"I see what you mean," said Mr.
Satterthwaite. "And I agree with you. It is a
chance. But all the same, I don't think we
can take it. It is our duty as citizens to report
this discovery of ours to the police at once.
We have no right to withhold it from them."
Sir Charles looked at him quizzically.
"You're the pattern of a good citizen, Satterthwaite. I've no doubt the orthodox thing must be done, but I'm not nearly such
a good citizen as you are. I should have no
scruples in keeping this find to myself for a
day or two--only a day or two, eh? . . . No?
Well, I give in. Let us be pillars of law and
order."
"You see," explained Mr. Satterthwaite, "Johnson is a friend of mine and he was very decent about it all--let us into all the police
were doing: gave us full information and all
that."
"Oh, you're right," sighed Sir Charles.
"Quite right. Only, after all, no one but me
thought of looking under that gas stove. The
idea never occurred to one of those thickheaded
policemen. But have it your own
way. I say, Satterthwaite, where do you think
Ellis is now?"
"I presume," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "that
he got what he wanted. He was paid to
disappear, and he did disappear, most effectually."
"Yes," said Sir Charles, "I suppose that is
the explanation."
He gave a slight shiver.
"I don't like this room, Satterthwaite.
Come out of it."
Twelve
sir Charles and Mr. Satterthwaite arrived
back in London the following evening.
The interview with Colonel Johnson had
had to be very tactfully conducted. Superintendent
Crossfield had not been too pleased
that mere "gentlemen" should have found
what he and his assistants had missed. He
was at some pains to save his face.
"Very creditable indeed, sir. I confess I
never thought of looking under the gas fire.
As a matter of fact, it beats me what set you
looking there."
The two men had not gone into a detailed
account of how theorizing from an ink blot
had led to the discovery. "Just nosing
around" was how Sir Charles had put it.
"Still, look you did," continued the superintendent.
"And were justified. Not that what
you've found is much surprise to me. You
see, it stands to reason that if Ellis wasn't the
FR1;Her tone implied, "Now that you've come, everything will be all right." Mr. Satterthwaite thought to himself: "But
she wasn't sure he'd come; she wasn't sure at
all. She's been on tenterhooks. She's been
fretting herself to death." And he thought:
"Doesn't the man realize? Actors are usually
vain enough. Doesn't he know the girl's head
over ears in love with him?"
It was, he thought, an odd situation. That
Sir Charles was overwhelmingly in love with
the girl was perfectly plain. She was equally
in love with him. And the link between
them--the link to which each of them clung
frenziedly--was a crime--a double crime of
a revolting nature.
During dinner little was said; Sir Charles
talked about his experiences abroad. Egg
talked about Loomouth. Mr. Satterthwaite
encouraged them both whenever the conversation
seemed likely to flag.
When dinner was over, they went to Mr.
Satterthwaite's house.
Mr. Satterthwaite's house was on Chelsea
Embankment. It was a large house and contained
many beautiful works of art. There
were pictures, sculpture, Chinese porcelain, prehistoric pottery, ivories, miniatures and
--,,^l, ^.^ furniture. It had an atmosphere about it of
mellowness and understanding.
Egg Lytton Gore saw nothing, noticed
nothing. She flung off her evening coat onto
a chair and said:
"At last. Now tell me all about it."
She listened with vivid interest whilst Sir
Charles narrated their adventures in Yorkshire,
drawing in her breath sharply when he
described the discovery of the blackmailing
letters.
"What happened after that we can only
conjecture," finished Sir Charles. "Presumably, Ellis was paid to hold his tongue, and his escape was facilitated."
But Egg shook her head.
"Oh, no," she said. "Don't you see? Ellis
is dead."
Both men were startled, but Egg reiterated
her assertion:
"Of course he's dead. That's why he's
disappeared so successfully that no one can
find a trace of him. He knew too much, and
so he was killed. Ellis is the third murder."
Although neither of the two men had considered
the possibility before, they were
forced to admit that it did not entirely ring
false.
"But look here, my dear girl," argued Sir
Charles. "It's all very well to say Ellis is
dead. Where's the body? There's twelve stone
or so of solid butler to be accounted for."
"I don't know where the body is," said
Egg. "There must be lots of places."
"Hardly," murmured Mr. Satterthwaite.
"Hardly."
"Lots," reiterated Egg. "Let me see." She paused for a moment. "Attics--there are
masses of attics that no one ever goes into.
He's probably in a trunk in the attic."
"Rather unlikely," said Sir Charles. "But
possible, of course. It might evade discovery
for--er--a time."
It was not Egg's way to avoid unpleasantness.
She dealt immediately with the point in
Sir Charles' mind:
"Smell goes up, not down. You'd notice a
decaying body in the cellar much sooner than
in the attic. And anyway, for a long time
people would think it was a dead rat."
