Three-Act Tragedy Page 6

  ‘Satterthwaite and I have just come back from abroad,’ said Sir Charles. ‘We’ve only seen snippets here and there in the papers.’

  ‘And naturally you want to know all about it. Well, I’ll tell you exactly how the matter stands. I think there’s no doubt the butler’s the man we’ve got to look for. He was a new man—Sir Bartholomew had only had him a fortnight, and the moment after the crime he disappears—vanishes into thin air. That looks a bit fishy, doesn’t it? Eh, what?’

  ‘You’ve no notion where he went?’

  Colonel Johnson’s naturally red face got a little redder.

  ‘Negligence on our part, you think. I admit it damn’ well looks like it. Naturally the fellow was under observation—just the same as everyone else. He answered our questions quite satisfactorily—gave the London agency which obtained him the place. Last employer, Sir Horace Bird. All very civil spoken, no signs of panic. Next thing was he’d gone—and the house under observation. I’ve hauled my men over the coals, but they swear they didn’t bat an eyelid.’

  ‘Very remarkable,’ said Mr Satterthwaite.

  ‘Apart from everything else,’ said Sir Charles thoughtfully, ‘it seems a damn’ fool thing to do. As far as he knew, the man wasn’t suspected. By bolting he draws attention to himself.’

  ‘Exactly. And not a hope of escape. His description’s been circulated. It’s only a matter of days before he’s pulled in.’

  ‘Very odd,’ said Sir Charles. ‘I don’t understand it.’

  ‘Oh, the reason’s clear enough. He lost his nerve. Got the wind up suddenly.’

  ‘Wouldn’t a man who had the nerve to commit murder have the nerve to sit still afterward?’

  ‘Depends. Depends. I know criminals. Chicken-livered, most of them. He thought he was suspected, and he bolted.’

  ‘Have you verified his own account of himself?’

  ‘Naturally, Sir Charles. That’s plain routine work. London Agency confirms his story. He had a written reference from Sir Horace Bird, recommending him warmly. Sir Horace himself is in East Africa.’

  ‘So the reference might have been forged?’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Colonel Johnson, beaming upon Sir Charles, with the air of a schoolmaster congratulating a bright pupil. ‘We’ve wired to Sir Horace, of course, but it may be some little time before we get a reply. He’s on safari.’

  ‘When did the man disappear?’

  ‘Morning after the death. There was a doctor present at the dinner—Sir Jocelyn Campbell—bit of a toxicologist, I understand; he and Davis (local man) agreed over the case, and our people were called in immediately. We interviewed everybody that night. Ellis (that’s the butler) went to his room as usual and was missing in the morning. His bed hadn’t been slept in.’

  ‘He slipped away under cover of the darkness?’

  ‘Seems so. One of the ladies staying there, Miss Sutcliffe, the actress—you know her, perhaps?’

  ‘Very well, indeed.’

  ‘Miss Sutcliffe has made a suggestion to us. She suggested that the man had left the house through a secret passage.’ He blew his nose apologetically. ‘Sounds rather Edgar Wallace stuff, but it seems there was such a thing. Sir Bartholomew was rather proud of it. He showed it to Miss Sutcliffe. The end of it comes out among some fallen masonry about half a mile away.’

  ‘That would be a possible explanation, certainly,’ agreed Sir Charles. ‘Only—would the butler know of the existence of such a passage?’

  ‘That’s the point, of course. My missus always says servants know everything. Daresay she’s right.’

  ‘I understand the poison was nicotine,’ said Mr Satterthwaite.

  ‘That’s right. Most unusual stuff to use, I believe. Comparatively rare. I understand if a man’s a heavy smoker, such as the doctor was, it would tend to complicate matters. I mean, he might have died of nicotine poisoning in a natural way. Only, of course, this business was too sudden for that.’

  ‘How was it administered?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ admitted Colonel Johnson. ‘That’s going to be the weak part of the case. According to medical evidence, it could only have been swallowed a few minutes previous to death.’

