MARGARET DE RUSHBRIDGER
"Airs. de Rushbridger!" cried Sir Charles.
"We were right, after all! She has got something
to do with the case." And he added:
"Margaret--M. The initial in Tollie's diary.
At last we're getting somewhere."
Twenty-Four
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.
t<'T'i<;^ <-.Q,i^rr>>.m-r>> ^rn-nnlipatps 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 that 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 far more than she would to any one 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 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 for 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' 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
rnoin rnad 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 from 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 a woman,
immovably fixed in an armchair conveniently
placed, so tha she would, 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. Mitray, all
about the tragic death of Mr. Babbington,
wi^ nc^d in he 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 Violet
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 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 Arm 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 to 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 persistent creature you are. Egg.
Why do you want to know?"
"Because you won't tell me."
"You adorable child," said Sir Charles.
"I'm not a child."
"Aren't you? I wonder."
"Tell me," whispered Egg softly.
A humorous and rueful smile twisted Sir
Charles' 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."
"w/rMiirln'r have taken me far in my ca
reer, 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 sound nonchalant.
For some reason or other, she felt it
was imperative to change the subject. She
hurried on:
"I wonder what Oliver is doing today?"
"Manders? Why do you want to think
about him?"
Egg said: "I'm very fond of Oliver."
Somehow, it pleased her to say that. She
stole a glance sideways at Sir Charles. Would
he look at all jealous? Certainly he was frowning.
Then suddenly Egg felt a twinge of remorse.
Poor Oliver. It was a shame dragging
him in like that.
She said: "It's getting cold; let's go."
FR1;She shivered as she spoke. The sun had
gone in.
She thought: "What a funny feeling I've
got. It might be a premonition."
She shivered again.
"I wonder," she said, "if the others have
found out anything?"
Sir Charles seemed absentminded.
"The others? What others?"
"In Yorkshire."
"Somehow," said Sir Charles, "today I
don't feel as though I cared."
"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 it over to Mustachios. 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?"
"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 dear, what do I care for Miss
Milray's worries? What do I care for anything
but today? Let murder go hang."
They arrived back at Sir Charles5 flat for
tea. Miss Milray came out to meet them.
"There is a telegram for you. Sir Charles."
"Thank you. Miss Milray."
He tore it open and swung round with a
quick exclamation: "Egg, look at this! It's
from Satterthwaite!"
He shoved the telegram into her hands.
Egg read it and her eyes opened wide.
Twenty-Five
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 importance to tell them.
Mrs. de Rushbridger was only mentioned in
Sir Bartholomew's case book 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."
Tiwr werp 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 after 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.
"Yes, since ten o'clock they've been here."
"The police?" said Hercule Poirot.
"Perhaps we could see Mrs. de Rushbridger
now," suggested Mr. Satterthwaite.
"Since she asked us to come."
The matron interrupted him:
"Oh, Mr. Satterthwaite, then you don't
know!"
"Know what?" demanded Poirot sharply.
"Poor Mrs. de Rushbridger. She's dead."
"Dead?" cried Poirot. "Milk tonneres! That
explains it. Yes, that explains it. I should
have seen--" He broke off. "How did she
die?"
"It's most mysterious. A box of chocolates
came for her--liqueur chocolates--by post.
She ate one; it must have tasted horrible, but
she was taken by surprise, I suppose, and
she swallowed it. One doesn't like spitting a
thing out."
"Oui, oui, and if a liquid runs suddenly
down your throat, it is difficult."
"So she swallowed it and called out, and
nurse came rushing, but we couldn't do anything.
She died in about two minutes. Then
doctor sent for the police, and they came and
examined the chocolates. All the top layer
had been tampered with; the underneath ones
were all right."
"And the poison employed?"
"They think it's nicotine."
"Yes," said Poirot. "Again nicotine. What
a stroke! What an audacious stroke!"
"We are too late," said Mr. Satterthwaite.
"We shall never know now what she had to
tell us. Unless--unless she confided in someone?"
He glanced interrogatively at the matron.
Poirot shook his head. "There will have
been no confidence, you will find."
"We can ask," said Mr. Satterthwaite.
"One of the nurses, perhaps?"
"By all means ask," said Poirot, but he
did not sound hopeful.
Mr. Satterthwaite turned to the matron, who immediately sent for the two nurses, on day and night duty respectively, who
had been in attendance on Mrs. de Rushbridger,
but neither of them could add any
information to that already given. Mrs. de
Rushbridger had never mentioned Sir
Bartholomew's death, and they did not even
know of the dispatching of the telegram.