"If your theory were correct, it would point
definitely to a man as the murderer. A woman
couldn't drag a body round the house. In
fact, it would be a pretty good feat for a
man."
"Well, there are other possibilities. There's
a secret passage there, you know. Miss
t./.r _,., ,, _ A^/4 C,,. RarthnlnmPW
told me he would show it to me. The murderer
might have given Ellis the money and
shown him the way to get out of the house-gone down the passage with him--and killed him there. A woman could do that. She
could stab him, or something, from behind.
Then she'd just leave the body there and go
back, and no one would ever know."
Sir Charles shook his head doubtfully, but
he no longer disputed Egg's theory.
Mr. Satterthwaite felt sure that the same
suspicion had come to him for a moment in
Ellis5 room when they had found the letters.
He remembered Sir Charles" little shiver. The
idea that Ellis might be dead had come to
him then.
Mr. Satterthwaite thought: "If Ellis is
dead, then we're dealing with a very dangerous
person. Yes, a very dangerous person." And suddenly he felt a cold chill of fear down his spine.
A person who had killed three times
wouldn't hesitate to kill again.
They were in danger, all three of them-Sir Charles, and Egg, and he. If they found out too much-He was recalled by the sound of Sir Charles' voice:
"There's one thing I didn't understand in
your letter. Egg. You spoke of someone being
in danger--of the police suspecting him.
I can't see that they attach the least suspicion
to anyone."
It seemed to Mr. Satterthwaite that Egg
was very slightly discomposed. He even fan-||
cied that she blushed.
"Aha," said Mr. Satterthwaite to himself.
"Let's see how you get out of this, young
lady."
"It was silly of me," said Egg. "I got
confused. I thought that Oliver, arriving as
he did, with what might have been a
trumped-up excuse--well, I thought the police
were sure to suspect him."
Sir Charles accepted the explanation easily
enough.
"Yes," he said. "I see."
Mr. Satterthwaite spoke.
"Was it a trumped-up excuse?" he said.
Egg turned on him.
"What do you mean?"
"It was an odd sort of accident," said Mr.
Satterthwaite. "I thought if it was a trumpedup
excuse, you might know."
Egg shook her head.
"I don't know. I never thought about it.
But why should Oliver pretend to have an
arddent if he didn't?"
"He might have had reasons," said Sir
Charles. "Quite natural ones."
He was smiling at her. Egg blushed crimson.
"Oh, no," she said. "No."
Sir Charles sighed. It occurred to Mr.
Satterthwaite that his friend had interpreted
that blush quite wrongly. Sir Charles seemed
a sadder and older man when he spoke again.
"Well," he said, "if our young friend, Manders, is in no danger, where do I come in?"
Egg came forward quickly and caught him
by the coat sleeve.
"You're not going away again. You're not
going to give up. You're going to find out
the truth--the truth. I don't believe anybody
but you could find out the truth. You can.
You will."
She was tremendously in earnest. The
waves of her vitality seemed to surge and
eddy in the Old World air of the room.
"You believe in me?" said Sir Charles. He
was moved.
"Yes, yes, yes. We're going to get at the
truth. You and I together."
"And Satterthwaite."
"Of course, and Mr. Satterthwaite," said
Egg without interest.
Mr. Satterthwaite smiled covertly.
Whether Egg wanted to include him or not, he had no intention of being left out. He was fond of mysteries, and he liked observing
human nature, and he had a soft spot for
lovers. All three tastes seemed likely to be
gratified in this affair.
Sir Charles sat down. His voice changed.
He was in command, directing a production.
"First of all, we've got to clarify the situation.
Do we, or do we not, believe that the
same person killed Babbington and
Bartholomew Strange?"
"Yes," said Egg.
"Yes," said Mr. Satterthwaite.
"Do we believe that the second murder
sprang directly from the first? I mean, do we
believe that Bartholomew Strange was killed
in order to prevent his revealing the facts of
the first murder, or his suspicion about it?"
"Yes," said Egg and Mr. Satterthwaite
again, but in unison this time.
"Then it is the first murder we must investigate, not the second." Egg nodded.
"In my mind, until we discover the motive
for the first murder, we can hardly hope
to discover the murderer. The motive
presents extraordinary difficulty. Babbington
was a harmless, pleasant, gentle old man
without, one would say, an enemy in the
world. Yet he was killed, and there must
have been some reason for the killing. We've
got to find that reason."
He paused and then said in his ordinary
everyday voice:
"Let's get down to it. What reasons are
there for killing people? First, I suppose, gain."
"Revenge," said Egg.
"Homicidal mania," said Mr. Satterthwaite.
"The crime passionnel would hardly
apply in this case. But there's fear."
Charles Cartwright nodded. He was scribbling
on a piece of paper.
"That about covers the ground," he said. "First: Gain. Does anyone gain by Babbington's death? Has he any money, or any
expectations of money?"
"I should think it very unlikely," said Egg.
