Three Act Tragedy

by Agatha Christie

  Moonlight or no moonlight, Mr. Satterthwaite 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 looked 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 de
ar 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

  One

  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?”

  Sir Charles was unsuspecting.

  “No. I had a letter soon after I got here. It followed me about a bit. Just giving me the news and all that. I didn’t answer it…Dash it all, Satterthwaite, I didn’t dare answer it…The girl had no idea, of course, but I didn’t want to make a fool of myself.”

  Mr. Satterthwaite passed his hand over his mouth where the smile still lingered.

  “And this one?” he asked.

  “This is different. It’s an appeal for help….”

  “Help?” Mr. Satterthwaite’s eyebrows went up.

  “She was there—you see—in the house—when it happened.”

  “You mean she was staying with Sir Bartholomew Strange at the time of his death?”

  “Yes.”

  “What does she say about it?”

  Sir Charles had taken a letter from his pocket. He hesitated for a moment, then he handed it to Mr. Satterthwaite.

  “You’d better read it for yourself.”

  Mr. Satterthwaite opened out the sheet with lively curiosity.

  “Dear Sir Charles,—I don’t know when this will get to you. I do hope soon. I’m so worried, I don’t know what to do. You’ll have seen, I expect, in the papers that Sir Bartholomew Strange is dead. Well, he died just the same way as Mr. Babbington. It can’t be a coincidence—it can’t—it can’t…I’m worried to death….

  “Look here, can’t you come home and do something? It sounds a bit crude put like that, but you did have suspicions before, and nobody would listen to you, and now it’s your own friend who’s been killed; and perhaps if you don’t come back nobody will ever find out the truth, and I’m sure you could. I feel it in my bones….

  “And there’s something else. I’m worried, definitely, about someone…He had absolutely nothing to do with it, I know that, but things might look a bit odd. Oh, I can’t explain in a letter. But won’t you come back? You could find out the truth. I know you could.

  “Yours in haste,

  “EGG.”

  “Well?” demanded Sir Charles impatiently. “A bit incoherent of course; she wrote it in a hurry. But what about it?”

  Mr. Satterthwaite folded the letter slowly to give himself a minute or two before replying.

  He agreed that the letter was incoherent, but he did not think it had been written in a hurry. It was, in his view, a very careful production. It was designed to appeal to Sir Charles’s vanity, to his chivalry, and to his sporting instincts.

  From what Mr. Satterthwaite knew of Sir Charles, that letter was a certain draw.

  “Who do you think she means by ‘someone,’ and ‘he’?” he asked.

  “Manders, I suppose.”

  “Was he there, then?”

  “Must have been. I don’t know why. Tollie never met him except on that one occasion at my house. Why he should ask him to stay, I can’t imagine.”

  “Did he often have those big house parties?”

  “Three or four times a year. Always one for the St. Leger.”

  “Did he spend much time in Yorkshire?”

  “Had a big sanatorium—nursing home, whatever you like to call it. He bought Melfort Abbey (it’s an old place), restored it and built a sanatorium in the grounds.”

  “I see.”

  Mr. Satterthwaite was silent for a minute or two. Then he said:

  “I wonder who else there was in the house party?”

  Sir Charles suggested that it might be in one of the other newspapers, and they went off to institute a newspaper hunt.

  “Here we are,” said Sir Charles.

  He read aloud:

  “Sir Bartholomew Strange is having his usual house party for the St. Leger. Amongst the guests are Lord and Lady Eden, Lady Mary Lytton Gore, Sir Jocelyn and Lady Campbell, Captain and Mrs. Dacres, and Miss Angela Sutcliffe, the well-known actress.”

  He and Mr. Satterthwaite looked at each other.

  “The Dacres and Angela Sutcliffe,” said Sir Charles. “Nothing about Oliver Manders.”

  “Let’s get today’s Continental Daily Mail,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “There might be something in that.”

  Sir Charles glanced over the paper. Suddenly he stiffened.

  “My God, Satterthwaite, listen to this:

  “SIR BARTHOLOMEW STRANGE.

  “At the inquest today on the late Sir Bartholomew Strange, a verdict of Death by Nicotin
e Poisoning was returned, there being no evidence to show how or by whom the poison was administered.”

  He frowned.

  “Nicotine poisoning. Sounds mild enough—not the sort of thing to make a man fall down in a fit. I don’t understand all this.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Do? I’m going to book a berth on the Blue Train tonight.”

  “Well,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, “I might as well do the same.”

  “You?” Sir Charles wheeled round on him, surprised.

  “This sort of thing is rather in my line,” said Mr. Satterthwaite modestly. “I’ve—er—had a little experience. Besides, I know the Chief Constable in that part of the world rather well—Colonel Johnson. That will come in useful.”

  “Good man,” cried Sir Charles. “Let’s go round to the Wagon Lits offices.”

  Mr. Satterthwaite thought to himself:

  “The girl’s done it. She’s got him back. She said she would. I wonder just exactly how much of her letter was genuine.”

  Decidedly, Egg Lytton Gore was an opportunist.

  When Sir Charles had gone off to the Wagon Lits offices, Mr. Satterthwaite strolled slowly through the gardens. His mind was still pleasantly engaged with the problem of Egg Lytton Gore. He admired her resource and her driving power, and stifled that slightly Victorian side of his nature which disapproved of a member of the fairer sex taking the initiative in affairs of the heart.

  Mr. Satterthwaite was an observant man. In the midst of his cogitations on the female sex in general, and Egg Lytton Gore in particular, he was unable to resist saying to himself:

  “Now where have I seen that particular shaped head before?”

  The owner of the head was sitting on a seat gazing thoughtfully ahead of him. He was a little man whose moustaches were out of proportion to his size.

  A discontented-looking English child was standing nearby, standing first on one foot, then the other, and occasionally meditatively kicking the lobelia edging.

  “Don’t do that, darling,” said her mother, who was absorbed in a fashion paper.

  “I haven’t anything to do,” said the child.

  The little man turned his head to look at her, and Mr. Satterthwaite recognized him.