Three-Act Tragedy Read online

  There was a moment’s stupefied silence, then Angela Sutcliffe screamed and Egg started forward.

  ‘Charles,’ cried Egg. ‘Charles.’

  She fought her way blindly forward. Mr Satterthwaite gently held her back.

  ‘Oh, dear God,’ cried Lady Mary. ‘Not another!’

  Angela Sutcliffe cried out:

  ‘He’s been poisoned, too…This is awful. Oh, my God, this is too awful…’

  And suddenly collapsing on to a sofa, she began to sob and laugh—a horrible sound.

  Poirot had taken charge of the situation. He was kneeling by the prostrate man. The others drew back while he made his examination. He rose to his feet, mechanically dusting the knees of his trousers. He looked round at the assembly. There was complete silence, except for the smothered sobs of Angela Sutcliffe.

  ‘My friends,’ began Poirot.

  He got no further, for Egg spat out at him:

  ‘You fool. You absurd play-acting little fool! Pretending to be so great and so wonderful, and to know all about everything. And now you let this happen. Another murder. Under your very nose…If you’d let the whole thing alone this wouldn’t have happened…It’s you who have murdered Charles—you—you—you…’

  She stopped, unable to get out the words.

  Poirot nodded his head gravely and sadly.

  ‘It is true, mademoiselle. I confess it. It is I who have murdered Sir Charles. But I, mademoiselle, am a very special kind of murderer. I can kill—and I can restore to life.’ He turned and in a different tone of voice, an apologetic everyday voice, he said:

  ‘A magnificent performance, Sir Charles, I congratulate you. Perhaps you would now like to take your curtain.’

  With a laugh the actor sprang to his feet and bowed mockingly.

  Egg gave a great gasp.

  ‘M. Poirot, you—you beast.’

  ‘Charles,’ cried Angela Sutcliffe. ‘You complete devil…’

  ‘But why—?’

  ‘How—?’

  ‘What on earth—?’

  By means of his upraised hand, Poirot obtained silence.

  ‘Messieurs, mesdames. I demand pardon of you all. This little farce was necessary to prove to you all, and incidentally, to prove to myself a fact which my reason already told me is true.

  ‘Listen. On this tray of glasses I placed in one glass a teaspoonful of plain water. That water represented pure nicotine. These glasses are of the same kind as those possessed by Sir Charles Cartwright and by Sir Bartholomew Strange. Owing to the heavy cut glass, a small quantity of a colourless liquid is quite undetectable. Imagine, then, the port glass of Sir Bartholomew Strange. After it was put on the table somebody introduced into it a sufficient quantity of pure nicotine. That might have been done by anybody. The butler, the parlour-maid, or one of the guests who slipped into the dining-room on his or her way downstairs. Dessert arrived, the port is taken round, the glass is filled. Sir Bartholomew drinks—and dies.

  ‘Tonight we have played a third tragedy—a sham tragedy—I asked Sir Charles to play the part of the victim. This he did magnificently. Now suppose for a minute that this was not a farce, but truth. Sir Charles is dead. What will be the steps taken by the police?’

  Miss Sutcliffe cried:

  ‘Why, the glass, of course.’ She nodded to where the glass lay on the floor as it had fallen from Sir Charles’s hand. ‘You only put water in, but if it had been nicotine—’

  ‘Let us suppose it was nicotine.’ Poirot touched the glass gently with his toe. ‘You are of opinion that the police would analyse the glass, and that traces of nicotine would be found?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  Poirot shook his head gently.

  ‘You are wrong. No nicotine would be found.’

  They stared at him.

  ‘You see,’ he smiled, ‘that is not the glass from which Sir Charles drank.’ With an apologetic grin he extended a glass from the tail pocket of his coat. ‘This is the glass he used.’

  He went on:

  ‘It is, you see, the simple theory of the conjuring trick. The attention cannot be in two places at once. To do my conjuring trick I need the attention focused elsewhere. Well, there is a moment, a psychological moment. When Sir Charles falls—dead—every eye in the room is on his dead body. Everyone crowds forward to get near him, and no one, no one at all, looks at Hercule Poirot, and in that moment I exchange the glasses and no one sees…

  ‘So you see, I prove my point…There was such amoment at Crow’s Nest, there was such a moment at Melfort Abbey—and so, there was nothing in the cocktail glass and nothing in the port glass…’

  Egg cried:

  ‘Who changed them?’

  Looking at her, Poirot replied:

  ‘That, we have still to find out…’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

  Rather uncertainly, the guests made signs of departure. Their manner was a little cold. They felt they had been badly fooled.

  With a gesture of the hand, Poirot arrested them.

  ‘One little moment, I pray of you. There is one thing more that I have to say. Tonight, admittedly, we have played the comedy. But the comedy may be played in earnest—it may become a tragedy. Under certain conditions the murderer may strike a third time…I speak now to all of you here present. If anyone of you knows something—something that may bear in any way on this crime, I implore that person to speak now. To keep knowledge to oneself at this juncture may be dangerous—so dangerous that death may be the result of silence. Therefore I beg again—if anyone knows anything, let that person speak now…’

  It seemed to Sir Charles that Poirot’s appeal was addressed especially to Miss Wills. If so, it had no result. Nobody spoke or answered.

  Poirot sighed. His hand fell.

  ‘Be it so, then. I have given warning. I can do no more. Remember, to keep silence is dangerous…’

  But still nobody spoke.

  Awkwardly the guests departed.

  Egg, Sir Charles and Mr Satterthwaite were left.

  Egg had not yet forgiven Poirot. She sat very still, her cheeks flushed and her eyes angry. She wouldn’t look at Sir Charles.