"So should I, but we'd better approach
Mrs. Babbington on the point."
"Then there's revenge. Did Babbington
do any injury to anyone--perhaps in his
young days? Did he marry the girl that some
other man wanted? We'll have to look into
that too.
"Then homicidal mania. Both Babbington
and Tollie were killed by a lunatic. I don't
think that theory will hold water. Even a
lunatic has some kind of reasonableness in
his crimes. I mean a lunatic might think
himself divinely appointed to kill doctors or
to kill clergymen, but not to kill both. I
think we can wash out the theory of homicidal
mania. There remains fear.
"Now, frankly, that seems to me far the
most likely solution. Babbington knew something
about somebody, or he recognized
somebody. He was killed to prevent him
telling what that something was."
"I can't see what someone like Mr.
Babbington could know that was damaging
about anybody who was there that night."
"Perhaps," said Sir Charles, "it was something that he didn't know that he knew."
He went on, trying to make his meaning
clear:
"It's difficult to say just what I mean.
Suppose, for instance--this is only an instance--that
Babbington saw a certain person
in a certain place at a certain time. As
far as he knows, there's no reason why that
person shouldn't be there. But suppose, also, that that person had concocted a very clever alibi for some reason, showing that at that
nartinilar time he was somewhere else a hun dred miles away. Well, at any minute old Babbington, in the most innocent way in the
world, might give the show away."
"I see," said Egg. "Say there's a murder
committed in London, and Babbington sees
the man who did it at Paddington Station, but the man has proved that he didn't do it by having an alibi showing that he was at
Leeds at the time. Then Babbington might
give the whole show away."
"That's what I mean exactly. Of course, that's only an instance. It might be anything. Someone he saw that evening whom he'd
known under a different name."
"It might be something to do with a
marriage," said Egg. "Clergymen do lots of
marriages. Somebody who'd committed bigamy."
"Or it might have to do with a birth or a
death," suggested Mr. Satterthwaite.
"It's a very wide field," said Egg, frowning.
"We'll have to get at it the other way.
Work back from the people who were there.
Let's make a list. WTio was at your house
and who was at Sir Bartholomew's?"
She took the paper and pencil from Sir
Charles.
"The Dacres, they were at both. That
woman like a wilted cabbage--what's her
name?--Wills. Miss Sutcliffe."
"You can leave Angela out of it," said Sir
Charles. "I've known her for years."
Egg frowned mutinously.
"We can't do that sort of thing," she said.
"Leave people out because we know them.
We've got to be business-like. Besides, I don't
know anything about Angela Sutcliffe. She's
just as likely to have done it as anyone else,
so far as I can see--more likely. All actresses
have pasts. I think, on the whole, she's the
most likely person."
She gazed defiantly at Sir Charles. There
was an answering spark in his eyes.
"In that case, we mustn't leave out Oliver
Manders."
"How could it be Oliver? He'd met Mr.
Babbington ever so many times before."
"He was at both places, and his arrival is a
little open to suspicion."
"Very well," said Egg. She paused, and
then added: "In that case, I'd better put
down mother and myself as well. That makes
seven suspects."
"I don't think--"
"We'll do it properly, or not at all." Her
eyes flashed.
Mr. Satterthwaite made peace by offering
refreshment. He rang for drinks.
Sir Charles strolled off into a far corner to
admire a head of Negro sculpture. Egg came
over to Mr. Satterthwaite and slipped a hand
through his arm.
"Stupid of me to have lost my temper,"
she murmured. "I am stupid--but why
should the woman be excepted? Why is he
so keen she should be? Oh, dear, why the
devil am I so disgustingly jealous?"
Mr. Satterthwaite smiled and patted her
hand.
"Jealousy never pays, my dear," he said.
"If you feel jealous, don't show it. By the
way, did you really think that young Manders
might be suspected?"
Egg grinned--a friendly, childish grin.
"Of course not. I put that in so as not to
alarm the man." She turned her head. Sir
Charles was still moodily studying Negro
sculpture. "You know, I didn't want him to
think I really have a pash for Oliver, because
I haven't. How difficult everything is! He's
gone back now to his 'Bless you, my children'
attitude. I don't want that at all."
"Have patience," counseled Mr. Satterthwaite.
"Everything comes right in the end, you know."
'I'm not patient," said Egg "I want to
>,
have things at once or even quicker
Mr. Sauerthwaite laughed, and Sir Charles
turned and came toward them.
As they sipped their drinks, they arranged
a plan of campaign. Sir Charles should return
to Crow's Nest, for which he had not
vet found a purchaser. Egg and her mother
would return to Rose Cottage rathersooner
Zn they had meant to do. Mrs. Babbmgton S? still living in Loomouth. They would get what information they could from her
and then proceed to act upon it.
"We'll succeed," said Egg. "I know well
^ne^ieaned forward to Sir Charles, her
eyes glowing. She held out her glass to touch
-1
""Drink to our success," she commanded.
