Three Act Tragedy - Agatha Christie [58]
Mr Satterthwaite contented himself with saying:
‘I think you are right in suspecting that Egg Lytton Gore mistrusts you.’
Miss Sutcliffe frowned.
‘I’m not at all sure that I’m not a little jealous of her…we women are such cats, aren’t we? Scratch, scratch, miauw, miauw, purr, purr…’
She laughed.
‘Why didn’t Charles come and catechize me on this business? Too much nice feeling, I suppose. The man must think me guilty…Am I guilty, Mr Satterthwaite? What do you think now?’
She stood up and stretched out a hand.
‘All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand—’
She broke off.
‘No, I’m not Lady Macbeth. Comedy’s my line.’
‘There seems also a certain lack of motive,’ said Mr Satterthwaite.
‘True. I liked Bartholomew Strange. We were friends. I had no reason for wishing him out of the way. Because we were friends I’d rather like to take an active part in hunting down his murderer. Tell me if I can help in any way.’
‘I suppose, Miss Sutcliffe, you didn’t see or hear anything that might have a bearing on the crime?’
‘Nothing that I haven’t already told the police. The house-party had only just arrived, you know. His death occurred on that first evening.’
‘The butler?’
‘I hardly noticed him.’
‘Any peculiar behaviour on the part of the guests?’
‘No. Of course that boy—what’s his name? Manders turned up rather unexpectedly.’
‘Did Sir Bartholomew Strange seemed surprised?’
‘Yes, I think he was. He said to me just before we went in to dinner that it was an odd buisness, “a new method of gate crashing”, he called it. “Only,” he said, “it’s my wall he’s crashed, not my gate.”’
‘Sir Bartholomew was in good spirits?’
‘Very good spirits!’
‘What about this secret passage you mentioned to the police?’
‘I believe it led out of the library. Sir Bartholomew promised to show it to me—but of course the poor man died.’
‘How did the subject come up?’
‘We were discussing a recent purchase of his—an old walnut bureau. I asked if it had a secret drawer in it. I told him I adored secret drawers. It’s a secret passion of mine. And he said, “No, there wasn’t a secret drawer that he knew of—but he had got a secret passage in the house.”’
‘He didn’t mention a patient of his, a Mrs de Rushbridger?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know a place called Gilling, in Kent?’
‘Gilling? Gilling, no, I don’t think I do. Why?’
‘Well, you knew Mr Babbington before, didn’t you?’
‘Who is Mr Babbington?’
‘The man who died, or who was killed, at the Crow’s Nest.’
‘Oh, the clergyman. I’d forgotten his name. No, I’d never seen him before in my life. Who told you I knew him?’
‘Someone who ought to know,’ said Mr Satterthwaite boldly.
Miss Sutcliffe seemed amused.
‘Dear old man, did they think I’d had an affair with him? Archdeacons are sometimes very naughty, aren’t they? So why not vicars? There’s the man in the barrel, isn’t there? But I must clear the poor man’s memory. I’d never seen him before in my life.’
And with that statement Mr Satterthwaite was forced to rest content.
Chapter 9
Muriel Wills
Five Upper Cathcart Road, Tooting, seemed an incongruous home for a satiric playwright. The room into which Sir Charles was shown had walls of a rather drab oatmeal colour with a frieze of laburnum round the top. The curtains were of rose-coloured velvet, there were a lot of photographs and china dogs, the telephone was coyly hidden by a lady with ruffled skirts, there were a great many little tables and some suspicious-looking brasswork