On a request from Poirot, the two men
were taken to the dead woman's room. They
found Superintendent Crossfield in charge, and Mr. Satterthwaite introduced him to Poirot.
Then the two men moved over to the bed
and stood looking down on the dead woman.
She was about forty, dark-haired and pale.
Her face was not peaceful; it still showed the
agony of her death.
Mr. Satterthwaite said slowly:
"Poor soul."
He looked across at Hercule Poirot. There
was a strange expression on the little Belgian's
face. Something about it made Mr.
Satterthwaite shiver.
Mr. Satterthwaite said:
"Someone knew she was going to speak
and killed her. She was killed in order to
prevent her speaking."
Poirot nodded.
"Yes, that is so."
"She was murdered to prevent her telling
us what she knew."
"Or what she did not know. But let us not
waste time. There is much to be done. There
must be no more deaths. We must see to
that."
Mr. Satterthwaite asked curiously:
"Does this fit in with your idea of the
murderer's identity?"
"Yes, it fits. But I realize one thing: The
murderer is more dangerous than I thought.
We must be careful."
Superintendent Crossfield followed them
out of the room and learned from them of
the telegram which had been received by
them. The telegram had been handed in at
M^lfnrt Pnst Offlrp. and nn inauirv there, it
was elicited that it had been handed in by a
small boy. The young lady in charge remembered
it, because the message had excited
her very much, mentioning, as it did. Sir
Bartholomew Strange's death.
After some lunch in company with the
superintendent, and after dispatching a telegram
to Sir Charles, the quest was resumed.
At six o'clock that evening, the small boy
who had handed in the telegram was found.
He told his story promptly. He had been
given the telegram by a man dressed in
shabby clothes. The man told him that the
telegram had been given him by a "loony
lady" in the "house in the park." She had
dropped it out of the window wrapped round
two half crowns. The man was afraid to be
mixed up in some funny business, and was
tramping in the other direction, so he had
given the boy two and six, and told him to
keep the change.
A search would be instituted for the man.
In the meantime there seemed nothing more
to be done, and Poirot and Mr. Satterthwaite
returned to London.
It was close on midnight when the two
men arrived back in town. Egg had gone
back to her mother, but Sir Charles met
FR1;them and the three men discussed the situation.
^Mon ami," said Poirot, "be guided by
me. Only one thing will solve this case--the
little gray cells of the brain. To rush up and
down England, to hope that this person and
that will tell us what we want to know--all
such methods are amateurish and absurd.
The truth can only be seen from within."
Sir Charles looked slightly skeptical.
"What do you want to do, then?"
"I want to think. I ask of you twenty-four
hours in which to think."
Sir Charles shook his head with a slight
smile.
"Will thinking tell you what it was that
this woman could have said if she lived?"
"I believe so."
"It hardly seems possible. However, M.
Poirot, you must have it your own way. If
you can see through this mystery, it's more
than I can. I'm beaten, and I confess it. In
any case, I've other fish to fry."
Perhaps he hoped to be questioned, but if
so, his expectation was disappointed. Mr.
Satterthwaite did indeed look up alertly, but
Poirot remained lost in thought.
"W^ll T must he off." said the actor. . . .
"Oh, just one thing. I'm rather worried about
Miss Wills."
"What about her?"
"She's gone."
Poirot stared at him.
"Gone? Gone where?"
"Nobody knows. I was thinking things
over after I got your telegram. As I told you
at the time, I felt convinced that that woman
knew something she hadn't told us. I thought
I'd have a last shot at getting it out of her. I
drove out to her house--it was about halfpast
nine when I got there--and asked for
her. It appears she left home this morning--
went up to London for the day--that's what
she said. Her people got a telegram in the
evening, saying she wasn't returning for a
day or so, and not to worry."
"And were they worrying?"
"I gather they were, rather. You see, she
hadn't taken any luggage with her."
"Odd," murmured Poirot.
"I know. It seems as though--I don't
know. I feel uneasy."
"I warned her," said Poirot. "I warned
everyone. You remember, I said to them,
"Speak now.' "
"Yes, yes. Do you think that she too--"
"I have my ideas," said Poirot. "For the
moment, I prefer not to discuss them."
"First the butler, EUis, then Miss Wills.
Where is EUis? It's incredible that the police
have never been able to lay hands on him."