Slowly, very slowly, his eyes fixed on hers,
he raised his glass to his lips.
"To success." he said, "and to the future.
Thirteen
mrs. babbington had moved into a small
fisherman's cottage not far from the harbor.
She was expecting a sister home from Japan
in about six months. Until her sister arrived, she was making no plans for the future. The cottage chanced to be vacant and she took it
for six months. She felt too bewildered by
her sudden loss to move away from
Loomouth. Stephen Babbington had held the
living of St. Petroch, Loomouth, for seventeen
years. They had been, on the whole, seventeen happy and peaceful years, in spite of the sorrow occasioned by the death of her
son Robin. Of her remaining children, Edward was in Ceylon, Lloyd was in South Africa, and Stephen was third officer on the
Angolia. They wrote frequently and affectionately, but they could offer neither a home nor companionship to their mother.
Margaret Babbington was very lonely.
Not that she allowed herself much time
for thinking. She was still active in the parish--the
new vicar was unmarried--and she
spent a good deal of time working in the tiny
plot of ground in front of the cottage. She
was a woman whose flowers were part of her
life.
She was working there one afternoon,
when she heard the latch of the gate click, and looked up to see Sir Charles Cartwright and Egg Lytton Gore.
Margaret was not surprised to see Egg.
She knew that the girl and her mother were
due to return shortly. But she was surprised
to see Sir Charles. Rumor had insisted that
he had left the neighborhood for good. There
had been paragraphs copied from other papers
about his doings in the South of France.
There had been a board. To be sold, stuck
up in the garden of Crow's Nest. No one
had expected Sir Charles to return. Yet return
he had.
Mrs. Babbington shook the untidy hair
back from her hot forehead and looked ruefully
at her earthstained hands.
"I'm not fit to shake hands," she said. "I
ought to garden in gloves, I know. I do start
in them sometimes. But I always tear them
off sooner or later. One can feel things so
much better with bare hands."
She led the way into the house. The tiny
sitting room had been made cozy with chintz.
There were photographs and bowls of chrysanthemums.
"It's a great surprise seeing you, Sir
Charles. I thought you had given up Crow's
Nest for good."
"I thought I had," said the actor frankly.
"But sometimes, Mrs. Babbington, our destiny
is too strong for us."
Mrs. Babbington did not reply. She turned
toward Egg, but the girl forestalled the words
on her lips.
"Look here, Mrs. Babbington. This isn't
just a call. Sir Charles and I have got something
very serious to say. Only I--I should
hate to upset you."
Mrs. Babbington looked from the girl to
Sir Charles. Her face had gone rather gray
and pinched.
"First of all," said Sir Charles, "I would
like to ask you if you have had any communication
from the Home Office?"
Mrs. Babbington bowed her head.
"I see. Well, perhaps that makes what we
are about to say easier."
"Is that what you have come about--this
exhumation order?"
"Yes. It is--I'm afraid it must be--very
distressing to you?"
She softened to the sympathy in his voice.
"Perhaps I do not mind as much as you
think. To some people, the idea of exhumation
is very dreadful; not to me. It is not the
dead clay that matters. My dear husband is
elsewhere, at peace--where no one can trouble
his rest. No, it is not that. It is the idea
that is a shock to me--the idea--a terrible
one--that Stephen did not die a natural
death. It seems so impossible--utterly impossible."
"I'm afraid it must seem so to you. It did
to me--to us--at first."
"What do you mean by 'at first,' Sir
Charles?"
"Because the suspicion crossed my mind
on the evening of your husband's death, Mrs.
Babbington. Like you, however, it seemed
to me so impossible that I put it aside."
"I thought so too," said Egg.
"You too?" Mrs. Babbington looked at
her wonderingly. "You thought someone
could have killed--Stephen?"
The incredulity in her voice was so great
^^ n^irk^r r>>f lipr visitors knew Quite how
to proceed. At last Sir Charles took up the
tale:
"As you know, Mrs. Babbington, I went
abroad. When I was in the South of France I
read in the paper of my friend Bartholomew
Strange's death in almost exactly similar circumstances.
I also got a letter from Miss
Lytton Gore."
Egg nodded.
"I was there, you know, staying with him
at the time. Mrs. Babbington, it was exactly
the same--exactly. He drank some port and
his face changed and--and--well, it was just
the same. He died two or three minutes
later."
Mrs. Babbington shook her head slowly.
"I can't understand it. Stephen! Sir
Bartholomew--a kind and clever doctor!
Who could want to harm either of them? It
must be a mistake."
"Sir Bartholomew was proved to have been
poisoned, remember," said Sir Charles.
"Then it must have been the work of a
lunatic."
Sir Charles went on:
"Mrs. Babbington, I want to get to the
bottom of this. I want to find out the truth.
