for confirmation and all that, and though of course a lot of that business is all bunkum, he really was rather sweet about it. You see, Mr Satterthwaite, I really believe in Christianity—not like Mother does, with little books and early service, and things—but intelligently and as a matter of history. The Church is all clotted up with the Pauline tradition—in fact the Church is a mess—but Christianity itself is all right. That’s why I can’t be a communist like Oliver. In practice our beliefs would work out much the same, things in common and ownership by all, but the difference—well, I needn’t go into that. But the Babbingtons really were Christians; they didn’t poke and pry and condemn, and they were never unkind about people or things. They were pets—and there was Robin …’
‘Robin?’
‘Their son … He was out in India and got killed … I—I had rather a pash on Robin …’
Egg blinked. Her gaze went out to sea …
Then her attention returned to Mr Satterthwaite and the present.
‘So, you see, I feel rather strongly about this. Supposing it wasn’t a natural death …’
‘My dear child!’
‘Well, it’s damned odd! You must admit it’s damned odd.’
‘But surely you yourself have just practically admitted that the Babbingtons hadn’t an enemy in the world.’
‘That’s what’s so queer about it. I can’t think of any conceivable motive …’
‘Fantastic! There was nothing in the cocktail.’
‘Perhaps someone jabbed him with a hypodermic.’
‘Containing the arrow poison of the South American Indians,’ suggested Mr Satterthwaite, gently ridiculing.
Egg grinned.
‘That’s it. The good old untraceable stuff. Oh, well, you’re all very superior about it. Some day, perhaps, you’ll find out we are right.’
‘We?’
‘Sir Charles and I.’ She flushed slightly.
Mr Satterthwaite thought in the words and metre of his generation when Quotations for All Occasions was to be found in every bookcase.
‘Of more than twice her years,
Seam’d with an ancient swordcut on the cheek,
And bruised and bronzed, she lifted up her eyes
And loved him, with that love which was her doom.’
He felt a little ashamed of himself for thinking in quotations—Tennyson, too, was very little thought of nowadays. Besides, though Sir Charles was bronzed, he was not scarred, and Egg Lytton Gore, though doubtless capable of a healthy passion, did not look at all likely to perish of love and drift about rivers on a barge. There was nothing of the lily maid of Astolat about her.
‘Except,’ thought Mr Satterthwaite, ‘her youth …’
Girls were always attracted to middle-aged men with interesting pasts. Egg seemed to be no exception to this rule.
‘Why hasn’t he ever married?’ she asked abruptly.
‘Well …’ Mr Satterthwaite paused. His own answer, put bluntly, would have been, ‘Caution,’ but he realized that such a word would be unacceptable to Egg Lytton Gore.
Sir Charles Cartwright had had plenty of affairs with women, actresses and others, but he had always managed to steer clear of matrimony. Egg was clearly seeking for a more romantic explanation.
‘That girl who died of consumption—some actress, name began with an M—wasn’t he supposed to be very fond of her?’
Mr Satterthwaite remembered the lady in question. Rumour had coupled Charles Cartwright’s name with hers, but only very slightly, and Mr Satterthwaite did not for a moment believe that Sir Charles had remained unmarried in order to be faithful to her memory. He conveyed as much tactfully.
‘I suppose he’s had lots of affairs,’ said Egg.
‘Er—h’m—probably,’ said Mr Satterthwaite, feeling Victorian.
‘I like men to have affairs,’ said Egg. ‘It shows they’re not queer or anything.’
Mr Satterthwaite’s Victorianism suffered a further pang. He was at a loss for a reply. Egg did not notice his discomfiture. She went on musingly.
‘You know, Sir Charles is really cleverer than you’d think. He poses a lot, of course, dramatises himself; but behind all that he’s got brains. He’s far better sailing a boat than you’d ever think, to hear him talk. You’d think, to listen to him, that it was all pose, but it isn’t. It’s the same about this business. You think it’s all done for effect—that he wants to play the part of the great detective. All I say is: I think he’d play it rather well.’
‘Possibly,’ agreed Mr Satterthwaite.
The inflection of his voice showed his feelings clearly enough. Egg pounced on them and expressed them in words.
‘But your view is that “Death of a Clergyman” isn’t a thriller. It’s merely “Regrettable Incident at a Dinner Party”. Purely a social catastrophe. What did M. Poirot think? He ought to know.’
‘M. Poirot advised us to wait for the analysis of the cocktail; but in his opinion everything was quite all right.’
‘Oh, well,’ said Egg, ‘he’s getting old. He’s a back number.’ Mr Satterthwaite winced. Egg went on, unconscious of brutality: ‘Come home and have tea with Mother. She likes you. She said so.’
Delicately flattered, Mr Satterthwaite accepted the invitation.
On arrival Egg volunteered to ring up Sir Charles and explain the non-appearance of his guest.
Mr Satterthwaite sat down in the tiny sitting-room with its faded chintzes and its well-polished pieces of old furniture. It was a Victorian room, what Mr Satterthwaite called in his own mind a lady’s room, and he approved of it.
His conversation with Lady Mary was agreeable, nothing brilliant, but pleasantly chatty. They spoke of Sir Charles. Did Mr Satterthwaite know him well? Not intimately, Mr Satterthwaite said. He had a financial interest in one of Sir Charles’s plays some years ago. They had been friends ever since.
‘He has great charm,’ said Lady Mary, smiling. ‘I feel it as well as Egg. I suppose you’ve discovered that Egg is suffering badly from hero worship?’
Mr Satterthwaite wondered if, as a mother, Lady Mary was not made slightly uneasy by that hero worship. But it did not seem so.
‘Egg sees so little of the world,’ she said, sighing. ‘We are so badly off. One of my cousins presented her and took her to a few things in town, but since then she has hardly been away from here, except for an occasional visit. Young people, I feel, should see plenty
