CERTAINTY
One
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.”