Three Act Tragedy

CHAPTER 3 Sir Charles Wonders

‘Come in here a minute, Satterthwaite, will you?’

Sir Charles poked his head out of the door.

An hour and a half had passed. To confusion had succeeded peace. Lady Mary had led the weeping Mrs Babbington out of the room and had finally gone home with her to the vicarage. Miss Milray had been efficient with the telephone. The local doctor had arrived and taken charge. A simplified dinner had been served, and by mutual consent the house-party had retired to their rooms after it. Mr Satterthwaite had been making his own retreat when Sir Charles had called to him from the door of the Ship-room where the death had taken place.

Mr Satterthwaite passed in, repressing a slight shiver as he did so. He was old enough not to like the sight of death … For soon, perhaps, he himself … But why think of that?

‘I’m good for another twenty years,’ said Mr Satterthwaite robustly to himself.

The only other occupant of the Ship-room was Bartholomew Strange. He nodded approval at the sight of Mr Satterthwaite.

‘Good man,’ he said. ‘We can do with Satterthwaite. He knows life.’

A little surprised, Mr Satterthwaite sat down in an armchair near the doctor. Sir Charles was pacing up and down. He had forgotten the semi-clenching of his hands and looked definitely less naval.

‘Charles doesn’t like it,’ said Sir Bartholomew. ‘Poor old Babbington’s death, I mean.’

Mr Satterthwaite thought the sentiment ill expressed. Surely nobody could be expected to ‘like’ what had occurred. He realized that Strange had quite another meaning from the bald one the words conveyed.

‘It was very distressing,’ said Mr Satterthwaite, cautiously feeling his way. ‘Very distressing indeed,’ he added with a reminiscent shiver.

‘H’m, yes, it was rather painful,’ said the physician, the professional accent creeping for a moment into his voice.

Cartwright paused in his pacing.

‘Ever see anyone die quite like that before, Tollie?’

‘No,’ said Sir Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘I can’t say that I have.

‘But,’ he added in a moment or two, ‘I haven’t really seen as many deaths as you might suppose. A nerve specialist doesn’t kill off many of his patients. He keeps ’em alive and makes his income out of them. MacDougal has seen far more deceases than I have, I don’t doubt.’

Dr MacDougal was the principal doctor in Loomouth, whom Miss Milray had summoned.

‘MacDougal didn’t see this man die. He was dead when he arrived. There was only what we could tell him, what you could tell him. He said it was some kind of seizure, said Babbington was elderly, and his health was none too good. That doesn’t satisfy me.’

‘Probably didn’t satisfy him,’ grunted the other. ‘But a doctor has to say something. Seizure is a good word—means nothing at all, but satisfies the lay mind. And, after all, Babbington was elderly, and his health had been giving him trouble lately; his wife told us so. There may have been some unsuspected weakness somewhere.’

‘Was that a typical fit or seizure, or whatever you call it?’

‘Typical of what?’

‘Of any known disease?’

‘If you’d ever studied medicine,’ said Sir Bartholomew, ‘you’d know that there is hardly any such thing as a typical case.’

‘What, precisely, are you suggesting, Sir Charles?’ asked Mr Satterthwaite.

Cartwright did not answer. He made a vague gesture with his hand. Strange gave a slight chuckle.

‘Charles doesn’t know himself,’ he said. ‘It’s just his mind turning naturally to the dramatic possibilities.’

Sir Charles made a reproachful gesture. His face was absorbed—thoughtful. He shook his head slightly in an abstracted manner.

An elusive resemblance teased Mr Satterthwaite—then he got it. Aristide Duval, the head of the Secret Service, unravelling the tangled plot of Underground Wires. In another minute he was sure. Sir Charles was limping unconsciously as he walked. Aristide Duval had been known as The Man With a Limp.

Sir Bartholomew continued to apply ruthless common sense to Sir Charles’s unformulated suspicions.

‘Yes, what do you suspect, Charles? Suicide? Murder? Who wants to murder a harmless old clergyman? It’s fantastic. Suicide? Well, I suppose that is a point. One might perhaps imagine a reason for Babbington wanting to make away with himself—’

‘What reason?’

Sir Bartholomew shook his head gently.

‘How can we tell the secrets of the human mind? Just one suggestion—suppose that Babbington had been told he suffered from an incurable disease—such as cancer. Something of that kind might supply a motive. He might wish to spare his wife the pain of watching his own long-drawn-out suffering. That’s only a suggestion, of course. There’s nothing on earth to make us think that Babbington did want to put an end to himself.’

‘I wasn’t thinking so much of suicide,’ began Sir Charles.

Bartholomew Strange again gave his low chuckle.

‘Exactly. You’re not out for probability. You want sensation—new and untraceable poison in the cocktails.’

Sir Charles made an expressive grimace.

‘I’m not so sure I do want that. Damn it all, Tollie, remember I mixed those cocktails.’

‘Sudden attack of homicidal mania, eh? I suppose the symptoms are delayed in our case, but we’ll all be dead before morning.’

‘Damn it all, you joke, but—’ Sir Charles broke off irritably.

‘I’m not really joking,’ said the physician.

His voice had altered. It was grave, and not unsympathetic.

‘I’m not joking about poor old Babbington’s death. I’m casting fun at your suggestions, Charles, because—well—because I don’t want you, thoughtlessly, to do harm.’

‘Harm?’ demanded Sir Charles.

‘Perhaps you understand what I’m driving at, Mr Satterthwaite?’

