Three Act Tragedy (Hercule Poirot 11)

“I’m afraid she’ll be disappointed,” said Egg.

Doris giggled more. She was enjoying her lunch, and she felt attracted to Egg. “She may be a Society young lady,” she thought to herself, “but she doesn’t put on airs. She’s as natural as can be.”

These pleasant relations once established, Egg found no difficulty in inducing her companion to talk freely on the subject of her employer.

“I always think,” said Egg, “that Mrs. Dacres looks a frightful cat. Is she?”

“None of us like her, Miss Lytton Gore, and that’s a fact. But she’s clever, of course, and she’s got a rare head for business. Not like some Society ladies who take up the dressmaking business and go bankrupt because their friends get clothes and don’t pay. She’s as hard as nails, Madam is—though I will say she’s fair enough—and she’s got real taste—she knows what’s what, and she’s clever at getting people to have the style that suits them.”

“I suppose she makes a lot of money?”

A queer knowing look came into Doris’s eye.

“It’s not for me to say anything—or to gossip.”

“Of course not,” said Egg. “Go on.”

“But if you ask me—the firm’s not far off Queer Street. There was a Jewish gentleman came to see Madam, and there have been one or two things—it’s my belief she’s been borrowing to keep going in the hope that trade would revive, and that she’s got in deep. Really, Miss Lytton Gore, she looks terrible sometimes. Quite desperate. I don’t know what she’d look like without her makeup. I don’t believe she sleeps of nights.”

“What’s her husband like?”

“He’s a queer fish. Bit of a bad lot, if you ask me. Not that we ever see much of him. None of the other girls agree with me, but I believe she’s very keen on him still. Of course a lot of nast

y things have been said—”

“Such as?” asked Egg.

“Well, I don’t like to repeat things. I never have been one for that.”

“Of course not. Go on, you were saying—?”

“Well, there’s been a lot of talk among the girls. About a young fellow—very rich and very soft. Not exactly balmy, if you know what I mean—sort of betwixt and between. Madam’s been running him for all she was worth. He might have put things right—he was soft enough for anything—but then he was ordered on a sea voyage—suddenly.”

“Ordered by whom—a doctor?”

“Yes, someone in Harley Street. I believe now that it was the same doctor who was murdered up in Yorkshire—poisoned, so they said.”

“Sir Bartholomew Strange?”

“That was the name. Madam was at the house party, and we girls said among ourselves—just laughing, you know—well, we said, supposing Madam did him in—out of revenge, you know! Of course it was just fun—”

“Naturally,” said Egg. “Girlish fun. I quite understand. You know, Mrs. Dacres is quite my idea of a murderess—so hard and remorseless.”

“She’s ever so hard—and she’s got a wicked temper! When she lets go, there’s not one of us dares to come near her. They say her husband’s frightened of her—and no wonder.”

“Have you ever heard her speak of anyone called Babbington or of a place in Kent—Gilling?”

“Really, now, I can’t call to mind that I have.”

Doris looked at her watch and uttered an exclamation.

“Oh, dear, I must hurry. I shall be late.”

“Good-bye, and thanks so much for coming.”

“It’s been a pleasure, I’m sure. Good-bye, Miss Lytton Gore, and I hope the article will be a great success. I shall look out for it.”

“You’ll look in vain, my girl,” thought Egg, as she asked for her bill.