Three Act Tragedy - Agatha Christie [38]
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 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,’ counselled 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 Satterthwaite laughed, and Sir Charles turned and came towards 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 yet found a purchaser. Egg and her mother would return to Rose Cottage rather sooner than they had meant to do. Mrs Babbington was 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 we’ll succeed.’
She leaned forward to Sir Charles, her eyes glowing. She held out her glass to touch his.
‘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…’
Third Act
Discovery
Chapter 1
Mrs Babbington
Mrs Babbington had moved into a small fisherman’s cottage not far from the harbour. 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. Rumour had insisted that he had left the neighbourhood 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 earth-stained 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 cosy with chintz. There were photographs and