Three-Act Tragedy Read online

  He gave a slight shiver.

  ‘I don’t like this room, Satterthwaite. Come out of it.’

  Chapter 7

  Plan Of Campaign

  Sir Charles and Mr Satterthwaite arrived back in London the following evening.

  The interview with Colonel Johnson had had to be very tactfully conducted. Superintendent Crossfield had not been too pleased that mere ‘gentlemen’ should have found what he and his assistants had missed. He was at some pains to save his face.

  ‘Very creditable, indeed, sir. I confess I never thought of looking under the gas fire. As a matter of fact, it beats me what set you looking there.’

  The two men had not gone into a detailed account of how theorizing from an ink-blot had led to the discovery. ‘Just nosing around,’ was how Sir Charles had put it.

  ‘Still, look you did,’ continued the Superintendent, ‘and were justified. Not that what you’ve found is much surprise to me. You see, it stands to reason that if Ellis wasn’t the murderer, he must have disappeared for some reason or other, and it’s been in the back of my mind all along that blackmail might have been his line of business.’

  One thing did arise from their discovery. Colonel Johnson was going to communicate with the Loomouth police. The death of Stephen Babbington ought certainly to be investigated.

  ‘And if they find he died from nicotine poisoning, even Crossfield will admit the two deaths are connected,’ said Sir Charles when they were speeding towards London.

  He was still a little disgruntled at having had to hand over his discovery to the police.

  Mr Satterthwaite had soothed him by pointing out that the information was not to be made public or given to the press.

  ‘The guilty person will have no misgivings. The search for Ellis will still be continued.’

  Sir Charles admitted that that was true.

  On arrival in London, he explained to Mr Satterthwaite, he proposed to get in touch with Egg Lytton Gore. Her letter had been written from an address in Belgrave Square. He hoped that she might still be there.

  Mr Satterthwaite gravely approved this course. He himself was anxious to see Egg. It was arranged that Sir Charles should ring her up as soon as they reached London.

  Egg proved to be still in town. She and her mother were staying with relatives and were not returning to Loomouth for about a week. Egg was easily prevailed upon to come out and dine with the two men.

  ‘She can’t come here very well, I suppose,’ said Sir Charles, looking round his luxurious flat. ‘Her mother mightn’t like it, eh? Of course we could have Miss Milray, too—but I’d rather not. To tell the truth, Miss Milray cramps my style a bit. She’s so efficient that she gives me an inferiority complex.’

  Mr Satterthwaite suggested his house. In the end it was arranged to dine at the Berkeley. Afterwards, if Egg liked, they could adjourn elsewhere.

  Mr Satterthwaite noticed at once that the girl was looking thinner. Her eyes seemed larger and more feverish, her chin more decided. She was pale and had circles under her eyes. But her charm was as great as ever, her childish eagerness just as intense.

  She said to Sir Charles, ‘I knew you’d come…’

  Her tone implied: ‘Now that you’ve come everything will be all right…’

  Mr Satterthwaite thought to himself: ‘But she wasn’t sure he’d come—she wasn’t sure at all. She’s been on tenterhooks. She’s been fretting herself to death.’ And he thought: ‘Doesn’t the man realize? Actors are usually vain enough…Doesn’t he know the girl’s head over ears in love with him?’

  It was, he thought, an odd situation. That Sir Charles was overwhelmingly in love with the girl, he had no doubt whatever. She was equally in love with him. And the link between them—the link to which each of them clung frenziedly—was a crime—a double crime of a revolting nature.

  During dinner little was said. Sir Charles talked about his experiences abroad. Egg talked about Loomouth. Mr Satterthwaite encouraged them both whenever the conversation seemed likely to flag. When dinner was over they went to Mr Satterthwaite’s house.

  Mr Satterthwaite’s house was on Chelsea Embankment. It was a large house, and contained many beautiful works of art. There were pictures, sculpture, Chinese porcelain, prehistoric pottery, ivories, miniatures and much genuine Chippendale and Hepplewhite furniture. It had an atmosphere about it of mellowness and understanding.

  Egg Lytton Gore saw nothing, noticed nothing. She flung off her evening coat on to a chair and said:

  ‘At last. Now tell me all about it.’

  She listened with vivid interest whilst Sir Charles narrated their adventures in Yorkshire, drawing in her breath sharply when he described the discovery of the blackmailing letters.

  ‘What happened after that we can only conjecture,’ finished Sir Charles. ‘Presumably Ellis was paid to hold his tongue and his escape was facilitated.’

  But Egg shook her head.

  ‘Oh, no,’ she said. ‘Don’t you see? Ellis is dead.’

  Both men were startled, but Egg reiterated her assertion.

  ‘Of course he’s dead. That’s why he’s disappeared so successfully that no one can find a trace of him. He knew too much, and so he was killed. Ellis is the third murder.’

  Although neither of the two men had considered the possibility before, they were forced to admit that it did not entirely ring false.

  ‘But look here, my dear girl,’ argued Sir Charles, ‘it’s all very well to say Ellis is dead. Where’s the body? There’s twelve stone or so of solid butler to be accounted for.’