And I feel there is no time to lose. Once the
news of the exhumation gets about, our crim inal will be on the alert. I am assuming, for the sake of saving time, what the result of
the autopsy on your husband's body will be.
I am taking it that he, too, died of nicotine
poisoning. To begin with, did you or he
know anything about the use of pure nico-.. tine?"
"I always use a solution of nicotine for
spraying roses. I didn't know it was supposed
to be poisonous."
"I should imagine--I was reading up the
subject last night--that in both cases the
pure alkaloid must have been used. Cases of
poisoning by nicotine are most unusual."
Mrs. Babbington shook her head.
"I really don't know anything about nicotine
poisoning except that I suppose inveterate
smokers might suffer from it."
"Did your husband smoke?"
"Yes."
"Now tell me, Mrs. Babbington. You have
expressed the utmost surprise that anyone
should want to do away with your husband.
Does that mean that, as far as you know, he
had no enemies?"
"I am sure Stephen had no enemies. Everyone
was fond of him. People tried to hustle
him sometimes." She smiled a little
------> i7r>>n Iznnw.
and rather afraid of innovations) but everybody
liked him. You couldn't dislike
Stephen, Sir Charles."
"I suppose, Mrs. Babbington, that your
husband didn't leave very much money?"
"No. Next to nothing. Stephen was not
good at saving. He gave away far too much.
I used to scold him about it."
"I suppose he had no expectations from
anyone? He wasn't the heir to any property?"
"Oh, no. Stephen hadn't many relations.
He has a sister who is married to a clergyman
in Northumberland, but they are very
badly off, and all his uncles and aunts are
dead."
"Then it does not seem as though there
were anyone who could benefit by Mr.
Babbington's death."
"No, indeed."
"Let us come back to the question of
enemies for a minute. Your husband had no
enemies, you say, but he may have had as a
young man."
Mrs. Babbington looked skeptical.
"I should think it very unlikely. Stephen
hadn't a quarrelsome nature. He always got
on well with people."
"I don't want to sound melodramatic"-Sir Charles coughed a little nervously-"but--er--when he got engaged to you, for instance, there wasn't any disappointed suitor
in the offing?"
A momentary twinkle came into Mrs.
Babbington's eyes.
"Stephen was my father's curate. He was
the first young man I saw when I came
home from school. I fell in love with him
and he with me. We were engaged for four
years and then he got a living down in Kent
and we were able to get married. Ours was a
very simple love story. Sir Charles, and a
very happy one."
Sir Charles bowed his head. Mrs. Babbington's
simple dignity was very charming.
Egg took up the role of questioner:
"Mrs. Babbington, do you think your husband
had met any of the guests at Sir Charles' that night before?" Mrs. Babbington looked slightly puzzled.
"Well, there were you and your mother, my dear, and young Oliver Manders."
"Yes, but any of the others?"
"We had both seen Angela Sutcliffe in a
play in London five years ago. Both Stephen
and I were very excited that we were actually
going to meet her."
" --^ 1^.. K<yf/M.^"
"No. We've never met any actresses--or
actors, for the matter of that--until Sir
Charles came to live here. And that," added
Mrs. Babbington, "was a great excitement. I
don't think Sir Charles knows what a wonderful
thing it was to us. Quite a breath of
romance in our lives."
"You hadn't met Captain and Mrs.
Dacres?"
"Was he the little man with the woman
with the wonderful clothes?"
"Yes."
"No. Nor the other woman--the one who
wrote plays. Poor thing, she looked rather
out of it, I thought."
"You're sure you'd never seen any of them
before?"
"I'm quite sure I hadn't, and so I'm fairly
sure Stephen hadn't either. You see, we do
everything together."
"And Mr. Babbington didn't say anything
to you--anything at all," persisted Egg-"about the people you were going to meet, or about them when he saw them?"
"Nothing beforehand, except that he was
looking forward to an interesting evening.
And when we got there--well, there wasn't
much time--" Her face twisted suddenly.
Sir Charles broke in auicklv:
"You must forgive us badgering you like
this. But, you see, we feel that there must be
something, if only we could get at it. There
must be some reason for an apparently brutal
and meaningless murder."
"I see that," said Airs. Babbington. "If it
was murder, there must be some reason. But
I don't know--I can't imagine--what the reason
could be."
There was silence for a minute or two, then Sir Charles said:
"Can you give me a slight biographical
sketch of your husband's career?"
Mrs. Babbington had a good memory for
dates, as Sir Charles' final notes disclosed.
Stephen Babbington, born Islington, Devon, 1868. Educated St. Paul's School and Oxford. Ordained deacon and received
a title to the parish of Hoxton, 1891. Priested 1892. Was curate ofElsington, Surrey, to Rev. Vernon Lorrimer
1894-1899. Married Margaret Lorrimer, 1899, and presented to the living of St. Mary's, Gilling. Transferred to living of
St. Petroch, Loomouth, 1916.
