Three Act Tragedy (Hercule Poirot 11)

“Youth must have its fling,” said Mr. Satterthwaite.

Lady Mary shook her head.

“I’ve been so afraid—it’s quite suitable, of course, I know all about him, and his uncle, who has recently taken him into his firm, is a very rich man; it’s not that—it’s silly of me—but—”

She shook her head, unable to express herself further.

Mr. Satterthwaite felt curiously intimate. He said quietly and plainly:

“All the same, Lady Mary, you wouldn’t like your girl to marry a man twice her own age.”

Her answer surprised him.

“It might be safer so. If you do that, at least you know where you are. At that age a man’s follies and sins are definitely behind him; they are not—still to come….”

Before Mr. Satterthwaite could say any more, Egg rejoined them.

“You’ve been a long time, darling,” said her mother.

“I was talking to Sir Charles, my sweet. He’s all alone in his glory.” She turned reproachfully to Mr. Satterthwaite. “You didn’t tell me the house party had flitted.”

“They went back yesterday—all but Sir Bartholomew Strange. He was staying till tomorrow, but he was recalled to London by an urgent telegram this morning. One of his patients was in a critical condition.”

“It’s a pity,” said Egg. “Because I meant to study the house party. I might have got a clue.”

“A clue to what, darling?”

“Mr. Satterthwaite knows. Oh, well, it doesn’t matter. Oliver’s still here. We’ll rope him in. He’s got brains when he likes.”

When Mr. Satterthwaite arrived back at Crow’s Nest he found his host sitting on the terrace overlooking the sea.

“Hullo, Satterthwaite. Been having tea with the Lytton Gores?”

“Yes. You don’t mind?”

“Of course not. Egg telephoned…Odd sort of girl, Egg….”

“Attractive,” said Mr. Satterthwaite.

“H’m, yes, I suppose she is.”

He got up and walked a few aimless steps.

“I wish to God,” he said suddenly and bitterly, “that I’d never come to this cursed place.”

Five

FLIGHT FROM A LADY

Mr. Satterthwaite thought to himself: “He’s got it badly.”

He felt a sudden pity for his host. At the age of fifty-two, Charles Cartwright, the gay debonair breaker of hearts, had fallen in love. And, as he himself realized, his case was doomed to disappointment. Youth turns to youth.

“Girls don’t wear their hearts on their sleeves,” thought Mr. Satterthwaite. “Egg makes a great parade of her feeling for Sir Charles. She wouldn’t if it really meant anything. Young Manders is the one.”

Mr. Sat

terthwaite was usually fairly shrewd in his assumptions.