the window behind him, and striding to a side table poured himself out a whisky and soda.
‘Satterthwaite,’ he said, ‘I’m leaving here tomorrow for good.’
‘What?’ cried Mr Satterthwaite, astonished.
A kind of melancholy pleasure at the effect he had produced showed for a minute on Charles Cartwright’s face.
‘It’s the Only Thing To Do,’ he said, obviously speaking in capital letters. ‘I shall sell this place. What it has meant to me no one will ever know.’ His voice dropped, lingeringly…effectively.
After an evening of second fiddle, Sir Charles’s egoism was taking its revenge. This was the great Renunciation Scene, so often played by him in sundry and divers dramas. Giving Up the Other Man’s Wife, Renouncing the Girl he Loved.
There was a brave flippancy in his voice as he went on.
‘Cut your losses—it’s the only way…Youth to youth…They’re made for each other, those two…I shall clear out…’
‘Where to?’ asked Mr Satterthwaite.
The actor made a careless gesture.
‘Anywhere. What does it matter?’ He added with a slight change of voice, ‘Probably Monte Carlo.’ And then, retrieving what his sensitive taste could not but feel to be a slight anticlimax, ‘In the heart of the desert or the heart of the crowd—what does it matter? The inmost core of man is solitary—alone. I have always been—a lonely soul…’
It was clearly an exit line.
He nodded to Mr Satterthwaite and left the room.
Mr Satterthwaite got up and prepared to follow his host to bed.
‘But it won’t be the heart of a desert,’ he thought to himself with a slight chuckle.
On the following morning Sir Charles begged Mr Satterthwaite to forgive him if he went up to town that day.
‘Don’t cut your visit short, my dear fellow. You were staying till tomorrow, and I know you’re going on to the Harbertons at Tavistock. The car will take you there. What I feel is that, having come to my decision, I mustn’t look back. No, I mustn’t look back.’
Sir Charles squared his shoulders with manly resolution, wrung Mr Satterthwaite’s hand with fervour and delivered him over to the capable Miss Milray.
Miss Milray seemed prepared to deal with the situation as she had dealt with any other. She expressed no surprise or emotion at Sir Charles’s overnight decision. Nor could Mr Satterthwaite draw her out on the point. Neither sudden deaths nor sudden changes of plan could excite Miss Milray. She accepted whatever happened as a fact and proceeded to cope with it in an efficient way. She telephoned to the house agents, despatched wires abroad, and wrote busily on her typewriter. Mr Satterthwaite escaped from the depressing spectacle of so much efficiency by strolling down to the quay. He was walking aimlessly along when he was seized by the arm from behind, and turned to confront a white-faced girl.
‘What’s all this?’ demanded Egg fiercely.
‘All what?’ parried Mr Satterthwaite.
‘It’s all over the place that Sir Charles is going away—that he’s going to sell Crow’s Nest.’
‘Quite true.’
‘He is going away?’
‘He’s gone.’
‘Oh!’ Egg relinquished his arm. She looke
d suddenly like a very small child who has been cruelly hurt.
Mr Satterthwaite did not know what to say.
‘Where has he gone?’
‘Abroad. To the South of France.’
‘Oh!’
Still he did not know what to say. For clearly there was more than hero worship here…
Pitying her, he was turning over various consolatory words in his mind when she spoke again—and startled him.
‘Which of those damned bitches is it?’ asked Egg fiercely.
Mr Satterthwaite stared at her, his mouth fallen open in surprise. Egg took him by the arm again and shook him violently.
‘You must know,’ she cried. ‘Which of them? The grey-haired one or the other?’
‘My dear, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘You do. You must. Of course it’s some woman. He liked me—I know he liked me. One of those women the other night must have seen it, too, and determined to get him away from me. I hate women. Lousy cats. Did you see her clothes—that one with the green hair? They made me gnash my teeth with envy. A woman who has clothes like that has a pull—you can’t deny it. She’s quite old and ugly as sin, really, but what does it matter. She makes everyone else look like a dowdy curate’s wife. Is it her? Or is it the other one with the grey hair? She’s amusing—you can see that. She’s got masses of S.A. And he called her Angie. It can’t be the one like a wilted cabbage. Is it the smart one or is it Angie?’
‘My dear, you’ve got the most extraordinary ideas into your head. He—er—Charles Cartwright isn’t the least interested in either of those women.’
‘I don’t believe you. They’re interested in him, anyway…’
‘No, no, no, you’re making a mistake. This is all imagination.’
‘Bitches,’ said Egg. ‘That’s what they are!’
‘You mustn’t use that word, my dear.’
‘I can think of a lot worse things to say than that.’
‘Possibly, possibly, but pray don’t do so. I can assure you that you are labouring under a misapprehension.’
‘Then why has he gone away—like this?’
Mr Satterthwaite cleared his throat.
‘I fancy he—er—thought it best.’
Egg stared at him piercingly.
‘Do you mean—because of me?’
‘Well—something of the kind, perhaps.’