"That gives us something to go upon,
--* 0;--/^l-->>~1^.^, t</"V,i, >>>>
me the time during which Mr. Babbington
was vicar of St. Mary's, Gilling. His earlier
history seems rather far back to concern any
of the people who were at my house that
evening."
Mrs. Babbington shuddered.
"Do you really think that one of them--"
"I don't know what to think," said Sir
Charles. "Bartholomew Strange saw something
or guessed something, and Bartholomew
Strange died the same way, and five--"
"Seven," said Egg.
"--of these people were also present. One
of them must be guilty."
"But why?" cried Mrs. Babbington.
"Why? What possible motive could there be
for anyone to want to kill Stephen?"
"That," said Sir Charles, "is what we are
going to find out."
Fourteen
mr. satterthwaite had come down to Crow's
Nest with Sir Charles. While his host and
Egg Lytton Gore were visiting Mrs.
Babbington, Mr. Satterthwaite was having
tea with Lady Mary.
Lady Mary liked Mr. Satterthwaite. For
all her gentleness of manner, she was a
woman who had very definite views on the
subject of whom she did or did not like.
Mr. Satterthwaite sipped China tea from a
Dresden cup, and ate a microscopic sandwich
and chatted. On his last visit, they had
found many friends and acquaintances in
common. Their talk today began on the same
subject, but gradually drifted into more intimate
channels. Mr. Satterthwaite was a sympathetic
person; he listened to the troubles of
other people and did not intrude his own.
Even on his last visit, it had seemed natural
" T --'--x^----*--^>i^ i-r>> kim nf her nreoc cupation with her daughter's future. She talked now as she would have talked to a
friend of many years' standing.
"Egg is so headstrong)" she said. "She
flings herself into a thing heart and soul.
You know, Mr. Satterthwaite, I do not like
the way she is--well, mixing herself up in
this distressing business. It--Egg would
laugh at me, I know--but it doesn't seem to
be ladylike."
She flushed as she spoke. Her brown eyes, gentle and ingenuous, looked with a childish appeal at Mr. Satterthwaite.
"I know what you mean," he said. "I
confess that I don't quite like it myself. I
know that it's simply an old-fashioned prejudice, but there it is. All the same"--he twinkled at her--"we can't expect young ladies
to sit at home and sew and shudder at the
idea of crimes of violence in these enlightened
days."
"I don't like to think of murder," said
Lady Mary. "I never, never dreamed that I
should be mixed up in anything of that kind.
It was dreadful." She shivered. "Poor Sir
Bartholomew."
"You didn't know him very well?"
hazarded Mr. Satterthwaite.
"I think I'd only met him twice. The first
time about a year ago, when he came down
to stay with Sir Charles for a week-end, and
the second time was on that dreadful evening
when poor Mr. Babbington died. I was really
most surprised when his invitation arrived.
I accepted because I thought Egg
would enjoy it. She hasn't many treats, poor
child, and--well, she had seemed a little
down in the mouth--as though she didn't
take any interest in anything. I thought a big
house party might cheer her up."
Mr. Satterthwaite nodded.
"Tell me something about young Oliver
Manders," he said. "The young fellow rather
interests me."
"I think he's clever," said Lady Mary.
"Of course, things have been difficulit for
him."
She flushed, and then, in answer to the
plain inquiry of Mr. Satterthwaite's glance, she went on:
"You see, his father wasn't married, to his
mother."
"Really! I had no idea of that."
"Everyone knows about it down heres, otherwise
I wouldn't have said anything; about
it. Old Mrs. Manders, Oliver's grandnr.other,
lives at Dunboyne, that biggish house con the
TMrwr-t/Mn-k iff\^r\ T-Tf>>r 1-m<;ltnnd was a llawver
down here. Her son went into a city firm
and did very well. He's quite a rich man.
The daughter was a good-looking girl and
she became absolutely infatuated with a married
man. I blame him very much indeed.
Anyway, in the end, after a lot of scandal, they went off together. His wife wouldn't divorce him. The girl died not long after
Oliver was born. His uncle in London took
charge of him. He and his wife had no children
of their own. The boy divided his time
between them and his grandmother. He always
came down here for his summer holidays."
She paused and then went on:
"I always felt sorry for him. I still do. I
think that terribly conceited manner of his is
a good deal put on."
"I shouldn't be surprised," said Mr.
Satterthwaite. "It's a very common phenomenon.
If I ever see anyone who appears to
think only of himself and boasts unceasingly, I always know that there's a secret sense of inferiority somewhere."
"It seems very odd."
"An inferiority complex is a very peculiar
thing. Crippen, for instance, undoubtedly
suffered from it. It's at the back of a lot of
crimes. The desire to assert one's personality."
"It seems very strange to me," murmured
Lady Mary.
She seemed to shrink a little. Mr.
