Three Act Tragedy - Agatha Christie [47]
Poirot interrupted him.
‘That you have already told me—but suppose, for the sake of argument, that there was something in that cocktail. Could it have been intended for Sir Bartholomew Strange and did Mr Babbington drink it by mistake?’
Sir Charles shook his head.
‘Nobody who knew Tollie at all well would have tried poisoning him in a cocktail.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he never drank them.’
‘Never?’
‘Never.’
Poirot made a gesture of annoyance.
‘Ah—this business—it goes all wrong. It does not make sense…’
‘Besides,’ went on Sir Charles, ‘I don’t see how any one glass could have been mistaken for another—or anything of that kind. Temple carried them round on a tray and everyone helped themselves to any glass they fancied.’
‘True,’ murmured Poirot. ‘One cannot force a cocktail like one forces a card. What is she like, this Temple of yours? She is the maid who admitted me tonight—yes?’
‘That’s right. I’ve had her three or four years—nice steady girl—knows her work. I don’t know where she came from—Miss Milray would know all about that.’
‘Miss Milray, that is your secretary? The tall woman—somewhat of the Grenadier?’
‘Very much of the Grenadier,’ agreed Sir Charles.
‘I have dined with you before on various occasions, but I do not think I met her until that night.’
‘No, she doesn’t usually dine with us. It was a question of thirteen, you see.’
Sir Charles explained the circumstances, to which Poirot listened very attentively.
‘It was her own suggestion that she should be present? I see.’
He remained lost in thought a minute, then he said:
‘Might I speak to this parlourmaid of yours, this Temple?’
‘Certainly, my dear fellow.’
Sir Charles pressed a bell. It was answered promptly.
‘You rang, sir?’
Temple was a tall girl of thirty-two or three. She had a certain smartness—her hair was well brushed and glossy, but she was not pretty. Her manner was calm and efficient.
‘M. Poirot wants to ask you a few questions,’ said Sir Charles.
Temple transferred her superior gaze to Poirot.
‘We are talking of the night when Mr Babbington died here,’ said Poirot. ‘You remember that night?’
‘Oh, yes, sir.’
‘I want to know exactly how cocktails were served.’
‘I beg your pardon, sir.’
‘I want to know about the cocktails. Did you mix them?’
‘No, sir, Sir Charles likes doing that himself. I brought in the bottles—the vermouth, the gin, and all that.’
‘Where did you put them?’
‘On the table there, sir.’
She indicated a table by the wall.
‘The tray with the glasses stood here, sir. Sir Charles, when he had finished mixing and shaking, poured out the cocktails into the glasses. Then I took the tray round and handed it to the ladies and gentlemen.’
‘Were all the cocktails on the tray you handed?’
‘Sir Charles gave one to Miss Lytton Gore, sir; he was talking to her at the time, and he took his own. And Mr Satterthwaite’—her eyes shifted to him for a moment—‘came and fetched one for a lady—Miss Wills, I think it was.’
‘Quite right,’ said Mr Satterthwaite.
‘The others I handed, sir; I think everyone took one except Sir Bartholomew.’
‘Will you be so very obliging, Temple, as to repeat the performance. Let us put cushions for some of the people. I stood here, I remember—Miss Sutcliffe was there.’
With Mr Satterthwaite’s help, the scene was reconstructed. Mr Satterthwaite was observant. He remembered fairly well where everyone had been in the room. Then Temple did her round. They ascertained that she had started with Mrs Dacres, gone on to Miss Sutcliffe and Poirot, and had then come to Mr Babbington, Lady Mary and Mr Satterthwaite, who had been sitting together.
This agreed with Mr Satterthwaite’s recollection.
Finally Temple was dismissed.
‘Pah,’ cried Poirot. ‘It does not make sense. Temple is the last person to handle those cocktails, but it was impossible for her to tamper with them in any way, and, as I say, one cannot force a cocktail on a particular person.’