Three Act Tragedy (Hercule Poirot Mysteries) by Agatha Christie

Author:Agatha Christie [Christie, Agatha]
Format: epub
Tags: Detective, Mystery, Murder, Suspense, Private investigators - England, Mystery & Detective, Fiction - Mystery, Political, Mystery & Detective - General, General, Christie; Agatha; 1890-1976, Mystery Fiction, Traditional British, Fiction, Poirot; Hercule (Fictitious character), Mystery & Detective - Traditional British
ISBN: 9780425205976
Publisher: Berkley
Published: 2005-07-05T11:46:59+00:00

Three Act Tragedy

14

Mr. Satterthwaite had come down to Crow's Nest with Sir Charles. Whilst his host and Egg Lytton Gore were visiting Mrs. Babbington, Mr. Satterthwaite was having tea with Lady Mary.

Lady Mary liked Mr. Satterthwaite. For all her gentleness of manner, she was a woman who had very definite views on the subject of whom she did or did not like.

Mr. Satterthwaite sipped China tea from a Dresden cup, and ate a microscopic sandwich and chatted. On his last visit they had found many friends and acquaintances in common. Their talk today began on the same subject, but gradually drifted into more intimate channels. Mr. Satterthwaite was a sympathetic person - he listened to the troubles of other people and did not intrude his own. Even on his last visit it had seemed natural to Lady Mary to speak to him of her preoccupation with her daughter’s future. She talked now as she would have talked to a friend of many years’ standing.

“Egg is so headstrong,” she said. “She flings herself into a thing heart and soul. You know, Mr. Satterthwaite, I do not like the way she is - well, mixing herself up in this distressing business. It - Egg would laughed at me, I know - but it doesn’t seem to be ladylike.”

She flushed as she spoke. Her brown eyes, gentle and ingenuous, looked with childish appeal at Mr. Satterthwaite.

“I know what you mean,” he said. “I confess that I don’t quite like it myself. I know that it’s simply an old-fashioned prejudice, but there it is. All the same,” he twinkled at her, “we can’t expect young ladies to sit at home and sew and shudder at the idea of crimes of violence in these enlightened days.”

“I don’t like to think of murder,” said Lady Mary. “I never, never dreamed that I should be mixed up in anything of that kind. It was dreadful.” She shivered. “Poor Sir Bartholomew.”

“You didn’t know him very well?” hazarded Mr. Satterthwaite.

“I think I’d only met him twice. The first time about a year ago, when he came down to stay with Sir Charles for a weekend, and the second time was on that dreadful evening when poor Mr. Babbington died. I was really most surprised when his invitation arrived. I accepted because I thought Egg would enjoy it. She hasn’t many treats, poor child, and - well, she had seemed a little down in the mouth, as though she didn’t take any interest in anything. I thought a big house-party might cheer her up.”

“Tell me something about Oliver Manders,” he said. “The young fellow rather interests me.”

“I think he’s clever,” said Lady Mary. “Of course, things have been difficult for him … ”

She flushed, and then in answer to the plain inquiry of Mr. Satterthwaite’s glance she went on.

“You see, his father wasn’t married to his mother ... ”

“Really? I had no idea of that.”

“Everyone knows about it down here, otherwise I wouldn’t have said anything about it. Old Mrs. Manders, Oliver’s grandmother, lives at Dunboyne, that biggish house on the Plymouth road.

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