Three Act Tragedy. Agatha Christie

actor made a careless gesture.

      ‘Anywhere. What does it matter?’ He added with a slight change of voice, ‘Probably Monte Carlo.’ And then, retrieving what his sensitive taste could not but feel to be a slight anticlimax, ‘In the heart of the desert or the heart of the crowd—what does it matter? The inmost core of man is solitary—alone. I have always been—a lonely soul …’

      It was clearly an exit line.

      He nodded to Mr Satterthwaite and left the room.

      Mr Satterthwaite got up and prepared to follow his host to bed.

      ‘But it won’t be the heart of a desert,’ he thought to himself with a slight chuckle.

      On the following morning Sir Charles begged Mr Satterthwaite to forgive him if he went up to town that day.

      ‘Don’t cut your visit short, my dear fellow. You were staying till tomorrow, and I know you’re going on to the Harbertons at Tavistock. The car will take you there. What I feel is that, having come to my decision, I mustn’t look back. No, I mustn’t look back.’

      Sir Charles squared his shoulders with manly resolution, wrung Mr Satterthwaite’s hand with fervour and delivered him over to the capable Miss Milray.

      Miss Milray seemed prepared to deal with the situation as she had dealt with any other. She expressed no surprise or emotion at Sir Charles’s overnight decision. Nor could Mr Satterthwaite draw her out on the point. Neither sudden deaths nor sudden changes of plan could excite Miss Milray. She accepted whatever happened as a fact and proceeded to cope with it in an efficient way. She telephoned to the house agents, despatched wires abroad, and wrote busily on her typewriter. Mr Satterthwaite escaped from the depressing spectacle of so much efficiency by strolling down to the quay. He was walking aimlessly along when he was seized by the arm from behind, and turned to confront a white-faced girl.

      ‘What’s all this?’ demanded Egg fiercely.

      ‘All what?’ parried Mr Satterthwaite.

      ‘It’s all over the place that Sir Charles is going away—that he’s going to sell Crow’s Nest.’

      ‘Quite true.’

      ‘He is going away?’

      ‘He’s gone.’

      ‘Oh!’ Egg relinquished his arm. She looked suddenly like a very small child who has been cruelly hurt.

      Mr Satterthwaite did not know what to say.

      ‘Where has he gone?’

      ‘Abroad. To the South of France.’

      ‘Oh!’

      Still he did not know what to say. For clearly there was more than hero worship here …

      Pitying her, he was turning over various consolatory words in his mind when she spoke again—and startled him.

      ‘Which of those damned bitches is it?’ asked Egg fiercely.

      Mr Satterthwaite stared at her, his mouth fallen open in surprise. Egg took him by the arm again and shook him violently.

      ‘You must know,’ she cried. ‘Which of them? The grey-haired one or the other?’

      ‘My dear, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

      ‘You do. You must. Of course it’s some woman. He liked me—I know he liked me. One of those women the other night must have seen it, too, and determined to get him away from me. I hate women. Lousy cats. Did you see her clothes—that one with the green hair? They made me gnash my teeth with envy. A woman who has clothes like that has a pull—you can’t deny it. She’s quite old and ugly as sin, really, but what does it matter. She makes everyone else look like a dowdy curate’s wife. Is it her? Or is it the other one with the grey hair? She’s amusing—you can see that. She’s got masses of S.A. And he called her Angie. It can’t be the one like a wilted cabbage. Is it the smart one or is it Angie?’

      ‘My dear, you’ve got the most extraordinary ideas into your head. He—er—Charles Cartwright isn’t the least interested in either of those women.’

      ‘I don’t believe you. They’re interested in him, anyway …’

      ‘No, no, no, you’re making a mistake. This is all imagination.’

      ‘Bitches,’ said Egg. ‘That’s what they are!’

      ‘You mustn’t use that word, my dear.’

      ‘I can think of a lot worse things to say than that.’

      ‘Possibly, possibly, but pray don’t do so. I can assure you that you are labouring under a misapprehension.’

      ‘Then why has he gone away—like this?’

      Mr Satterthwaite cleared his throat.

      ‘I fancy he—er—thought it best.’

      Egg stared at him piercingly.

      ‘Do you mean—because of me?’

      ‘Well—something of the kind, perhaps.’

      ‘And so he’s legged it. I suppose I did show my hand a bit plainly … Men do hate being chased, don’t they? Mums is right, after all … You’ve no idea how sweet she is when she talks about men. Always in the third person—so Victorian and polite. “A man hates being run after; a girl should always let the man make the running.” Don’t you think it’s a sweet expression—make the running? Sounds the opposite of what it means. Actually that’s just what Charles has done—made the running. He’s running away from me. He’s afraid. And the devil of it is, I can’t go after him. If I did I suppose he’d take a boat to the wilds of Africa or somewhere.’

      ‘Hermione,’ said Mr Satterthwaite, ‘are you serious about Sir Charles?’

      The girl flung him an impatient glance.

      ‘Of course I am.’

      ‘What about Oliver Manders?’

      Egg dismissed Oliver Manders with an impatient whisk of the head. She was following out a train of thought of her own.

      ‘Do you think I might write to him? Nothing alarming. Just chatty girlish stuff … you know, put him at his ease, so that he’d get over his scare?’

      She frowned.

      ‘What a fool I’ve been. Mums would have managed it much better. They knew how to do the trick, those Victorians. All blushing retreat. I’ve been all wrong about it. I actually thought he needed encouraging. He seemed—well, he seemed to need a bit of help. Tell me,’ she turned abruptly on Mr Satterthwaite, ‘did he see me do my kissing act with Oliver last night?’

      ‘Not that I know of. When—?’

      ‘All in the moonlight. As we were going down the path. I thought he was still looking from the terrace. I thought perhaps if he saw me and Oliver—well, I thought it might wake him up a bit. Because he did like me. I could swear he liked me.’

      ‘Wasn’t that a little hard on Oliver?’

      Egg shook her head decisively.

      ‘Not in the least. Oliver thinks it’s an honour for any girl to be kissed by him. It was damned bad for his conceit, of course; but one can’t think of everything. I wanted to ginger up Charles. He’s been different lately—more standoffish.’

      ‘My dear child,’ said Mr Satterthwaite, ‘I don’t think you realize quite why Sir Charles went away so suddenly. He thought that you cared for Oliver. He went away to save himself further pain.’

      Egg whisked round. She caught hold of Mr Satterthwaite by the shoulders and peered into his face.

      ‘Is that true? Is that really true? The mutt! The boob! Oh—!’