  ‘They were drinking port, I understand?’

  ‘Exactly. Seems as though the stuff was in the port; but it wasn’t. We analysed his glass. That glass had contained port, and nothing but port. The other wine glasses had been cleared, of course, but they were all on a tray in the pantry, unwashed, and not one of them contained anything it shouldn’t. As for what he ate, it was the same as everybody else had. Soup, grilled sole, pheasant and chipped potatoes, chocolate soufflé, soft roes on toast. His cook’s been with him fifteen years. No, there doesn’t seem to be any way he could have been given the stuff, and yet there it is in the stomach. It’s a nasty problem.’

  Sir Charles wheeled round on Mr Satterthwaite.

  ‘The same thing,’ he said excitedly. ‘Exactly the same as before.’

  He turned apologetically to the chief constable.

  ‘I must explain. A death occurred at my house in Cornwall—’

  Colonel Johnson looked interested.

  ‘I think I’ve heard about that. From a young lady—Miss Lytton Gore.’

  ‘Yes, she was there. She told you about it?’

  ‘She did. She was very set on her theory. But, you know, Sir Charles, I can’t believe there’s anything in that theory. It doesn’t explain the flight of the butler. Your man didn’t disappear by any chance?’

  ‘Haven’t got a man—only a parlourmaid.’

  ‘She couldn’t have been a man in disguise?’

  Thinking of the smart and obviously feminine Temple, Sir Charles smiled.

  Colonel Johnson also smiled apologetically.

  ‘Just an idea,’ he said. ‘No, I can’t say I put much reliance in Miss Lytton Gore’s theory. I understand the death in question was an elderly clergyman. Who would want to put an old clergyman out of the way?’

  ‘That’s just the puzzling part of it,’ said Sir Charles.

  ‘I think you’ll find it’s just coincidence. Depend on it, the butler’s our man. Very likely he’s a regular criminal. Unluckily we can’t find any of his fingerprints. We had a fingerprint expert go over his bedroom and the butler’s pantry, but he had no luck.’

  ‘If it was the butler, what motive can you suggest?’

  ‘That, of course, is one of our difficulties,’ admitted Colonel Johnson. ‘The man might have been there with intent to steal, and Sir Bartholomew might have caught him out.’

  ‘Both Sir Charles and Mr Satterthwaite remained courteously silent. Colonel Johnson himself seemed to feel that the suggestion lacked plausibility.

  ‘The fact of the matter is, one can only theorize. Once we’ve got John Ellis under lock and key and have found out who he is, and whether he’s ever been through our hands before—well, the motive may be as clear as day.’

  ‘You’ve been through Sir Bartholomew’s papers, I suppose?’

  ‘Naturally, Sir Charles. We’ve given that side of the case every attention. I must introduce you to Superintendent Crossfield, who has charge of the case. A most reliable man. I pointed out to him, and he was quick to agree with me, that Sir Bartholomew’s profession might have had something to do with the crime. A doctor knows many professional secrets. Sir Bartholomew’s papers were all neatly filed and docketed—his secretary, Miss Lyndon, went through them with Crossfield.’

  ‘And there was nothing?’

  ‘Nothing at all suggestive, Sir Charles.’

  ‘Was anything missing from the house—silver, jewellery, anything like that?’

  ‘Nothing whatsoever.’

  ‘Who exactly was staying in the house?’

  ‘I’ve got a list—now where is it? Ah, I think Crossfield has it. You must meet Crossfield; as a matter of fact, I’m expecting him any minute now to report’—as a bell went—‘that’s probably the man now.’

  Su
perintendent Crossfield was a large, solid-looking man, rather slow of speech, but with a fairly keen blue eye.

  He saluted his superior officer, and was introduced to the two visitors.

