Three Act Tragedy (Hercule Poirot 11)

“What was that woman doing in my room that day?”

“What woman?”

“Rabbit-faced woman. Writes plays. It was the morning after—after he died. I’d just come up from breakfast. She came out of my room and went through the baize door at the end of the passage—went through into the servants’ quarters. Odd, eh? Why did she go into my room? What did she think she’d find there? What did she want to go nosing about for, anyway? What’s it got to do with her?” He leaned forward confidentially. “Or do you think it’s true what Cynthia says?”

“What does Mrs. Dacres say?”

“Says I imagined it. Says I was ‘seeing things.’” He laughed uncertainly. “I do see things now and again. Pink mice—snakes—all that sort of thing. But seein’ a woman’s different…I did see her. She’s a queer fish, that woman. Nasty sort of eye she’s got. Goes through you.”

He leaned back on the soft couch. He seemed to be dropping asleep.

Egg got up.

“I must be going. Thank you very much, Captain Dacres.”

“Don’t thank me. Delighted. Absolutely delighted….”

His voice tailed off.

“I’d better go before he passes out altogether,” tho

ught Egg.

She emerged from the smoky atmosphere of the Seventy-Two Club into the cool evening air.

Beatrice, the housemaid, had said that Miss Wills poked and pried. Now came this story from Freddie Dacres. What had Miss Wills been looking for? What had she found? Was it possible that Miss Wills knew something?

Was there anything in this rather muddled story about Sir Bartholomew Strange? Had Freddie Dacres secretly feared and hated him?

It seemed possible.

But in all this no hint of any guilty knowledge in the Babbington case.

“How odd it would be,” said Egg to herself, “if he wasn’t murdered after all.”

And then she caught her breath sharply as she caught sight of the words on a newspaper placard a few feet away:

“CORNISH EXHUMATION CASE—RESULT.”

Hastily she held out a penny and snatched a paper. As she did so she collided with another woman doing the same thing. As Egg apologized she recognized Sir Charles’s secretary, the efficient Miss Milray.

Standing side by side, they both sought the stop-press news. Yes, there it was.

“RESULT OF CORNISH EXHUMATION.”

The words danced before Egg’s eyes. Analysis of the organs…Nicotine….

“So he was murdered,” said Egg.

“Oh, dear,” said Miss Milray. “This is terrible—terrible—”

Her rugged countenance was distorted with emotion. Egg looked at her in surprise. She had always regarded Miss Milray as something less than human.

“It upsets me,” said Miss Milray, in explanation. “You see, I’ve known him all my life.”

“Mr. Babbington?”

“Yes. You see, my mother lives at Gilling, where he used to be vicar. Naturally it’s upsetting.”