‘I think, perhaps, I can guess,’ said Mr Satterthwaite.

‘Don’t you see, Charles,’ went on Sir Bartholomew, ‘that those idle suspicions of yours might be definitely harmful? These things get about. A vague suggestion of foul play, totally unfounded, might cause serious trouble and pain to Mrs Babbington. I’ve known things of that kind happen once or twice. A sudden death—a few idle tongues wagging—rumours flying all round the place—rumours that go on growing—and that no one can stop. Damn it all, Charles, don’t you see how cruel and unnecessary it would be? You’re merely indulging your vivid imagination in a gallop over a wholly speculative course.’

A look of irresolution appeared on the actor’s face.

‘I hadn’t thought of it like that,’ he admitted.

‘You’re a thundering good chap, Charles, but you do let your imagination run away with you. Come now: do you seriously believe anyone, anyone at all, would want to murder that perfectly harmless old man?’

‘I suppose not,’ said Sir Charles. ‘No, as you say, it’s ridiculous. Sorry, Tollie, but it wasn’t really a mere “stunt” on my part. I did genuinely have a “hunch” that something was wrong.’

Mr Satterthwaite gave a little cough.

‘May I make a suggestion? Mr Babbington was taken ill a very few moments after entering the room and just after drinking his cocktail. Now, I did happen to notice he made a wry face when drinking. I imagined because he was unused to the taste. But supposing that Sir Bartholomew’s tentative suggestion is correct—that Mr Babbington may for some reason have wished to commit suicide. That does strike me as just possible, whereas the suggestion of murder seems quite ridiculous.

‘I feel that it is possible, though not probable, that Mr Babbington introduced something into that glass unseen by us.

‘Now I see that nothing has yet been touched in this room. The cocktail glasses are exactly where they were. This is Mr Babbington’s. I know, because I was sitting here talking to him. I suggest that Sir Bartholomew should get the glass analysed—that can be done quite quietly and without causing any “talk”.’

Sir Bartholomew rose and picked up the glass.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘I’ll humour you so far, Charles, and I’ll bet you ten pounds to one that there’s nothing in it but honest-to-God gin and vermouth.’

‘Done,’ said Sir Charles.

Then he added with a rueful smile:

‘You know, Tollie, you are partly responsible for my flights of fancy.’

‘I?’

‘Yes, with your talk of crime this morning. You said this man, Hercule Poirot, was a kind of stormy petrel, that where he went crimes followed. No sooner does he arrive than we have a suspiciously sudden death. Of course my thoughts fly to murder at once.’

‘I wonder,’ said Mr Satterthwaite, and stopped.

‘Yes,’ said Charles Cartwright. ‘I’d thought of that. What do you think, Tollie? Could we ask him what he thinks of it all? Is it etiquette, I mean?’

‘A nice point,’ murmured Mr Satterthwaite.

‘I know medical etiquette, but I’m hanged if I know anything about the etiquette of detection.’

‘You can’t ask a professional singer to sing,’ murmured Mr Satterthwaite. ‘Can one ask a professional detective to detect? Yes, a very nice point.’

‘Just an opinion,’ said Sir Charles.

There was a gentle tap on the door, and Hercule Poirot’s face appeared, peering in with an apologetic expression.

‘Come in, man,’ cried Sir Charles, springing up. ‘We were just talking of you.’

‘I thought perhaps I might be intruding.’

‘Not at all. Have a drink.’

‘I thank you, no. I seldom drink the whisky. A glass of sirop, now—’

But sirop was not included in Sir Charles’s conception of drinkable fluids. Having settled his guest in a chair, the actor went straight to the point.

‘I’m not going to beat about the bush,’ he said. ‘We were just talking of you, M. Poirot, and—and—of what happened tonight. Look here, do you think there’s anything wrong about it?’

Poirot’s eyebrows rose. He said:

‘Wrong? How do you mean that—wrong?’

Bartholomew Strange said, ‘My friend has got an idea into his head that old Babbington was murdered.’

‘And you do not think so—eh?’

‘We’d like to know what you think.’

Poirot said thoughtfully:

‘He was taken ill, of course, very suddenly—very suddenly indeed.’

‘Just so.’

Mr Satterthwaite explained the theory of suicide and his own suggestion of having a cocktail glass analysed.

Poirot nodded approval.

‘That, at any rate, can do no harm. As a judge of human nature, it seems to me unlikely in the extreme that anyone could wish to do away with a charming and harmless old gentleman. Still less does the solution of suicide appeal to me. However, the cocktail glass will tell us one way or another.’

‘And the result of the analysis, you think, will be—what?’

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

‘Me? I can only guess. You ask me to guess what will be the result of the analysis?’

‘Yes—?’

‘Then I guess that they will find only the remains of a very excellent dry Martini.’ (He bowed to Sir Charles.) ‘To poison a man in a cocktail, one of many handed round on a tray—well, it would be a technique very—very—difficult. And if that charming old clergyman wanted to commit suicide, I do not think he would do it at a party. That would show a very decided lack of consideration for others, and Mr Babbington struck me as a very considerate person.’ He paused. ‘That, since you ask me, is my opinion.’

There was a moment’s silence. Then Sir Charles gave a deep sigh. He opened one of the windows and looked out.

‘Wind’s gone round a point,’ he said.

The sailor had come back and the Secret Service detective had disappeared.

But to the observant Mr Satterthwaite it seemed as though Sir Charles hankered slightly after the part he was not, after all, to play.