“You mean the new financial situation? Well, the dollar—”
“Not dollars,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “Death. The result of the Loomouth exhumation. Babbington was poisoned—by nicotine.”
“Oh, that—yes, I saw that. Our energetic Egg will be pleased. She always insisted it was murder.”
“But it doesn’t interest you?”
“My tastes aren’t so crude. After all, murder—” he shrugged his shoulders. “So violent and inartistic.”
“Not always inartistic,” said Mr. Satterthwaite.
“No? Well, perhaps not.”
“It depends, does it not, on who commits the murder. You, for instance, would, I am sure, commit a murder in a very artistic manner.”
“Nice of you to say so,” drawled Oliver.
“But frankly, my dear boy, I don’t think much of the accident you faked. No more do the police, I understand.”
There was a moment’s silence—then a pen dropped to the floor.
Oliver said:
“Excuse me, I don’t quite understand you.”
“That rather inartistic performance of yours at Melfort Abbey. I should be interested to know—just why you did it.”
There was another silence, then Oliver said:
“You say the police—suspect?”
Mr. Satterthwaite nodded.
“It looks a little suspicious, don’t you think?” he asked pleasantly. “But perhaps you have a perfectly good explanation.”
“I’ve got an explanation,” said Oliver slowly. “Whether it’s a good one or not, I don’t know.”
“Will you let me judge?”
There was a pause, then Oliver said:
“I came there—the way I did—at Sir Bartholomew’s own suggestion.”
“What?” Mr. Satterthwaite was astonished.
“A bit odd, isn’t it? But it’s true. I got a letter from him suggesting that I should have a sham accident and claim hospitality. He said he couldn’t put his reasons in writing, but he would explain them to me at the first opportunity.”
“And did he explain?”
“No, he didn’t…I got there just before dinner. I didn’t see him alone. At the end of dinner he—he died.”
The weariness had gone out of Oliver’s manner. His dark eyes were fixed on Mr. Satterthwaite. He seemed to be studying attentively the reactions aroused by his words.
“You’ve got this letter?”
“No, I tore it up.”
“A pity,” said Mr. Satterthwaite dryly. “And you said nothing to the police?”