Three Act Tragedy - Agatha Christie [1]
‘What wouldn’t you have thought? Eh? Let’s have it.’
With a smile Mr Satterthwaite drew attention to the figure below rapidly ascending the path.
‘I shouldn’t have thought Sir Charles would have remained contented so long in—er—exile.’
‘By Jove, no more should I!’ The other laughed, throwing back his head. ‘I’ve known Charles since he was a boy. We were at Oxford together. He’s always been the same—a better actor in private life than on the stage! Charles is always acting. He can’t help it—it’s second nature to him. Charles doesn’t go out of a room—he “makes an exit”—and he usually has to have a good line to make it on. All the same, he likes a change of part—none better. Two years ago he retired from the stage—said he wanted to live a simple country life, out of the world, and indulge his old fancy for the sea. He comes down here and builds this place. His idea of a simple country cottage. Three bathrooms and all the latest gadgets! I was like you, Satterthwaite, I didn’t think it would last. After all, Charles is human—he needs his audience. Two or three retired captains, a bunch of old women and a parson—that’s not much of a house to play to. I thought the “simple fellow, with his love of the sea,” would run for six months. Then, frankly, I thought he’d tire of the part. I thought the next thing to fill the bill would be the weary man of the world at Monte Carlo, or possibly a laird in the Highlands—he’s versatile, Charles is.’
The doctor stopped. It had been a long speech. His eyes were full of affection and amusement as he watched the unconscious man below. In a couple of minutes he would be with them.
‘However,’ Sir Bartholomew went on, ‘it seems we were wrong. The attraction of the simple life holds.’
‘A man who dramatises himself is sometimes misjudged,’ pointed out Mr Satterthwaite. ‘One does not take his sincerities seriously.’
The doctor nodded.
‘Yes,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘That’s true.’
With a cheerful halloo Charles Cartwright ran up the steps on to the terrace.
‘Mirabelle surpassed herself,’ he said. ‘You ought to have come, Satterthwaite.’
Mr Satterthwaite shook his head. He had suffered too often crossing the Channel to have any illusions about the strength of his stomach afloat. He had observed the Mirabelle from his bedroom window that morning. There had been a stiff sailing breeze and Mr Satterthwaite had thanked heaven devoutly for dry land.
Sir Charles went to the drawing-room window and called for drinks.
‘You ought to have come, Tollie,’ he said to his friend. ‘Don’t you spend half your life sitting in Harley Street telling your pateints how good life on the ocean wave would be for them?’
‘The great merit of being a doctor,’ said Sir Bartholomew, ‘is that you are not obliged to follow your own advice.’
Sir Charles laughed. He was still unconsciously playing his part—the bluff breezy Naval man. He was an extraordinarily good-looking man, beautifully-proportioned, with a lean humorous face, and the touch of grey at his temples gave him a kind of added distinction. He looked what he was—a gentleman first and an actor second.
‘Did you go alone?’ asked the doctor.
‘No,’ Sir Charles turned to take his drink from a smart parlourmaid who was holding a tray. ‘I had a “hand”. The girl Egg, to be exact.’
There was something, some faint trace of self-consciousness in his voice which made Mr Satterthwaite look up sharply.
‘Miss Lytton Gore? She knows something about sailing, doesn’t she?’
Sir Charles laughed rather ruefully.
‘She succeeds in making me feel a complete land-lubber; but I’m coming on—thanks to her.’
Thoughts slipped quickly in and out of Mr Satterthwaite’s mind.
‘I wonder—Egg Lytton Gore—perhaps that’s why he hasn’t tired—the age—a dangerous age—it’s always a young girl at that time of life…’
Sir Charles went on: ‘The sea—there’s nothing like it—sun and wind and sea—and a simple shanty to come home to.’
And he looked with pleasure at the white building behind him,