  ‘That was a damned clever bit of work, Poirot,’ said Sir Charles appreciatively.

  ‘Amazing,’ said Mr Satterthwaite with a chuckle. ‘I wouldn’t have believed that I wouldn’t have seen you do that exchange.’

  ‘That is why,’ said Poirot, ‘I could take no one into any confidence. The experiment could only be fair this way.’

  ‘Was that the only reason you planned this—to see whether it could be done unnoticed?’

  ‘Well, not quite, perhaps. I had one other aim.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I wanted to watch the expression on one person’s face when Sir Charles fell dead.’

  ‘Which person’s?’ said Egg sharply.

  ‘Ah, that is my secret.’

  ‘And you did watch that person’s face?’ asked Mr Satterthwaite.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well?’

  Poirot did not reply. He merely shook his head.

  ‘Won’t you tell us what you saw there?’

  Poirot said slowly:

  ‘I saw an expression of the utmost surprise…’

  Egg drew her breath in sharply.

  ‘You mean,’ she said, ‘that you know who the murderer is?’

  ‘You can put it that way if you like, mademoiselle.’

  ‘But then—but then—you know everything?’

  Poirot shook his head.

  ‘No; on the contrary I know nothing at all. For, you see, I do not know why Stephen Babbington was killed. Until I know that I can prove nothing, I can know nothing…It all hinges on that—the motive for Stephen Babbington’s death…’

  There was a knock at the door and a page entered with a telegram on a tray.

  Poirot opened it. His face changed. He handed the telegram to Sir Charles. Leaning over
Sir Charles’s shoulder, Egg read it aloud:

  ‘Please come and see me at once can give you valuable information as to Bartholomew Strange’s death—Margaret Rushbridger.’

  ‘Mrs de Rushbridger!’ cried Sir Charles. ‘We were right after all. She has got something to do with the case.’

  Chapter 12

  Day At Gilling

  I

  At once an excited discussion sprang up. An A.B.C. was produced. It was decided that an early train would be better than going by car.

  ‘At last,’ said Sir Charles, ‘we’re going to get that particular part of the mystery cleared up.’

  ‘What do you think the mystery is?’ asked Egg.

  ‘I can’t imagine. But it can’t fail to throw some light on the Babbington affair. If Tollie got those people together on purpose, as I feel pretty sure he did, then the “surprise” he talked of springing on them had something to do with this Rushbridger woman. I think we can assume that, don’t you, M. Poirot?’

  Poirot shook his head in a perplexed manner.

  ‘This telegram complicates the affair,’ he murmured. ‘But we must be quick—extremely quick.’

  Mr Satterthwaite did not see the need for extreme haste, but he agreed politely.

  ‘Certainly, we will go by the first train in the morning. Er—that is to say, is it necessary for us all to go?’

  ‘Sir Charles and I had arranged to go down to Gilling,’ said Egg.

  ‘We can postpone that,’ said Sir Charles.

  ‘I don’t think we ought to postpone anything,’ said Egg. ‘There is no need for all four of us to go to Yorkshire. It’s absurd. Mass formation. M. Poirot and Mr Satterthwaite go to Yorkshire and Sir Charles and I go to Gilling.’

  ‘I’d rather like to look into this Rushbridger business,’ said Sir Charles with a trace of wistfulness. ‘You see, I—er—talked to the Matron before—got my foot in, so to speak.’

  ‘That’s just why you’d better keep away,’ said Egg. ‘You involved yourself in a lot of lies, and now this Rushbridger woman has come to herself you’ll be exposed as a thorough-paced liar. It’s far far more important that you should come to Gilling. If we want to see Miss Milray’s mother she’ll open out to you much more than she would to anyone else. You’re her daughter’s employer, and she’ll have confidence in you.’

  Sir Charles looked into Egg’s glowing, earnest face.

  ‘I’ll come to Gilling,’ he said. ‘I think you’re quite right.’

  ‘I know I’m right,’ said Egg.

  ‘In my opinion an excellent arrangement,’ said Poirot briskly. ‘As mademoiselle says, Sir Charles is preeminently the person to interview this Mrs Milray. Who knows, you may learn from her facts of much more importance than those we shall learn in Yorkshire.’

  Matters were arranged on this basis, and the following morning Sir Charles picked up Egg in his car at a quarter to ten. Poirot and Mr Satterthwaite had already left London by train.

  It was a lovely crisp morning, with just a touch of frost in the air. Egg felt her spirits rising as they turned and twisted through the various short cuts which Sir Charles’s experience had discovered south of the Thames.

  At last, however, they were flying smoothly along the Folkestone road. After passing through Maidstone, Sir Charles consulted a map, and they turned off from the main road and were shortly winding through country lanes. It was about a quarter to twelve when they at last reached their objective.

  Gilling was a village which the world had left behind. It had an old church, a vicarage, two or three shops, a row of cottages, three or four new council houses and a very attractive village green.

  Miss Milray’s mother lived in a tiny house on the other side of the green to the church.

  As the car drew up Egg asked:

  ‘Does Miss Milray know you are going to see her mother?’

  ‘Oh, yes. She wrote to prepare the old lady.’

  ‘Do you think that was a good thing?’

  ‘My dear child, why not?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know…You didn’t bring her down with you, though.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I thought she might cramp my style. She’s so much more efficient than I am—she’d probably try to prompt me.’

  Egg laughed.

  Mrs Milray turned out to be almost ludicrously unlike her daughter. Where Miss Milray was hard, she was soft, where Miss Milray was angular, she was round. Mrs Milray was an immense dumpling of awoman immovably fixed in an armchair conveniently placed so that she could, from the window, observe all that went on in the world outside.

  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 communic
ative 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.’