"They have not looked for his body in the
right place," said Poirot.
"Then you agree with Egg. You think
that he is dead?"
"EUis will never be seen alive again."
"It's a nightmare!" burst out Sir Charles.
"The whole thing is utterly incomprehensible!"
"No, no. It is sane and logical, on the
contrary."
Sir Charles stared at him.
"You say that?"
"Certainly. You see, I have the orderly
mind."
"I don't understand you."
Mr. Satterthwaite, too, looked curiously at
the little detective.
"What kind of mind have I?" demanded
Sir Charles, slightly hurt.
"You have the actor's mind. Sir Charles, creative, original, seeing always dramatic values. Mr. Satterthwaite here, he has the playgoer's
mind; he observes the characters, he
l->>r>>o 1-ltct octi-to^ rvF ol-mrtcr^hfrp Rnt mf. T have
the prosaic mind. I see only the facts, without
any dramatic trappings or footlights."
"Then we're to leave you to it?"
"That is my idea. For twenty-four hours."
"Good luck to you, then. Good night."
As they went away together. Sir Charles
said to Mr. Satterthwaite:
"That chap thinks a lot of himself."
He spoke rather coldly.
Twenty-Six
poirot did not have quite the uninterrupted
twenty-four hours for which he had stipulated.
It was a little after ten on the following
morning when Oliver Manders sent up his
card and asked if M. Poirot could spare him
a few moments.
When Manders entered the room, Poirot
was in the act of unwrapping a small parcel.
He laid it aside and looked inquiringly at his
visitor.
"Good morning, M. Manders," he said.
"You wished to see me?"
"Yes."
Oliver hesitated. Poirot drew forward a
chair.
"Sit, I pray of you. . . . Now we can
converse at our ease."
Oliver accented the chair, but he still
seemed a little doubtful as how best to come
to the point of his visit.
"Eh bien?" said Poirot. "What is it that
you seek? Do you come to render me a
service? Or is it that you want me to do you
one?"
"I don't know," said Oliver slowly.
Then suddenly he leaned forward and said
impulsively:
"M. Poirot, you don't like me."
Poirot looked slightly astonished.
"But what an idea--that."
"No, you don't like me. Very few people
do like me. I--I don't know why it is."
All Oliver's languid, supercilious manner
had vanished. He spoke now as boyishly and
naturally as any other young man of his age
might have done. His face, as he leaned
forward, had lost its usual sneering expression.
It showed instead a diffidence and an
eagerness that were somehow a little pathetic.
"But why should you think I do not like
you?" asked Poirot gently.
"Because the day before yesterday, when
you staged that mock murder, it was--it was
a trap for me."
Again Poirot's eyebrows rose.
"How so?"
Oliver replied somberly:
"Because in the bottom of your heart you
believe that it was I who killed old Babbington."
"Quelk idee!"
"No, you think so. I can see that there is
a lot against me, but I'm not a murderer, M.
Poirot. I'm not! I was rude to the old fellow
once--very rude--but if you'll believe me, I
felt miserable about it afterwards. It's as
though there were two of me. One's a hateful
drawling sneering sort of chap, always
posing. The other's npt like that, but he
finds it hard to show himself. Oh, you can't
understand what I mean."
"Yes, yes, I understand very well. Because
I am old, I have not forgotten what it is to
be young." He went on gently: "That is
your complaint, man ami--youth. It is a characteristic
of youth to make itself worse than
it is." With a slightly humorous grimace, he
added: "At my age, one's preoccupation is to
arrange one's goods well in the shop
window."
"You understand, then?" Oliver looked
grateful. A really charming smile came over
his face. "You don't know what a difference
it makes if someone's willing to make the
"You have not had the life very happy,
eh?"
Oliver's face hardened.
"No."
"Listen; now I will give you advice. Your
life is your own, to make of what you will.
Bitterness leads nowhere. It turns back on
itself. It is the eternal cul-de-sac. Put it away
from you now, before it is too late."
"You're right, M. Poirot. I'm going to put
everything behind me and start afresh."
"Good."
Poirot nodded approval, and then went
on: "And the next thing?"
Oliver looked rather surprised.
"The next thing?"
"Mais oui. I fancied you had something
else to say, but perhaps I am wrong."
"No, no, you're right. There is something
more. I want you to let me work with you
over this business. You trust me now. Let
me help you."
"Help me? In what way?"
"I don't know. There must be some way
in which I could be useful. I fancy--I may
be wrong--that you are very hot on the
trail."