  ‘I don’t know where the body is,’ said Egg. ‘There must be lots of places.’

  ‘Hardly,’ murmured Mr Satterthwaite. ‘Hardly…’

  ‘Lots,’ reiterated Egg. ‘Let me see…’ She paused for a moment. ‘Attics, there are masses of attics that no one ever goes into. He’s probably in a trunk in the attic.’

  ‘Rather unlikely,’ said Sir Charles. ‘But possible, of course. It might evade discovery—for—er—a time.’

  It was not Egg’s way to avoid unpleasantness. She dealt immediately with the point in Sir Charles’s mind.

  ‘Smell goes up, not down. You’d notice a decaying body in the cellar much sooner than in the attic. And, anyway, for a long time people would think it was a dead rat.’

  ‘If your theory were correct, it would point definitely to a man as the murderer. A woman couldn’t drag a body round the house. In fact, it would be a pretty good feat for a man.’

  ‘Well, there are other possibilities. There’s a secret passage there, you know. Miss Sutcliffe told me so, and Sir Bartholomew told me he would show it to me. The murderer might have given Ellis the money and shown him the way to get out of the house—gone down the passage with him and killed him there. A woman could do that. She could stab him, or something, from behind. Then she’d just leave the body there and go back, and no one would ever know.’

  Sir Charles shook his head doubtfully, but he no longer disputed Egg’s theory.

  Mr Satterthwaite felt sure that the same suspicion had come to him for a moment in Ellis’s room when they had found the letters. He remembered Sir Charles’s little shiver. The idea that Ellis might be dead had come to him then…

  Mr Satterthwaite thought: ‘If Ellis is dead, then we’re dealing with a very dangerous person…Yes, a very dangerous person…’ And suddenly he felt a cold chill of fear down his spine…

  A person who had killed three times wouldn’t hesitate to kill again…

  They were in danger, all three of them—Sir Charles, and Egg, and he…

  If they found out too much…

  He was recalled by the sound of Sir Charles’s voice.

  ‘There’s one thing I didn’t understand in your letter, Egg. You spoke of Oliver Manders being in danger—of the police suspecting him. I can’t see that they attach the least suspicion to him.’

  It seemed to Mr Satterthwaite that Egg was very slightly discomposed. He even f
ancied that she blushed.

  ‘Aha,’ said Mr Satterthwaite to himself. ‘Let’s see how you get out of this, young lady.’

  ‘It was silly of me,’ said Egg. ‘I got confused. I thought that Oliver arriving as he did, with what might have been a trumped-up excuse—well, I thought the police were sure to suspect him.’

  Sir Charles accepted the explanation easily enough.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I see.’

  Mr Satterthwaite spoke.

  ‘Was it a trumped-up excuse?’ he said.

  Egg turned on him.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It was an odd sort of accident,’ said Mr Satterthwaite. ‘I thought if it was a trumped-up excuse you might know.’

  Egg shook her head.

  ‘I don’t know. I never thought about it. But why should Oliver pretend to have an accident if he didn’t?’

  ‘He might have had reasons,’ said Sir Charles. ‘Quite natural ones.’

  He was smiling at her. Egg blushed crimson.

  ‘Oh, no,’ she said. ‘No.’

  Sir Charles sighed. It occurred to Mr Satterthwaite that his friend had interpreted that blush quite wrongly. Sir Charles seemed a sadder and older man when he spoke again.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘if our young friend is in no danger, where do I come in?’

  Egg came forward quickly and caught him by the coat sleeve.

  ‘You’re not going away again. You’re not going to give up? You’re going to find out the truth—the truth. I don’t believe anybody but you could find out the truth. You can. You will.’

  She was tremendously in earnest. The waves of her vitality seemed to surge and eddy in the old-world air of the room.

  ‘You believe in me?’ said Sir Charles. He was moved.

  ‘Yes, yes, yes. We’re going to get at the truth. You and I together.’

  ‘And Satterthwaite.’

  ‘Of course, and Mr Satterthwaite,’ said Egg without interest.

  Mr Satterthwaite smiled covertly. Whether Egg wanted to include him or not, he had no intention of being left out. He was fond of mysteries, and he liked observing human nature, and he had a soft spot for lovers. All three tastes seemed likely to be gratified in this affair.

  Sir Charles sat down. His voice changed. He was in command, directing a production.

  ‘First of all we’ve got to clarify the situation. Do we, or do we not, believe that the same person killed Babbington and Bartholomew Strange?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Egg.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr Satterthwaite.

  ‘Do we believe that the second murder sprang directly from the first? I mean, do we believe that Bartholomew Strange was killed in order to prevent his revealing the facts of the first murder, or his suspicion about it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Egg and Mr Satterthwaite again, but in unison this time.

  ‘Then it is the first murder we must investigate, not the second—’

  Egg nodded.

  ‘In my mind, until we discover the motive for the first murder, we can hardly hope to discover the murderer. The motive presents extraordinary difficulty. Babbington was a harmless, pleasant, gentle old man without, one would say, an enemy in the world. Yet he was killed—and there must have been some reason for the killing. We’ve got to find that reason.’

