Three Act Tragedy (Hercule Poirot 11)

“I want to know exactly how cocktails were served.”

“I beg your pardon, sir.”

“I want to know about the cocktails. Did you mix them?”

“No, sir, Sir Charles likes doing that himself. I brought in the bottles—the vermouth, the gin, and all that.”

“Where did you put them?”

“On the table there, sir.”

She indicated a table by the wall.

“The tray with the glasses stood here, sir. Sir Charles, when he had finished mixing and shaking, poured out the cocktails into the glasses. Then I took the tray round and handed it to the ladies and gentlemen.”

“Were all the cocktails on the tray you handed?”

“Sir Charles gave one to Miss Lytton Gore, sir; he was talking to her at the time, and he took his own. And Mr. Satterthwaite”—her eyes shifted to him for a moment—“came and fetched one for a lady—Miss Wills, I think it was.”

“Quite right,” said Mr. Satterthwaite.

“The others I handed, sir; I think everyone took one except Sir Bartholomew.”

“Will you be so very obliging, Temple, as to repeat the performance. Let us put cushions for some of the people. I stood here, I remember—Miss Sutcliffe was there.”

With Mr. Satterthwaite’s help, the scene was reconstructed. Mr. Satterthwaite was observant. He remembered fairly well where everyone had been in the room. Then Temple did her round. They ascertained that she had started with Mrs. Dacres, gone onto Miss Sutcliffe and Poirot, and had then come to Mr. Babbington, Lady Mary and Mr. Satterthwaite, who had been sitting together.

This agreed with Mr. Satterthwaite’s recollection.

Finally Temple was dismissed.

“Pah,” cried Poirot. “It does not make sense. Temple is the last person to handle those cocktails, but it was impossible for her to tamper with them in any way, and, as I say, one cannot force a cocktail on a particular person.”

“It’s instinctive to take the one nearest to you,” said Sir Charles.

“Possibly that might work by handing the tray to the person first—but even then it would be very uncertain. The glasses are close together; one does not look particularly nearer than another. No, no, such a haphazard method could not be adopted. Tell me, Mr. Satterthwaite, did Mr. Babbington put his cocktail down, or did he retain it in his hand?”

“He put it down on this table.”

“Did anyone come near that table after he had done so?”

“No. I was the nearest person to him, and I assure you I did not tamper with it in any way—even if I could have done so unobserved.”

Mr. Satterthwaite spoke rather stiffly. Poirot hastened to apologize.

“No, no, I am not making an accusation—quelle idée! But I want to be very sure of my facts. According to the analysis there was nothing out of the way in that cocktail—now it seems that, apart from that analysis there could have been nothing put in it. The same results from two different tests. But Mr. Babbington ate or drank nothing else, and if he was poisoned by pure nicotine, death would have resulted very rapidly. You see

where that leads us?”

“Nowhere, damn it all,” said Sir Charles.

“I would not say that—no, I would not say that. It suggests a very monstrous idea—which I hope and trust cannot be true. No, of course it is not true—the death of Sir Bartholomew proves that…And yet—”

He frowned, lost in thought. The others watched him curiously. He looked up.

“You see my point, do you not? Mrs. Babbington was not at Melfort Abbey, therefore Mrs. Babbington is cleared of suspicion.”

“Mrs. Babbington—but no one has even dreamed of suspecting her.”