He waited rather breathlessly for Poirot's
answer, which was a little slow in coming.
"It is possible," he said, "that you may be
able to help me, soon."
"Oh, I say, that's grand."
Oliver waited a minute or two, but Poirot
said no more.
"If you could just tell me the way your
suspicions are pointing--"
Hercule Poirot shook his head.
"That--not just yet. I am of an unbelievable
secrecy."
Oliver's ear was sensitive enough to catch
the underlying firmness in Poirot's voice. He
insisted no further, but took his leave with a
few further words of thanks.
There was a strange smile on Poirot's face
as young Oliver Manders left the room.
He murmured to himself, "I underrated
that young man."
Then he picked up his half-unwrapped
package.
It was twenty minutes past eleven when
Egg walked in unannounced. To her amazement, she found the great detective engaged in building card houses.
Her face showed such lively scorn that
Poirot was impelled to defend himself.
"It is not, mademoiselle, that I have become
childish in my old age. No. But the
building of card houses, I have always found
it most stimulating to the mind. It is an old
habit of mine. This morning, first thing, I
go out and buy the pack of cards. Unfortunately, I make an error; they are not real cards. But they do just as well."
Egg looked more closely at the erection on
the table. She laughed.
"Good heavens, they've sold you Happy
Families."
"What is that you say--the Happy Family?"
"Yes, it's a game. Children play it in the
nursery."
"Ah, well, one can compose the houses
just in the same manner."
Egg had picked up some of the cards from
the table and was looking at them affectionately.
"Master Bun, the baker's son--I always
loved him. And here's Mr. Mug, the milkman.
Oh, dear, I wish Sir Charles were here.
I'd show him his portrait."
"Why is that funny picture Sir Charles, mademoiselle?"
"Because of the name."
Egg laughed at his bewildered face, and
then began explaining. When she had finished, he said:
"Ah, c'est ca. Cartwright, it is the nom de
theatre. Mugg--ah, yes, one says in slang, does not one, you are a mug--a fool? Naturally, you would change your name. One
would not like to be Sir Charles Mugg, eh?"
Egg laughed. She said:
"To be Lady Mugg would be worse."
Poirot looked at her keenly and she
blushed.
"C'est comme SSa?"
"Not at all," said Egg. "I don't know
what you mean." She went on quickly: "This
is what I came to see you about. I've been
worrying and worrying about that cutting
from the paper that Oliver dropped from his
wallet. You know, the one Miss Wills picked
up and handed back to him. It seems to me
that either Oliver is telling a downright lie
when he says he doesn't remember its being
there, or else it never was there. He dropped some odd bit of paper and that woman pretended it was the nicotine cutting."
"Why should she have done that, mademoiselle?"
"Because she wanted to get rid of it. She
planted it on Oliver."
"You mean she is the criminal?"
"Yes."
"What was her motive?"
"It's no eood asking me that. I can only
suggest that she's a lunatic. Clever people
often are rather mad. I can't see any other
reason--in fact, I can't see any motive
anywhere."
"Decidedly, that is the impasse. I should
not ask you to guess at a motive. It is of
myself that I ask that question without ceasing:
What was the motive behind Mr.
Babbington's death? When I can answer that, the case will be solved."
"You don't think just madness--" suggested
Egg.
"There must still be a motive--a mad
motive, if you like, but a motive. That is
what I seek."
"Well, good-by," said Egg. "I'm sorry to
have disturbed you, but the idea just occurred
to me. I must hurry. I'm going with
Charles to the dress rehearsal of Little Dog
Laughed--you know, the play Miss Wills
has written for Angela Sutcliffe. It's the first
night tomorrow."
"Mon Dieu!" cried Poirot.
"WTiat is it? Has anything happened?"
"Yes, indeed, something has happened.
An idea. A superb idea. Oh, but I have been
blind--blind."
Egg stared at him. As though realizing his
eccentricity, Poirot took a hold on himself.
He patted Egg on the shoulder.
"You think I am mad. Not at all. I heard
what you said. You go to see the Little Dog
Laughed and Miss Sutcliffe acts in it. Go
then, and pay no attention to what I have
said."
Rather doubtfully. Egg departed. Left to
himself, Poirot strode up and down the room
muttering under his breath. His eyes shone
green as any cat's.
^Mais oui, that explains everything. A curious
motive--a very curious motive--such a
motive as I have never come across before, and yet it is reasonable and, given the circumstances, natural. Altogether it is a very
curious case."
