Three Act Tragedy - Agatha Christie [31]
Sir Charles shook his head sadly and they took their departure, going round by the road to the spot where the car awaited them.
In revenge for his enforced quiescence during the interview with the Matron, Mr Satterthwaite displayed a lively interest in the scene of Oliver Manders’ accident, plying the lodge keeper, a slow-witted man of middle age, with questions.
Yes, that was the place, where the wall was broken away. On a motor cycle the young gentleman was. No, he didn’t see it happen. He heard it, though, and come out to see. The young gentleman was standing there—just where the other gentleman was standing now. He didn’t seem to be hurt. Just looking rueful-like at his bike—and a proper mess that was. Just asked what the name of the place might be, and when he heard it was Sir Bartholomew Strange’s he said, ‘That’s a piece of luck,’ and went on up to the house. A very calm young gentleman he seemed to be—tired like. How he come to have such an accident, the lodge keeper couldn’t see, but he supposed them things went wrong sometimes.
‘It was an odd accident,’ said Mr Satterthwaite thoughtfully.
He looked at the wide straight road. No bends, no dangerous crossroads, nothing to cause a motor cyclist to swerve suddenly into a ten-foot wall. Yes, an odd accident.
‘What’s in your mind, Satterthwaite?’ asked Sir Charles curiously.
‘Nothing,’ said Mr Satterthwaite, ‘nothing.’
‘It’s odd, certainly,’ said Sir Charles, and he, too, stared at the scene of the accident in a puzzled manner.
They got into the car and drove off.
Mr Satterthwaite was busy with his thoughts. Mrs de Rushbridger—Cartwright’s theory wouldn’t work—it wasn’t a code message—there was such a person. But could there be something about the woman herself? Was she perhaps a witness of some kind, or was it just because she was an interesting case that Bartholomew Strange had displayed this unusual elation? Was she, perhaps, an attractive woman? To fall in love at the age of fifty-five did (Mr Satterthwaite had observed it many a time) change a man’s character completely. It might, perhaps, make him facetious, where before he had been aloof—
His thoughts were interrupted. Sir Charles leant forward.
‘Satterthwaite,’ he said, ‘do you mind if we turn back?’
‘Without waiting for a reply, he took up the speaking tube and gave the order. The car slowed down, stopped, and the chauffeur began to reverse into a convenient lane. A minute or two later they were bowling along the road in the opposite direction.
‘What is it?’ asked Mr Satterthwaite.
‘I’ve remembered,’ said Sir Charles, ‘what struck me as odd. It was the ink-stain on the floor in the butler’s room.’
Chapter 6
Concerning An Ink-Stain
Mr Satterthwaite stared at his friend in surprise.
‘The ink-stain?’ What do you mean, Cartwright?’
‘You remember it?’
‘I remember there was an ink-stain, yes.’
‘You remember its position?’
‘Well—not exactly.’
‘It was close to the skirting board near the fireplace.’
‘Yes, so it was. I remember now.’
‘How do you think that stain was caused, Satterthwaite?’
‘It wasn’t a big stain,’ he said at last. ‘It couldn’t have been an upset ink-bottle. I should say in all probability that the man dropped his fountain pen there—there was no pen in the room, you remember.’ (He shall see I notice things just as much as he does, thought Mr Satterthwaite.) ‘So it seems clear the man must have had a fountain pen if he ever wrote at all—and there’s no evidence that he ever did.’
‘Yes, there is, Satterthwaite. There’s the ink-stain.’
‘He mayn’t have been writing,’ snapped Satterthwaite. ‘He may have just droped the pen on the floor.’
‘But there wouldn’t have been a stain unless the top had been off the pen.’
‘I dare say you’re right,’ said Mr Satterthwaite. ‘But I can’t see what’s odd about it.’
‘Perhaps there isn’t anything odd,’ said Sir Charles. ‘I can’t tell till I get back and see for myself.’
They were turning in at the lodge gates. A few minutes later they had arrived at the