STRANGE'S DEATH

MARGARET DE RUSHBRIDGER

"Airs. de Rushbridger!" cried Sir Charles.

"We were right, after all! She has got something

to do with the case." And he added:

"Margaret--M. The initial in Tollie's diary.

At last we're getting somewhere."

Twenty-Four

at once an excited discussion sprang up. An A.B.C. was produced. It was decided that an early train would be better than going by

car.

"At last," said Sir Charles, "we're going

to get that particular part of the mystery

cleared up."

"What do you think the mystery is?" asked

Egg.

"I can't imagine. But it can't fail to throw

"We can postpone that," said Sir Charles.

"I don't think we ought to postpone

anything," said Egg. "There is no need for

all four of us to go to Yorkshire. It's absurd.

Mass formation. M. Poirot and Mr.

Satterthwaite go to Yorkshire and Sir Charles

and I go to Gilling."

"I'd rather like to look into this Rushbridger business," said Sir Charles, with a trace of wistfulness. "You see, I--er-talked to the matron before--got my foot in, so to speak."

"That's just why you'd better keep away,"

said Egg. "You involved yourself in a lot of

lies, and now that this Rushbridger woman

has come to herself, you'll be exposed as a

thorough-paced liar. It's far, far more important

that you should come to Gilling. If we

want to see Miss Milray's mother, she'll open

out to you far more than she would to any one else. You're her daughter's employer and she'll have confidence in you."

Sir Charles looked into Egg's glowing earnest

by train.

Miss Milray's mother lived in a tiny house

on the other side of the green from the

church.

As the car drew up. Egg asked:

"Does Miss Milray know you are going to

see her mother?"

"Oh, yes. She wrote to prepare the old

lady."

"Do you think that was a good thing?"

"My dear child, why not?"

"Oh, I don't know. You didn't bring her

down with you, though."

"As a matter of fact, I thought she might

cramp my style. She's so much more efficient

than I am; she'd probably try to prompt

me."

She seemed pleasurably excited by the arrival

of her visitors.

"This is very nice of you, I'm sure, Sir

Charles. I've heard so much about you from

my Violet." Violet--singularly incongruous

name for Miss Milray. "You don't know

how much she admires you. It's been most

interesting for her, working with you all these

assent.

"Yes, indeed. I've read all about the exhumation

in the paper. And whoever can have

poisoned him I can't imagine. A very nice

man, he was; everyone liked him here--and

her too. And their little children and all."

"It is indeed a great mystery," said Sir

Charles. "We're all in despair about it. In

solve.

Sir Charles showed her the enlargement of

a snapshot which included the Dacres, also

an early portrait of Angela Sutcliffe and a

somewhat blurred reproduction of Miss

Wills, cut from a newspaper.

Mrs. Milray surveyed them all with great

interest, but with no signs of recognition.

pew--they're all dead many years back. And

the Richardsons--he died and she went to

Wales--and the village people, of course.

But there's not much change there. Violet, I

expect, could tell you as much as I could.

She was a young girl then, and often over at

the vicarage."

Sir Charles tried to envisage Miss Violet

no harm for once," she said severely. "Men

are so fussy about their food."

"I always find eggs so depressing," said

Sir Charles meekly.

The woman who served them was communicative

enough. She, too, had read of the

exhumation in the paper and had been proportionately

thrilled by its being "old vicar."

"I were a child at the time," she explained, "but I remember him." She could not, however, tell them much

"None of them so queer as mine," murmured

Sir Charles.

"Cartwright? I don't think that's a queer

name at all."

"I didn't mean Cartwright. Cartwright's

my acting name and I finally adopted it legally."

"What's your real name?"

"I couldn't possibly tell you. It's my guilty

secret."

'Is it as terrible as all that?"

"It's not so much terrible as humorous."

"Oh, tell it to me."

"Certainly not," said Sir Charles firmly.

"Please."

"No."

"Why not?"

"You'd laugh."

"I wouldn't."

"You wouldn't be able to help laughing."

"Oh, please tell me. Please, please, please."

"What a persistent creature you are. Egg.

Why do you want to know?"

"Because you won't tell me."

"You adorable child," said Sir Charles.

"I'm not a child."

"Really and truly."

"H'm," said Egg. "That is a bit catastrophic. To go through life as Mugg."

"w/rMiirln'r have taken me far in my ca

reer, I agree. I remember," went on Sir

Charles dreamily, "I played with the idea--I

was young then--of calling myself Ludovic

Castiglione, but I eventually compromised

on British alliteration as Charles Cartwright."

"Are you really Charles?"

"Yes, my godfathers and godmothers saw

to that." He hesitated, then said: "Why don't

you say Charles, and drop the Sir?"

"I might."

"You did yesterday. When--when you

thought I was dead."

"Oh, then."

gone in.

She thought: "What a funny feeling I've

"In Yorkshire."

"Somehow," said Sir Charles, "today I

don't feel as though I cared."

"Charles, you used to be so keen."

But Sir Charles was no longer playing the

part of the great detective.

"Well, it was my own show. Now I've

handed it over to Mustachios. It's his business."

you about. She had just bought the paper

about the exhumation and she said she didn't know what to do."

"Nonsense," said Sir Charles cheerfully.

"That woman always knows what to do."

"Do be serious, Charles. She sounded

worried."