He passed the table where his card house
still reposed. With a sweep of his hands he
swept the cards from the table.
"The Happy Family, I need it no longer,"
he said. "The problem is solved. It only
remains to act."
He caught up his hat and put on his overcoat.
Then he went downstairs and the
commissionaire called him a taxi. Poirot gave
the address of Sir Charles' flat.
\--:,^ri rk^r^ hp naid off the taxi and
taking up the lift. Poirot walked up the stairs.
Just as he arrived on the second floor, the
door of Sir Charles" flat opened and Miss
Milray came out.
She started when she saw Poirot.
"You!"
Poirot smiled.
"Me! Or is it I? Enfin, mm!"
Miss Milray said:
"I'm afraid you won't find Sir Charles.
He's gone to the Babylon Theater with Miss
Lytton Gore."
"It is not Sir Charles I seek. It is my stick
that I think I have left behind one day."
"Oh, I see. Well, if you'll ring. Temple
will find it for you. I'm sorry I can't stop.
I'm on my way to catch a train. I'm going to
the country to see my mother."
"I comprehend. Do not let me delay you,
mademoiselle."
He stood aside and Miss Milray passed
rapidly down the stairs. She was carrying a
small attache case.
But when she had gone, Poirot seemed to
forget the purpose for which he had come.
Instead of going on up to the landing, he
turned and made his way downstairs again.
He arrived at the front door just in time to
taxi was coming slowly along the curb. Poirot
raised a hand and it came to rest. He got in
and directed the driver to follow the other
taxi.
No surprise showed on his face when the
first taxi went north and finally drew up at
Paddington Station, though Paddington is an
odd station from which to proceed to Gilling.
Poirot went to the first-class booking window
and demanded a return ticket to
Loomouth. The train was due to depart in
five minutes. Pulling up his overcoat well
about his ears, for the day was cold, Poirot
ensconced himself in the corner of a firstclass
carriage.
They arrived at Loomouth about five
o'clock. It was already growing dark. Standing
back a little, Poirot heard Miss Milray
being greeted by the friendly porter at the
little station:
"Well, now, miss, we didn't expect you.
Is Sir Charles coming down?"
Miss Milray replied: (
"I've come down here unexpectedly. I shall
be going back tomorrow morning. I've just
come to fetch some things. No, I don't want
a cab, thank you. I'll walk up by the cliff
path."
>> walked briskly up the steep zigzag path. A
good way behind came Hercule Poirot. He
trod softly, like a cat. Miss Milray, on arrival
at Crow's Nest, produced a key from her
bag and passed through the side door, leaving
it ajar. She reappeared a minute or two
later. She had a rusty door key and an electric
torch in her hand. Poirot drew back a
little behind a convenient bush.
Miss Milray passed round behind the house
and up a scrambling, overgrown path.
Hercule Poirot followed. Up and up went
Miss Milray, until she came suddenly to an
old stone tower such as is found often on
that coast. This one was of humble and dilapidated
appearance. There was, however, a
curtain over the dirty window, and Miss
Milray inserted her key in the big wooden
door.
The key turned with a protesting creak.
The door swung with a groan on its hinges.
Miss Milray and her torch passed inside.
With an increase of pace, Poirot caught
up. He passed, in his turn, noiselessly
through the door. The light of Miss Milray's
torch gleamed fitfully on glass--retorts, a
Bunsen burner, various apparatus.
Miss Milray had picked up a crowbar. She had raked it and was holding it over the glass apparatus when a hand caught her by
the arm. She gasped and turned.
The green, catlike eyes of Hercule Poirot
looked into hers.
"You cannot do that, mademoiselle^ he
said. "For what you seek to destroy is evidence."
Twenty-Seven
hercule poirot sat in a big armchair. The
wall lights had been turned out. Only a roseshaded
lamp shed its glow on the figure in
the armchair. There seemed something symbolic
about it--he alone in the light, and the
other three. Sir Charles, Mr. Satterthwaite
and Egg Lytton Gore--Poirot's audience-sitting in outer darkness. Hercule Poirot's voice was dreamy. He
seemed to be addressing himself to space
rather than to his listeners:
"To reconstruct the crime--that is the aim
of the detective. To reconstruct a crime, you
must place one fact upon another just as you
place one card on another in building a house
of cards. And if the facts will not fit--if the
card will not balance--well, you must start
your house again, or else it will fall.