  It is possible that had Mr Satterthwaite been alone he would have found it hard to make Crossfield unbend. Crossfield didn’t hold with gentlemen from London—amateurs coming down with ‘ideas’. Sir Charles, however, was a different matter. Superintendent Crossfield had a childish reverence for the glamour of the stage. He had twice seen Sir Charles act, and the excitement and rapture of seeing this hero of the footlights in a flesh-and-blood manner made him as friendly and loquacious as could be wished.

  ‘I saw you in London, sir, I did. I was up with the wife. Lord Aintree’s Dilemma—that’s what the play was. In the pit, I was—and the house was crowded out—we had to stand two hours beforehand. But nothing else would do for the wife. “I must see Sir Charles Cartwright in Lord Aintree’s Dilemma,” she said. At the Pall Mall Theatre, it was.’

  ‘Well,’ said Sir Charles, ‘I’ve retired from the stage now, as you know. But they still know my name at the Pall Mall.’ He took out a card and wrote a few words on it. ‘You give this to the people at the box office next time you and Mrs Crossfield are having a jaunt to town, and they’ll give you a couple of the best seats going.’

  ‘I take that very kindly of you, Sir Charles—very kindly, indeed. My wife will be all worked up when I tell her about this.’

  After this Superintendent Crossfield was as wax in the ex-actor’s hands.

  ‘It’s an odd case, sir. Never come across a case of nicotine poisoning before in all my experience. No more has our Doctor Davis.’

  ‘I always thought it was a kind of disease you got from over-smoking.’

  ‘To tell the truth, so did I, sir. But the doctor says that the pure alkaloid is an odourless liquid, and that a few drops of it are enough to kill a man almost instantaneously.’

  Sir Charles whistled.

  ‘Potent stuff.’

  ‘As you say, sir. And yet it’s in common use, as you might say. Solutions are used to spray roses with. And of course it can be extracted from ordinary tobacco.’

  ‘Roses,’ said Sir Charles. ‘Now, where have I heard—?’

  He frowned, then shook his head.

  ‘Anything fresh to report, Crossfield?’ asked Colonel Johnson.

  ‘Nothing definite, sir. We’ve had reports that our man Ellis has been seen at Durham, at Ipswich, at Balham, at Land’s End, and a dozen other places. That’s all got to be sifted out for what it’s worth.’ He turned to the other two. ‘The moment a man’s description is circulated as wanted, he’s seen by someone all over England.’

  ‘What is the man’s description?’ asked Sir Charles.

  Johnson took up a paper.

  ‘John Ellis, medium height, say five-foot seven, stoops slightly, grey hair, small side whiskers, dark eyes, husky voice, tooth missing in upper jaw, visible when he smiles, no special marks or characteristics.’

  ‘H’m,’ said Sir Charles. ‘Very nondescript, bar the side whiskers and the tooth, and the first will be off by now, and you can’t rely on his smiling.’

  ‘The trouble is,’ said Crossfield, ‘that nobody observes anything. The difficulty I had in getting anything but the vaguest description out of the maids at the Abbey. It’s always the same. I’ve had descriptions of one and the same man, and he’s been called tall, thin, short, stout, medium height, thickset, slender—not one in fifty really uses their eyes properly.’

  ‘You’re satisfied in your own mind, Superintendent, that Ellis is the man?…’

  ‘Why else did he bolt, sir? You can’t get away from that.’

  ‘That’s the stumbling block,’ said Sir Charles thoughtfully.

  Crossfield turned to Colonel Johnson and reported the measures that were being taken. The Colonel nodded approval and then asked the Superintendent for the list of inmates of the Abbey on the night of the crime. This was handed to the two new inquirers. It ran as follows:

  MARTHA LECKIE, cook.

  BEATRICE CHURCH, upper-housemaid.

  DORIS COKER, under-housemaid.

  VICTORIA BALL, between-maid.

  ALICE WEST, parlourmaid.

  VIOLET BASSINGTON, kitchenmaid.

  (Above have all been in service of deceased for some time and bear good character. Mrs Leckie has been there for fifteen years.)