Satterthwaite looked at her with an almost
sentimental eye. He liked her graceful figure
with the sloping shoulders, the soft brown of her eyes, her complete absence of makeup. He thought:
"She must have been a beauty when she
was young."
Not a flaunting beauty, not a rose; no, a
modest charming violet, hiding its sweetness.
His thoughts ran serenely in the idiom of
his young days.
He remembered incidents in his own
youth.
Presently he found himself telling Lady
Mary about his own love affair--the only
love affair he had ever had. Rather a poor
love affair by the standards of today, but
very dear to Mr. Satterthwaite.
He told her about the girl and how pretty
she was, and of how they had gone together
to see the bluebells at Kew. He had meant to
propose to her that day. He had imagined-so he put it--that she reciprocated his sentim^rtio Anrl i4-iF>>n ac tl-ipv wprp standine" look
ing at the bluebells, she had confided in
him. He had discovered that she loved another.
And he had hidden the thoughts surging
in his breast and had taken up the role of
the faithful friend.
It was not, perhaps, a very full-blooded
romance, but it sounded well in the dim
faded chintz and eggshell china atmosphere
of Lady Mary's drawing-room.
Afterward, Lady Mary spoke of her own
life--of her married life, which had not been
very happy.
"I was such a foolish girl--girls are foolish, Mr. Satterthwaite. They are so sure of themselves, so convinced they know best.
People write and talk a lot of a woman's
instinct. I don't believe, Mr. Satterthwaite, that there is any such thing. Their parents warn them, but that's no good; one doesn't
believe. It seems dreadful to say so, but there
is something attractive to a girl in being told
anyone is a bad man. She thinks at once that
her love will reform him."
Mr. Satterthwaite nodded gently.
"One knows so little. When one knows
more, it is too late."
She sighed.
"It was all my own fault. My people didn't
want me to marrv Ronald. He was well
born, but he had a bad reputation. My father
told me straight out that he was a wrong
un. I didn't believe it; I believed that, for
my sake, he would turn over a new leaf."
She was silent a moment, dwelling on the
past.
"Ronald was a very fascinating man. My
father was quite right about him. I soon
found that out. It's an old-fashioned thing to
say, but he broke my heart. Yes, he broke
my heart. I was always afraid of what might come out next." Mr. Satterthwaite, always intensely interested
in other people's lives, made a cautious
sympathetic noise.
"It may seem a very wicked thing to say,
Mr. Satterthwaite, but it was a relief when
he got pneumonia and died. Not that I didn't
care for him--I loved him up to the end-but I had no illusions about him any longer. And there was Egg."
Her voice softened:
"Such a funny little thing, she was. A
regular little roly-poly, trying to stand up
and falling over. Just like an egg--that's how
that ridiculous nickname started."
She paused again.
"Some books that I've read these last few
- 1-----!---,,,,--1,4. ,, 1/^,-t-^\f /-/->>->>">>-Frvrl-1-r>> mp Books on psychology. It seems to show that
in many ways people can't help themselves.
A kind of kink. Sometimes, in the most carefully brought-up families, you get it. As a boy, Ronald stole money at school--money
that he didn't need. I can feel now that he
couldn't help himself. He was born with a
kink."
Very gently, with a small handkerchief, Lady Mary wiped her eyes.
"It wasn't what I was brought up to
believe," she said apologetically. "I was
taught that everyone knew the difference between
right and wrong. But somehow, I don't
always think that is so."
"The human mind is a great mystery,"
said Mr. Satterthwaite gently. "As yet, we
are only groping our way to understanding.
Without acute mania, it may nevertheless
occur that certain natures lack what I should
describe as braking power. If you or I were
to say, 'I hate someone; I wish he were
dead,' the idea would pass from our minds
as soon as the words were uttered. The brakes
would work automatically. But in some people
the idea, or obsession, holds. They see
nothing but the immediate gratification of
the idea formed."
"I'm afraid," said Lady Mary, "that that's
rather too clever for me."
"I apologize. I was talking rather bookishly."
"Did you mean that young people have
too little restraint nowadays?"
"No, no, I didn't mean that at all. Less
restraint is, I think, a good thing--wholesome.
I suppose you are thinking of Miss-er--Egg."
"I think you'd better call her Egg," said
Lady Mary, smiling.
"Thank you. Miss Egg does sound rather
ridiculous."
"Egg's very impulsive and once she has
set her mind on a thing, nothing will stop
her. As I said before, I hate her mixing
herself up in all this, but she won't listen to
me."
Mr. Satterthwaite smiled at the distress in
Lady Mary's tone. He thought to himself:
"I wonder if she realizes for one minute
that Egg's absorption in crime is neither more
nor less than a new variant of that old, old
game, the pursuit of the male by the female.
No, Lady Mary would be horrified at the
thought."
