Three Act Tragedy. Агата Кристи

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СКАЧАТЬ a fool I’ve been. Mums would have managed it much better. They knew how to do the trick, those Victorians. All blushing retreat. I’ve been all wrong about it. I actually thought he needed encouraging. He seemed—well, he seemed to need a bit of help. Tell me,’ she turned abruptly on Mr Satterthwaite, ‘did he see me do my kissing act with Oliver last night?’

      ‘Not that I know of. When—?’

      ‘All in the moonlight. As we were going down the path. I thought he was still looking from the terrace. I thought perhaps if he saw me and Oliver—well, I thought it might wake him up a bit. Because he did like me. I could swear he liked me.’

      ‘Wasn’t that a little hard on Oliver?’

      Egg shook her head decisively.

      ‘Not in the least. Oliver thinks it’s an honour for any girl to be kissed by him. It was damned bad for his conceit, of course; but one can’t think of everything. I wanted to ginger up Charles. He’s been different lately—more standoffish.’

      ‘My dear child,’ said Mr Satterthwaite, ‘I don’t think you realize quite why Sir Charles went away so suddenly. He thought that you cared for Oliver. He went away to save himself further pain.’

      Egg whisked round. She caught hold of Mr Satterthwaite by the shoulders and peered into his face.

      ‘Is that true? Is that really true? The mutt! The boob! Oh—!’

      She released Mr Satterthwaite suddenly and moved along beside him with a skipping motion.

      ‘Then he’ll come back,’ she said. ‘He’ll come back. If he doesn’t—’

      ‘Well, if he doesn’t?’

      Egg laughed.

      ‘I’ll get him back somehow. You see if I don’t.’

      It seemed as though allowing for difference of language Egg and the lily maid of Astolat had much in common, but Mr Satterthwaite felt that Egg’s methods would be more practical than those of Elaine, and that dying of a broken heart would form no part of them.

SECOND ACT

       CHAPTER 1

       Sir Charles Receives a Letter

      Mr Satterthwaite had come over for the day to Monte Carlo. His round of house-parties was over, and the Riviera in September was rather a favourite haunt of his.

      He was sitting in the gardens enjoying the sun and reading a two-days-old Daily Mail.

      Suddenly a name caught his attention. Strange. Death of Sir Bartholomew Strange. He read the paragraph through:

       We much regret having to announce the death of Sir Bartholomew Strange, the eminent nerve specialist. Sir Bartholomew was entertaining a party of friends at his house in Yorkshire. Sir Bartholomew appeared to be in perfect health and spirits, and his demise occurred quite suddenly at the end of dinner. He was chatting with his friends and drinking a glass of port when he had a sudden seizure and died before medical aid could be summoned. Sir Bartholomew will be deeply regretted. He was …

      Here followed a description of Sir Bartholomew’s career and work.

      Mr Satterthwaite let the paper slip from his hand. He was very disagreeably impressed. A vision of the physician as he had seen him last flashed across his mind—big, jocund, in the pink of condition. And now—dead. Certain words detached themselves from their context and floated about disagreeably in Mr Satterthwaite’s mind. ‘Drinking a glass of port.’ ‘Sudden seizure … Died before medical aid could be summoned …’

      Port, not a cocktail, but otherwise curiously reminiscent of that death in Cornwall. Mr Satterthwaite saw again the convulsed face of the mild old clergyman …

      Supposing that after all …

      He looked up to see Sir Charles Cartwright coming towards him across the grass.

      ‘Satterthwaite, by all that’s wonderful! Just the man I’d have chosen to see. Have you seen about poor old Tollie?’

      ‘I was just reading it now.’

      Sir Charles dropped into a chair beside him. He was immaculately got up in yachting costume. No more grey flannels and old sweaters. He was the sophisticated yachtsman of the South of France.

      ‘Listen, Satterthwaite, Tollie was as sound as a bell. Never had anything wrong with him. Am I being a complete fanciful ass, or does this business remind you of—of—?’

      ‘Of that business at Loomouth? Yes, it does. But of course we may be mistaken. The resemblance may be only superficial. After all, sudden deaths occur the whole time from a variety of causes.’

      Sir Charles nodded his head impatiently. Then he said:

      ‘I’ve just got a letter—from Egg Lytton Gore.’

      Mr Satterthwaite concealed a smile.

      ‘The first you’ve had from her?’

      Sir Charles was unsuspecting.

      ‘No. I had a letter soon after I got here. It followed me about a bit. Just giving me the news and all that. I didn’t answer it … Dash it all, Satterthwaite, I didn’t dare answer it … The girl had no idea, of course, but I didn’t want to make a fool of myself.’

      Mr Satterthwaite passed his hand over his mouth where the smile still lingered.

      ‘And this one?’ he asked.

      ‘This is different. It’s an appeal for help …’

      ‘Help?’ Mr Satterthwaite’s eyebrows went up.

      ‘She was there—you see—in the house—when it happened.’

      ‘You mean she was staying with Sir Bartholomew Strange at the time of his death?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘What does she say about it?’

      Sir Charles had taken a letter from his pocket. He hesitated for a moment, then he handed it to Mr Satterthwaite.

      ‘You’d better read it for yourself.’

      Mr Satterthwaite opened out the sheet with lively curiosity.

      ‘Dear Sir Charles,—I don’t know when this will get to you. I do hope soon. I’m so worried, I don’t know what to do. You’ll have seen, I expect, in the papers that Sir Bartholomew Strange is dead. Well, he died just the same way as Mr Babbington. It can’t be a coincidence—it can’t—it can’t … I’m worried to death …

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