  He paused and then said in his ordinary everyday voice:

  ‘Let’s get down to it. What reasons are there for killing people? First, I suppose, gain.’

  ‘Revenge,’ said Egg.

  ‘Homicidal mania,’ said Mr Satterthwaite. ‘The crime passionel would hardly apply in this case. But there’s fear.’

  Charles Cartwright nodded. He was scribbling on a piece of paper.

  ‘That about covers the ground,’ he said. ‘First, Gain. Does anyone gain by Babbington’s death? Has he any money—or expectation of money?’

  ‘I should think it very unlikely,’ said Egg.

  ‘So should I, but we’d better approach Mrs Babbington on the point.’

  ‘Then there’s revenge. Did Babbington do any injury to anyone—perhaps in his young days? Did he marry the girl that some other man wanted? We’ll have to look into that, too.’

  ‘Then homicidal mania. Were both Babbington and Tollie killed by a lunatic? I don’t think that theory will hold water. Even a lunatic has some kind of reasonableness in his crimes. I mean a lunatic might think himself divinely appointed to kill doctors, or to kill clergymen, but not to kill both. I think we can wash out the theory of homicidal mania. There remains fear.

  ‘Now, frankly, that seems to me far the most likely solution. Babbington knew something about somebody—or he recognized somebody. He was killed to prevent him telling what that something was.’

  ‘I can’t see what someone like Mr Babbington could know that was damaging about anybody who was there that night.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Sir Charles, ‘it was something that he didn’t know that he knew.’

  He went on, trying to make his meaning clear.

  ‘It’s difficult to say just what I mean. Suppose, for instance (this is only an instance) that Babbington saw a certainperson in a certain place at a certain time. As far as he knows, there’s no reason why that person shouldn’t be there. But suppose also that that person had concocted a very clever alibi for some reason showing that at that particular time he was somewhere else a hundred miles away. Well, at any minute old Babbington, in the most innocent way in the world, might give the show away.’

  ‘I see,’ said Egg. ‘Say there’s a murder committed in London, and Babbington sees the man who did it at Paddington Station, but the man has proved that he didn’t do it by having an alibi showing that he was at Leeds at the time. Then Babbington might give the whole show away.’

  ‘That’s what I mean exactly. Of course that’s only an instance. It might be anything. Someone he saw that evening whom he’d known under a different name—’

  ‘It might be something to do with a marriage,’ said Egg. ‘Clergymen do lots of marriages. Somebody who’d committed bigamy.’

  ‘Or it might have to do with a birth or a death,’ suggested Mr Satterthwaite.

  ‘It’s a very wide field,’ said Egg, frowning. ‘We’ll have to get at it the other way. Work back from the people who were there. Let’s make a list. Who was at your house, and who was at Sir Bartholomew’s.’

  She took the paper and pencil from Sir Charles.

  ‘The Dacres, they were at both. That woman like a wilted cabbage, what’s her name—Wills. Miss Sutcliffe.’

  ‘You can leave Angela out of it,’ said Sir Charles. ‘I’ve known her for years.’

  Egg frowned mutinously.

  ‘We can’t do that sort of thing,’ she said. ‘Leave people out because we know them. We’ve got to be business-like. Besides, I don’t know anything about Angela Sutcliffe. She’s just as likely to have done it as anyone else, so far as I can see—more likely. All actresses have pasts. I think, on the whole, she’s the most likely person.’

  She gazed defiantly at Sir Charles. There was an answering spark in his eyes.

  ‘In that case we mustn’t leave out Oliver Manders.’

  ‘How could it be Oliver? He’d met Mr Babbington ever so many times before.’

  ‘He was at both places, and his arrival is a little—open to suspicion.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Egg. She paused, and then added: ‘In that case I’d better put down Mother and myself as well…That makes six suspects.’

  ‘I don’t think—’

  ‘We’ll do it properly, or not at all.’ Her eyes flashed.

  Mr Satterthwaite made peace by offering refreshment. He rang for drinks.

  Sir Charles strolled off into a far corner to admire a head of Negro sculpture. Egg came over to Mr Satterthwaite and slipped a hand through his arm.

  ‘Stupid of me to have lost my temper,’ she murmured. ‘I am stupid—but why should the woman be excepted? Why is he so keen she should be?
Oh, dear, why the devil am I so disgustingly jealous?’

  Mr Satterthwaite smiled and patted her hand.

  ‘Jealousy never pays, my dear,’ he said. ‘If you feel jealous, don’t show it. By the way, did you really think young Manders might be suspected?’

  Egg grinned—a friendly childish grin.

  ‘Of course not. I put that in so as not to alarm the man.’ She turned her head. Sir Charles was still moodily studying Negro sculpture. ‘You know—I didn’t want him to think I really have a pash for Oliver—because I haven’t. How difficult everything is! He’s gone back now to his “Bless you, my children,” attitude. I don’t want that at all.’