"Egg says that Mr. Babbington was poi-i -i-_ t^_ ,,^,, 4-i,;^i^ <4t<ii-10 tm<=>> Mr. Satterthwaite? Or do you think it is just one
of Egg's sweeping statements?"
"We shall know for certain after the exhumation."
"There is to be an exhumation, then?"
Lady Mary shivered. "How terrible for poor
Mrs. Babbington! I can imagine nothing
more awful for any woman."
"You knew the Babbingtons fairly intimately, I suppose. Lady Mary?"
"Yes, indeed. They are--were--very dear
friends of ours."
"Do you know of anyone who could possibly
have had a grudge against the vicar?"
"No, indeed."
"He never spoke to you of such a person?"
"No."
"And the Babbingtons got on well together?"
"They were perfectly mated--happy in
each other and in their children. They were
badly off, of course, and Mr. Babbington
suffered from rheumatoid arthritis. Those
were their only troubles."
"How did Oliver Manders get on with the
vicar?"
"Well--" Lady Mary hesitated. "They
didn't hit it off very well. The Babbingtons
were sorry for Oliver and he used to go to
the vicarage a good deal in the holidays to
play with the Babbington boys; though I
don't think he got on very well with them.
Oliver wasn't exactly a popular boy. He
boasted too much of the money he had, and
the tuck he took back to school and all the
fun he had in London. Boys are rather merciless
about that sort of thing."
"Yes, but later--since he's been grown
up."
"I don't think he and the vicarage people [ have seen much of each other. As a matter of fact, Oliver was rather rude to Mr.
Babbington one day here in my house. It
was about two years ago."
"What happened?"
"Oliver made a rather ill-bred attack on
Christianity. Mr. Babbington was very patient
and courteous with him. That only
seemed to make Oliver worse. He said: 'All
you religious people look down your noses
because my father and mother weren't married.
I suppose you'd call me the child of
sin. Well, I admire people who have the
courage of their convictions and don't care
what a lot of hypocrites and parsons think.'
Mr. Babbington didn't answer, but Oliver
went on: 'You won't answer that. It's ecclesi"o^^ow and snnprsrition that's got the whole world into the mess it's in. I'd like to sweep
away the churches all over the world.' Mr.
Babbington smiled and said, 'And the clergy
too?' I think it was his smile that annoyed
Oliver. He felt he wasn't being taken seriously.
He said, (I hate everything the church
stands for. Smugness, security and hypocrisy.
Get rid of the whole canting tribe, I
say.' And Mr. Babbington smiled--he had a
very sweet smile--and he said, 'My dear
boy, if you were to sweep away all the
churches ever built or planned, you would
still have to reckon with God.' "
"What did young Manders say to that?"
"He seemed taken aback, and then he
recovered his temper and went back to his
usual sneering, tired manner.
"He said, 'I'm afraid the things I've been
saying are rather bad form, padre, and not
very easily assimilated by your generation.' "
"You don't like young Manders, do you, Lady Mary?"
"I'm sorry for him," said Lady Mary defensively.
"But you wouldn't like him to marry Egg."
"Oh, no."
"I wonder why exactly."
"Because--because he isn't kind. And because--"
"Yes?"
"Because there's something in him somewhere
that I don't understand. Something
cold."
Mr. Satterthwaite looked at her thoughtfully
for a minute or two, then he said:
"What did Sir Bartholomew Strange think
of him? Did he ever mention him?"
"He said, I remember, that he found
young Manders an interesting study. He said
that he reminded him of a case he was treating
at the moment in his nursing home. I
said that I thought Oliver looked particularly
strong and healthy, and he said, 'Yes, his
health's all right, but he's riding for a fall.' "
She paused, and then said:
"I suppose Sir Bartholomew was a very
clever doctor."
"I believe he was very highly thought of
by his own colleagues."
"I liked him," said Lady Mary.
"Did he ever say anything to you about
Babbington's death?"
"No."
"He never mentioned it at all?"
"I don't think so."
"Do you think--it's difficult for you to
tell, not knowing him well--but do you think ^ kari cm\7thinff on his mind?"
"He seemed in very good spirits; even
amused by something--some private joke of
his own. He told me at dinner that night
that he was going to spring a surprise on
me."
"Oh, he did, did he?"
On his way home, Mr. Satterthwaite pondered
that statement.
What had been the surprise Sir Bartholomew
had intended to spring on his
guests?
Would it, when it came, have been as
amusing as he pretended?
Or did that gay manner mask a quiet but
indomitable purpose? Would anyone ever
know?
Fifteen
"frankly," said Sir Charles, "are we any
forrader?"
It was a council of war. Sir Charles, Mr.
Satterthwaite and Egg Lytton Gore were sitting
in the ship room. A fire burned in the
grate and outside an equinoctial gale was
howling.
Mr. Satterthwaite and Egg answered the
question simultaneously.
"No," said Mr. Satterthwaite.
"Yes," said Egg.
Sir Charles looked from one to the other
