Three Act Tragedy (Hercule Poirot 11)

Both Sir Charles and Egg disclaimed the need of refreshment, but Mrs. Milray paid no attention. She clapped her hands in an Oriental manner, and tea and biscuits made their appearance. As they nibbled and sipped, Sir Charles came to the object of their visit.

“I expect you’ve heard, Mrs. Milray, all about the tragic death of Mr. Babbington who used to be vicar here?”

The dumpling nodded its head in vigorous assent.

“Yes, indeed. I’ve read all about the exhumation in the paper. And whoever can have poisoned him I can’t imagine. A very nice man, he was, everyone liked him here—and her, too. And their little children and all.”

“It is indeed a great mystery,” said Sir Charles. “We’re all in despair about it. In fact, we wondered if you could possibly throw any light upon the matter.”

“Me? But I haven’t seen the Babbingtons—let me see—it must be over fifteen years.”

“I know, but some of us have the idea that there might be something in the past to account for his death.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what there could be. They led very quiet lives—very badly off, poor things, with all those children.”

Mrs. Milray was willing enough to reminisce, but her reminiscences seemed to shed little light on the problem they had set out to solve.

Sir Charles showed her the enlargement of a snapshot which included the Dacres, also an early portrait of Angela Sutcliffe and a somewhat blurred reproduction of Miss Wills cut from a newspaper. Mrs. Milray surveyed them all with great interest, but with no signs of recognition.

“I can’t say I remember any of them—of course it’s a long time ago. But this is a small place. There’s not much coming and going. The Agnew girls, the doctor’s daughters—they’re all married and out in the world, and our present doctor’s a bachelor—he’s got a new young partner. Then there were the old Miss Cayleys—sat in the big pew—they’re all dead many years back. And the Richardsons—he died and she went to Wales. And the village people, of course. But there’s not much change there. Violet, I expect, could tell you as much as I could. She was a young girl then and often over at the Vicarage.”

Sir Charles tried to envisage Miss Milray as a young girl and failed.

He asked Mrs. Milray if she remembered anyone of the name of Rushbridger, but the name failed to evoke any response.

Finally they took their leave.

Their next move was a scratch lunch in the baker’s shop. Sir Charles had hankerings for fleshpots elsewhere, but Egg pointed out that they might get hold of some local gossip.

“And boiled eggs and scones will do you no harm for once,” she said severely. “Men are so fussy about their food.”

“I always find eggs so depressing,” said Sir Charles meekly.

The woman who served them was communicative enough. She, too, had read of the exhumation in the paper and had been proportionately thrilled by its being “old vicar.” “I were a child at the time,” she explained. “But I remember him.”

She could not, however, tell them much about him.

After lunch they went to the church and looked through the register of births, marriages and deaths. Here again there seemed nothing hopeful or suggestive.

They came out into the churchyard and lingered. Egg read the names on the tombstones.

“What queer names there are,” she said. “Listen, here’s a whole family of Stavepennys and here’s a Mary Ann Sticklepath.”

“None of them so queer as mine,” murmured Sir Charles.

“Cartwright? I don’t think that’s a queer name at all.”

“I didn’t mean Cartwright. Cartwright’s my acting name, and I finally adopted it legally.”

“What’s your real name?”

“I couldn’t possibly tell you. It’s my guilty secret.”

“Is it as terrible as all that?”

“It’s not so much terrible as humorous.”

“Oh—tell it me.”