‘And so he’s legged it. I suppose I did show my hand a bit plainly…Men do hate being chased, don’t they? Mums is right, after all…You’ve no idea how sweet she is when she talks about men. Always in the third person—so Victorian and polite. “A man hates being run after; a girl should always let the man make the running.” Don’t you think it’s a sweet expression—make the running? Sounds the opposite of what it means. Actually that’s just what Charles has done—made the running. He’s running away from me. He’s afraid. And the devil of it is, I can’t go after him. If I did I suppose he’d take a boat to the wilds of Africa or somewhere.’
‘Hermione,’ said Mr Satterthwaite, ‘are you serious about Sir Charles?’
The girl flung him an impatient glance.
‘Of course I am.’
‘What about Oliver Manders?’
Egg dismissed Oliver Manders with an impatient whisk of the head. She was following out a train of thought of her own.
‘Do you think I might write to him? Nothing alarming. Just chatty girlish stuff…you know, put him at his ease, so that he’d get over his scare?’
She frowned.
‘What a fool I’ve been. Mums would have managed it much better. They knew how to do the trick, those Victorians. All blushing retreat. I’ve been all wrong about it. I actually thought he needed encouraging. He seemed—well, he seemed to need a bit of help. Tell me,’ she turned abruptly on Mr Satterthwaite, ‘did he see me do my kissing act with Oliver last night?’
‘Not that I know of. When—?’
‘All in the moonlight. As we were going down the path. I thought he was still looking from the terrace. I thought perhaps if he saw me and Oliver—well, I thought it might wake him up a bit. Because he did like me. I could swear he liked me.’
‘Wasn’t that a little hard on Oliver?’
Egg shook her head decisively.
‘Not in the least. Oliver thinks it’s an honour for any girl to be kissed by him. It was damned bad for his conceit, of course; but one can’t think of everything. I wanted to ginger up Charles. He’s been different lately—more standoffish.’
‘My dear child,’ said Mr Satterthwaite, ‘I don’t think you realize quite why Sir Charles went away so suddenly. He thought that you cared for Oliver. He went away to save himself further pain.’
Egg whisked round. She caught hold of Mr Satterthwaite by the shoulders and peered into his face.
‘Is that true? Is that really true? The mutt! The boob! Oh—!’
She released Mr Satterthwaite suddenly and moved along beside him with a skipping motion.
‘Then he’ll come back,’ she said. ‘He’ll come back. If he doesn’t—’
‘Well, if he doesn’t?’
Egg laughed.
‘I’ll get him back somehow. You see if I don’t.’
It seemed as though allowing for difference of language Egg and the lily maid of Astolat had much in common, but Mr Satterthwaite felt that Egg’s methods would be more practical than those of Elaine, and that dying of a broken heart would form no part of them.
Second Act
Certainty
Chapter 1
Sir Charles Receives A Letter
Mr Satterthwaite had come over for the day to Monte Carlo. His round of house-parties was over, and the Riviera in September was rather a favourite haunt of his.
He was sitting in the gardens enjoying the sun and reading a two-days-old Daily Mail.
Suddenly a name caught his attention. Strange. Death of Sir Bartholomew Strange. He read the paragraph through:
We much regret having to announce the death of Sir Bartholomew Strange, the eminent nerve specialist. Sir Bartholomew was entertaining a party of friends at his house in Yorkshire. Sir Bartholomew appeared to be in perfect health and spirits, and his demise occurred quite suddenly at the end of dinner. He was chatting with his friends and drinking a glass of port when he had a sudden seizure and died before medical aid could be summoned. Sir Bartholomew will be deeply regretted. He was…
Here followed a description of Sir Bartholomew’s career and work.
Mr Satterthwaite let the paper slip from his hand. He was very disagreeably impressed. A vision of the physician as he had seen him last flashed across his mind—big, jocund, in the pink of condition. And now—dead. Certain words detached themselves from their context and floated about disagreeably in Mr Satterthwaite’s mind. ‘Drinking a glass of port.’ ‘Sudden seizure…Died before medical aid could be summoned…’
Port, not a cocktail, but otherwise curiously reminiscent of that death in Cornwall. Mr Satterthwaite saw again the convulsed face of the mild old clergyman…
Supposing that after all…
He looked up to see Sir Charles Cartwright coming towards him across the grass.
‘Satterthwaite, by all that’s wonderful! Just the man I’d have chosen to see. Have you seen about poor old Tollie?’
‘I was just reading it now.’
Sir Charles dropped into a chair beside him. He was immaculately got up in yachting costume. No more grey flannels and old sweaters. He was the sophisticated yachtsman of the South of France.
‘Listen, Satterthwaite, Tollie was as sound as a bell. Never had anything wrong with him. Am I being a complete fanciful ass, or does this business remind you of—of—?’
‘Of that business at Loomouth? Yes, it does. But of course we may be mistaken. The resemblance may be only superficial. After all, sudden deaths occur the whole time from a variety of causes.’
Sir Charles nodded his head impatiently. Then he said:
‘I’ve just got a letter—from Egg Lytton Gore.’
Mr Satterthwaite concealed a smile.
‘The first you’ve had from her?’
Three-Act Tragedy Page 4