Agatha Christie - Three Act Tragedy

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 communicative 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.”

She could not, however, tell them much about him.

After lunch they went to the church and looked through the register of births, marriages and deaths. Here again there seemed nothing hopeful or suggestive.

They came out into the churchyard and lingered. Egg read the names on the tombstones.

“What queer names there are,” she said. “Listen, here’s a whole family of Stavepennys and here’s a Mary Ann Sticklepath.”

“None of them so queer as mine,” murmured Sir Charles.

“Cartwright? I don’t think that’s a queer name at all.”

“I didn’t mean Cartwright. Cartwright’s my acting name, and I finally adopted it legally.”

“What’s your real name?”

“I couldn’t possibly tell you. It’s my guilty secret.”

“Is it as terrible as all that?”

“It’s not so much terrible as humorous.”

“Oh – tell it me.”

“Certainly not,” said Sir Charles firmly.

“Please.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You’d laugh.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“You wouldn’t be able to help laughing.”

“Oh, please tell me. Please, please, please.”

“What a persistence creature you are, Egg. Why do you want to know?”

“Because you won’t tell me.”

“You adorable child,” said Sir Charles a little unsteadily.

“I’m not a child.”

“Aren’t you? I wonder.”

“Tell me,” whispered Egg softly.

A humorous and rueful smile twisted Sir Charles’s mouth.

“Very well, here goes. My father’s name was Mugg.”

“Not really?”

“Really and truly.”

“H’m,” said Egg. “That is a bit catastrophic. To go through life as Mugg – ”

“Wouldn’t have taken me far in my career. I agree. I remember, went on Sir Charles dreamily, I played with the idea (I was young then) of calling myself Ludovic Castiglione – but I eventually compromised on British alliteration as Charles Cartwright.”

“Are you really Charles?”

“Yes, my godfathers and godmothers saw to that.” He hesitated, then said, “Why don’t you say Charles – and drop the Sir?”

“I might.”

“You did yesterday. When – when – you thought I was dead.”

“Oh, then.” Egg tried to make her voice nonchalant.

Sir Charles said abruptly: “Egg, somehow or other this murder business doesn’t seem real any more. Today especially, it seems fantastic. I meant to clear the thing up before – before anything else. I’ve been superstitious about it. I’ve associated success in solving problems with – with another kind of success. Oh, damn, why do I beat about the bush? I’ve made love on the stage so often that I’m diffident about it in real life… Is it me or is it young Manders, Egg? I must know. Yesterday I thought it was me… ”

“You thought right… ”

“You incredible angel,” cried Sir Charles.

“Charles, Charles, you can’t kiss me in a churchyard… ”

“I shall kiss you anywhere I please… ”

“We’ve found out nothing,” said Egg later, as they were speeding back to London.

“Nonsense, we’ve found out the only thing worth finding out… What do I care about dead clergymen or dead doctors? You’re the only thing that matters… You know, my dear, I’m thirty years older than you – are you sure it doesn’t matter?”

Egg pinched his arm gently.

“Don’t be silly… I wonder if the others have found out anything!”

“They’re welcome to it,” said Sir Charles generously.

“Charles – you used to be so keen.”

But Sir Charles was no longer playing the part of the great detective.

“Well, it was my own show. Now I’ve handed over to Moustachios. It’s his business.”

“Do you think he really knows who committed the crimes? He said he did.”

“Probably hasn’t the faintest idea, but he’s got to keep up his professional reputation.”

Egg was silent. Sir Charles said:

“What are you thinking about, darling?”

“I was thinking about Miss Milray. She was so odd in her manner that evening I told you about. She had just bought the paper about the exhumation, and she said she didn’t know what to do.”

“Nonsense,” said Sir Charles cheerfully. “That woman always knows what to do.”

“Do be serious, Charles. She sounded – worried.”

“Egg, my sweet, what do I care for Miss Milray’s worries? What do I care for anything but you and me?”

“You’d better pay some attention to the trams!” said Egg. “I don’t want to be widowed before I’m a wife.”

They arrived back at Sir Charles’s flat for tea. Miss Milray came out to meet them.

“There is a telegram for you, Sir Charles.”

“Thank you, Miss Milray.” He laughed, a nervous boyish laugh. “Look here, I must tell you our news. Miss Lytton Gore and I are going to get married.”

There was a moment’s pause, and then Miss Milray said:

“Oh! I’m sure – I’m sure you’ll be very happy.”

There was a queer note in her voice. Egg noticed it, but before she could formulate her impression Charles Cartwright had swung round to her with a quick exclamation.

“My God, Egg, look at this. It’s from Satterthwaite.”

He shoved the telegram into her hands. Egg read it, and her eyes opened wide.

Before catching their train Hercule Poirot and Mr. Satterthwaite had had a brief interview with Miss Lyndon, the late Sir Bartholomew Strange’s secretary. Miss Lyndon had been very willing to help, but had had nothing of important to tell them. Mrs. de Rushbridger was only mentioned in Sir Bartholomew’s casebook in a purely professional fashion. Sir Bartholomew had never spoken of her save in medical terms.

The two men arrived at the Sanatorium about twelve o’clock. The maid who opened the door looked excited and flushed. Mr. Satterthwaite asked first for the Matron.

“I don’t know whether she can see you this morning,” said the girl doubtfully.

Mr. Satterthwaite extracted a card and wrote a few words on it.

“Please take her this.”

They were shown into a small waiting room. In about five minutes the door opened and the Matron came in. she was looking quite unlike her usual brisk efficient self.

Mr. Satterthwaite rose.

“I hope you remember me,” he said. “I came here with Sir Charles Cartwright just after the death of Sir Bartholomew Strange.”

“Yes, indeed, Mr. Satterthwaite, of course I remember; and Sir Charles asked for poor Mrs. de Rushbridger then, and it seems such a coincidence.”

“Let me introduce M. Hercule Poirot.”

Poirot bowed and the Matron responded absently. She went on:

“I can’t understand how you can have had a telegram as you say. The whole thing seems most mysterious. Surely it can’t be connected with the poor doctor’s death in any way? There must be some madman about – that’s the only way I can account for it. Having the police here and everything. It’s really been terrible.”

“The police?” said Mr. Satterthwaite, surprised.