Agatha Christie - Three Act Tragedy

Finally Temple was dismissed.

“Pah,” cried Poirot. “It does not make sense. Temple is the last person to handle those cocktails, but it was impossible for her to tamper with them in any way, and, as I say, one cannot force a cocktail on a particular person.”

“It’s instinctive to take the one nearest to you,” said Sir Charles.

“Possibly that might work by handing the tray to the person first – but then it would be very uncertain. The glasses are close together; one does not look particularly nearer than another. No, no, such a haphazard method could not adopted. Tell me, Mr. Satterthwaite, did Mr. Babbington put his cocktail down, or did he retain it in his hand?”

“He put it down on this table.”

“Did anyone come near that table after he had done so?”

“No. I was the nearest person to him, and I assure you I did not tamper with it in any way – even if I could have done so unobserved.”

Mr. Satterthwaite spoke rather stiffly. Poirot hastened to apologise.

“No, no, I am not making an accusation – quelle idée ! But I want to be very sure of my facts. According to the analysis there was nothing out of the way in that cocktail – now it seems that, apart from that analysis there could have been nothing put in it. The same results from two different tests. But Mr. Babbington ate or drank nothing else, and if he was poisoned by pure nicotine, death would have resulted very rapidly. You see where that leads us?”

“Nowhere, damn it all,” said Sir Charles.

“I would not say that – no, I would not say that. It suggests a very monstrous idea – which I hope and trust cannot be true. No, of course it is not true – the death of Sir Bartholomew proves that… And yet – ”

He frowned, lost in thought. The others watched him curiously. He looked up.

“You see my point, do you not? Mrs. Babbington was not at Melfort Abbey, therefore Mrs. Babbington is cleared of suspicion.”

Poirot smiled beneficently.

“No? It is a curious thing that. The idea occurred to me at once – but at once. If the poor gentleman is not poisoned by the cocktail, then he must have been poisoned a very few minutes before entering the house. What way could there be? A capsule? Something, perhaps, to prevent indigestion. But who, then, could tamper with that? Only a wife. Who might, perhaps, have a motive that no one outside could possibly suspect? Again a wife.”

“But they were devoted to each other,” cried Egg indignantly. “You don’t understand a bit.”

Poirot smiled kindly at her.

“No. That is valuable. You know, but I do not. I see the facts unbiased by any preconceived notions. And let me tell you something, mademoiselle – in the course of my experience I have known five cases of wives murdered by devoted husband, and twenty-two of husbands murdered by devoted wives. Les femmes , they obviously keep up appearances better.”

“I think you’re perfectly horrid,” said Egg. “I know the Babbingtons are not like that. It’s – it’s monstrous!”

“Murder is monstrous, mademoiselle,” said Poirot, and there was a sudden sternness in his voice.

He went on in a lighter tone.

“But I – who see only the facts – agree that Mrs. Babbington did not do this thing. You see, she was not at Melfort Abbey. No, as Sir Charles had already said, the guilt must lie on a person who was present on both occasions – one of the seven on your list.”

There was a silence.

“And how do you advise us to act?” asked Satterthwaite.

“You have doubtless already your plan?” suggested Poirot.

Sir Charles cleared his throat.

“The only feasible thing seems to be a process of elimination,” he said. “My idea was to take each person on that list and consider them guilty until they are proved innocent. I mean that we are to feel convinced ourselves that there is a connection between that person and Stephen Babbington, and we are to use ingenuity to find out what that connection can be. If we find no connection, then we pass on to the next person.”

“It is good psychology, that,” approved Poirot. “And your method?”

“That we have not yet had time to discuss. We should welcome your advice on that point, M. Poirot. Perhaps you yourself – ”

Poirot held up a hand.

“My friend, do not ask me to do anything of an active nature. It is my lifelong conviction that any problem is best solved by thought. Let me hold what is called, I believe, the watching brief. Continue your investigation which Sir Charles is so ably directing – ”

“And what about me?” thought Mr. Satterthwaite. “These actors! Always in the limelight playing the star part!”

“You will, perhaps, from time to time require what we may describe as Counsel’s opinion. Me, I am the Counsel.”

He smiled at Egg.

“Does that strike you as the sense, mademoiselle?”

“Excellent,” said Egg. “I’m sure your experience will be very useful to us.”

Her face looked relieved. She glanced at her watch and gave an exclamation.

“I must go home. Mother will have a fit.”

“I’ll drive you home,” said Sir Charles.

They went out together.

“So, you see, the fish has risen,” said Hercule Poirot.

Mr. Satterthwaite, who had been looking at the door which had just closed behind the other two, gave a start as he turned to Poirot. The latter was smiling with a hint of mockery.

“Yes, yes, do not deny it. Deliberately you showed me the bait that day in Monte Carlo. Is it not so? You showed me the paragraph in the paper. You hoped that it would arouse my interest – that I should occupy myself with the affair.”

“It is true,” confessed Mr. Satterthwaite. “But I thought that I had failed.”

“No, no, you did not fail. You are a shrewd judge of human nature, my friend. I was suffering from ennui – I had – in the words of the child who was playing near us – ‘nothing to do.’ You came at the psychological moment. (And, talking of that, how much crime depends, too, on that psychological moment. The crime, the psychology, they go hand in hand.) But let us come back to our muttons. This is a crime very intriguing – it puzzles me completely.”

“Which crime – the first or the second?”

“There is only one – what you call the first and second murder are only the two halves of the same crime. The second half is simple – the motive – the means adopted – ”

Mr. Satterthwaite interrupted.

“Surely the means present an equal difficulty. There was no poison found in any of the wine, and the food was eaten by everybody.”

“No, no, it is quite different. In the first case it does not seem as though anybody could have poisoned Stephen Babbington. Sir Charles, if he had wanted to, could have poisoned one of his guests, but not any particular guest. Temple might possibly have slipped something into the last glass on the tray – but Mr. Babbington’s was not the last glass. No, the murder of Mr. Babbington seems so impossible that I still feel that perhaps it is impossible – that he died a natural death after all… But that we shall soon know. The second case is different. Any one of the guests present, or the butler or parlourmaid, could have poisoned Bartholomew Strange. That presents no difficulty whatever.”

“I don’t see – ” began Mr. Satterthwaite.

Poirot went on:

“I will prove that to you some time by a little experiment. Let us pass on to another and most important matter. It is vital, you see (and you will see, I am sure, you have the sympathetic heart and the delicate understanding), that I must not play the part of what you call the spoilsport.”