"As I said the other day, there are differ-rwi-i-irr^o r>>f minric* rl-ipr^ is the dramatic mind, the producer's mind, which sees the
effect of reality that can be produced by
mechanical appliances; there is also the mind
that reacts easily to dramatic appearances;
and there is the young romantic mind; and
finally, my friends, there is the prosaic
mind--the mind that sees, not blue sea and
mimosa trees, but the painted backcloth of
stage scenery.
"So I come, mes amis, to the murder of
Stephen Babbington in August last. On that
evening. Sir Charles Cartwright advanced the
theory that Stephen Babbington had been
murdered. I did not agree with that theory. I
could not believe (A) that such a man as
Stephen Babbington was likely to have been
murdered, and (B) that it was possible to
administer poison to a particular person under
the circumstances that had obtained that
evening.
"Now, here I admit that Sir Charles was
right and I was wrong. I was wrong because
I was looking at the crime from an entirely
false angle. It is only twenty-four hours ago
that I suddenly perceived the proper angle of
vision--and let me say that from that angle
of vision, the murder of Stephen Babbington
is both reasonable and possible.
"But I will pass from that point for the
moment and take you step by step along the
path I myself have trodden. The death of
Stephen Babbington I may call the first act
of our drama. The curtain fell on that act
when we all departed from Crow's Nest.
"What I might call the second act of the
drama began in Monte Carlo, when Mr.
Satterthwaite showed me the newspaper account
of Sir Bartholomew's death. It was
at once clear that I had been wrong and Sir
Charles had been right. Both Stephen
Babbington and Sir Bartholomew Strange had
been murdered, and the two murders formed
part of one and the same crime. Later a
third murder completed the series--the murder
of Mrs. de Rushbridger.
"What we need, therefore, is a reasonable
common-sense theory which will link those
three deaths together--in other words, those
three crimes were committed by one and the
same person and were to the advantage and
benefit of that particular person.
"Now, I may say at once that the principal
thing that worried me was the fact that
the murder of Sir Bartholomew Strange came
after that of Stephen Babbington. Looking at
those three murders without distinction of
time and place, the probabilities pointed to
the murder of Sir Bartholomew Strange be
ing what one might call the central or principal
crime, and the two other murders as
secondary in character--that is, arising from
the connection of those two people with Sir
Bartholomew Strange. However, as I remarked
before, one cannot have one^s crime
as one would like to have it. Stephen
Babbington had been murdered first and Sir
Bartholomew Strange some time later. It
seemed, therefore, as though the second
crime must necessarily arise out of the first, and that, accordingly, it was the first crime we must examine for the clue to the whole.
"I did indeed so far incline to the theory
of probability that I seriously considered the
idea of a mistake having arisen. Was it possible
that Sir Bartholomew Strange was intended
as the first victim and that Mr.
Babbington was poisoned by mistake? I was
forced, however, to abandon that idea. Anybody
who knew Sir Bartholomew Strange
with any degree of intimacy knew that he
disliked the cocktail habit.
"Another suggestion: Had Stephen Babbington
been poisoned in mistake for any
other member of the original party? I could
not find any evidence of such a thing. I was
therefore forced back to the conclusion that
the murder of Steohen Babbineton had been
definitely intended, and at once I came up
against a complete stumbling-block--the apparent
impossibility of such a thing having happened.
"One should always start an investigation
with the simplest and most obvious theories.
Granting that Stephen Babbington had drunk
a poisoned cocktail, who had had the opportunity
of poisoning that cocktail? At first
sight, it seemed to me that the only two
people who could have done so--for example, those who handled the drinks--were Sir Charles Cartwright himself and the parlormaid,
Temple. But though either of them
could presumably have introduced the poison
into the glass, neither of them had had
any opportunity of directing that particular
glass into Mr. Babbington's hand. Temple
might have done so by adroit handing of the
tray so as to offer him the one remaining
glass--not easy, but it might have been done.
Sir Charles could have done so by deliberately
picking up the particular glass and
handing it to him. But neither of these things
occurred. It looked as though chance, and
chance alone, directed that particular glass to
Stephen Babbington.
"Sir Charles Cartwright and Temple had
the handling of the cocktails. Were either of
those two at Melfort Abbey? They were not.
Who had the best chance of tampering with
Sir Bartholomew's port glass? The absconding
butler, Ellis, and his helper, the
parlormaid. But here, however, the possibility
that one of the guests had done so could