  GLADYS LYNDON—secretary, thirty-three, has been secretary to Sir Bartholomew Strange for three years, can give no information as to likely motive.

  Guests:

  LORD AND LADY EDEN, 187 Cadogan Square.

  SIR JOCELYN and LADY CAMPBELL, 1256 Harley Street.

  MISS ANGELA SUTCLIFFE, 28 Cantrell Mansions, S.W.3.

  CAPTAIN and MRS DACRES, 3 St John’s House, W.1. (Mrs Dacres carries on business as Ambrosine, Ltd, Brook Street.)

  LADY MARY and MISS HERMIONE LYTTON GORE, Rose Cottage, Loomouth.

  MISS MURIEL WILLS, 5 Upper Cathcart Road, Tooting.

  MR OLIVER MANDERS, Messrs Speier & Ross, Old Broad Street, E.C.2.

  ‘H’m,’ said Sir Charles. ‘The Tooting touch was omitted by the papers. I see young Manders was there, too.’

  ‘That’s by way of being an accident, sir,’ said Superintendent Crossfield. ‘The young gentleman ran his car into a wall just by the Abbey, and Sir Bartholomew, who I understood was slightly acquainted with him, asked him to stay the night.’

  ‘Careless thing to do,’ said Sir Charles cheerfully.

  ‘It was that, sir,’ said the Superintendent. ‘In fact, I fancy myself the young gentleman must have had one over the eight, as the saying goes. What made him ram the wall just where he did I can’t imagine, if he was sober at the time.’

  ‘Just high spirits, I expect,’ said Sir Charles.

  ‘Spirits it was, in my opinion, sir.’

  ‘Well, thank you very much, Superintendent. Any objection to our going and having a look at the Abbey, Colonel Johnson?’

  ‘Of course not, my dear sir. Though I’m afraid you won’t learn much more there than I can tell you.’

  ‘Anybody there?’

  ‘Only the domestic staff, sir,’ said Crossfield. ‘The house-party left immediately after the inquest, and Miss Lyndon has returned to Harley Street.’

  ‘We might, perhaps, see Dr—er—Davis, too?’ suggested Mr Satterthwaite.

  ‘Good idea.’

  They obtained the doctor’s address, and having thanked Colonel Johnson warmly for his kindness, they left.

  Chapter 3

  Which Of Them?

  As they walked along the street, Sir Charles said:

  ‘Any ideas, Satterthwaite?’

  ‘What about you?’ asked Mr Satterthwaite. He liked to reserve judgment until the last possible moment.

  Not so Sir Charles. He spoke emphatically:

  ‘They’re wrong, Satterthwaite. They’re all wrong. They’ve got the butler on the brain. The butler’s done a bunk—ergo, the butler’s the murderer. It doesn’t fit. No, it doesn’t fit. You can’t leave that other death out of account—the one down at my place.’

  ‘You’re still of the opinion that the two are connected?’

  Mr Satterthwaite asked the question, though he had already answered it in the affirmative in his own mind.

  ‘Man, they must be connected. Everything points to it…We’ve got to find the common factor—someone who was present on both occasions—’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr Satterthwaite. ‘And that’s not going to be as simple a matter as one might think, on the face of it. We’ve got too many common factors. Do you realize, Cartwright, that practically every person who was present at the dinner at your house was present here?’

  Sir Charles nodded.

  ‘Of course I’ve realized that—but do you realize what deduction one can draw from it?’

  ‘I don’t quite follow you, Cartwright?’

  ‘Dash it all, man, do you suppose t
hat’s coincidence? No, it was meant. Why are all the people who were at the first death present at the second? Accident? Not on your life. It was plan—design—Tollie’s plan.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Mr Satterthwaite. ‘Yes, it’s possible…’

  ‘It’s certain. You didn’t know Tollie as well as I did, Satterthwaite. He was a man who kept his own counsel, and a very patient man. In all the years I’ve known him I’ve never known Tollie give utterance to a rash opinion or judgment.