"Egg, my dear, what do I care for Miss

Milray's worries? What do I care for anything

but today? Let murder go hang."

They arrived back at Sir Charles5 flat for

tea. Miss Milray came out to meet them.

"There is a telegram for you. Sir Charles."

"Thank you. Miss Milray."

He tore it open and swung round with a

quick exclamation: "Egg, look at this! It's

from Satterthwaite!"

and the matron came in. She was looking

quite unlike her usual brisk efficient self.

Mr. Satterthwaite rose.

"I hope you remember me," he said. "I

came here with Sir Charles Cartwright just

after the death of Sir Bartholomew Strange."

"Yes, indeed, Mr. Satterthwaite, of course

I remember, and Sir Charles asked after poor

connected with the poor doctor's death in

any way. There must be some madman

about--that's the only way I can account for

it. Having the police here and everything.

It's really been terrible."

"The police?" said Mr. Satterthwaite, surprised.

"Yes, since ten o'clock they've been here."

"The police?" said Hercule Poirot.

"Dead?" cried Poirot. "Milk tonneres! That

she swallowed it. One doesn't like spitting a

thing out."

"Oui, oui, and if a liquid runs suddenly

down your throat, it is difficult."

"So she swallowed it and called out, and

nurse came rushing, but we couldn't do anything.

She died in about two minutes. Then

doctor sent for the police, and they came and

examined the chocolates. All the top layer

had been tampered with; the underneath ones

were all right."

"And the poison employed?"

"They think it's nicotine."

"Yes," said Poirot. "Again nicotine. What

a stroke! What an audacious stroke!"

"We are too late," said Mr. Satterthwaite.

did not sound hopeful.

Mr. Satterthwaite turned to the matron, who immediately sent for the two nurses, on day and night duty respectively, who

had been in attendance on Mrs. de Rushbridger,

but neither of them could add any

information to that already given. Mrs. de

Rushbridger had never mentioned Sir

Bartholomew's death, and they did not even

know of the dispatching of the telegram.

Mr. Satterthwaite said slowly:

"Poor soul."

He looked across at Hercule Poirot. There

was a strange expression on the little Belgian's

face. Something about it made Mr.

Satterthwaite shiver.

Mr. Satterthwaite said:

"Someone knew she was going to speak

and killed her. She was killed in order to

prevent her speaking."

Poirot nodded.

"Yes, that is so."

"She was murdered to prevent her telling

us what she knew."

"Or what she did not know. But let us not

waste time. There is much to be done. There

Superintendent Crossfield followed them

out of the room and learned from them of

her very much, mentioning, as it did. Sir

Bartholomew Strange's death.

After some lunch in company with the

superintendent, and after dispatching a telegram

to Sir Charles, the quest was resumed.

At six o'clock that evening, the small boy

who had handed in the telegram was found.

He told his story promptly. He had been

given the boy two and six, and told him to

back to her mother, but Sir Charles met

FR1;them and the three men discussed the situation.

^Mon ami," said Poirot, "be guided by

me. Only one thing will solve this case--the

little gray cells of the brain. To rush up and

down England, to hope that this person and

that will tell us what we want to know--all

such methods are amateurish and absurd.

The truth can only be seen from within."

this woman could have said if she lived?"

"I believe so."

"It hardly seems possible. However, M.

Poirot, you must have it your own way. If

you can see through this mystery, it's more

than I can. I'm beaten, and I confess it. In

any case, I've other fish to fry."

Perhaps he hoped to be questioned, but if

Poirot stared at him.

"Gone? Gone where?"

"Nobody knows. I was thinking things

over after I got your telegram. As I told you

at the time, I felt convinced that that woman

knew something she hadn't told us. I thought

I'd have a last shot at getting it out of her. I

drove out to her house--it was about halfpast

nine when I got there--and asked for

hadn't taken any luggage with her."

"Odd," murmured Poirot.

"I know. It seems as though--I don't

know. I feel uneasy."

"I warned her," said Poirot. "I warned

everyone. You remember, I said to them,

"Speak now.' "

"Yes, yes. Do you think that she too--"

that he is dead?"

"EUis will never be seen alive again."

"It's a nightmare!" burst out Sir Charles.

"The whole thing is utterly incomprehensible!"

"No, no. It is sane and logical, on the

contrary."

Sir Charles stared at him.

"You say that?"

"Certainly. You see, I have the orderly

mind."

"I don't understand you."

Mr. Satterthwaite, too, looked curiously at

the little detective.

"What kind of mind have I?" demanded

Sir Charles, slightly hurt.

"You have the actor's mind. Sir Charles, creative, original, seeing always dramatic values. Mr. Satterthwaite here, he has the playgoer's

said to Mr. Satterthwaite:

"That chap thinks a lot of himself."

He spoke rather coldly.

Twenty-Six

poirot did not have quite the uninterrupted

twenty-four hours for which he had stipulated.

It was a little after ten on the following

morning when Oliver Manders sent up his

"Yes."

Oliver hesitated. Poirot drew forward a

chair.

"Sit, I pray of you. . . . Now we can

converse at our ease."

Oliver accented the chair, but he still

seemed a little doubtful as how best to come

to the point of his visit.

Poirot looked slightly astonished.

"But what an idea--that."

"No, you don't like me. Very few people

do like me. I--I don't know why it is."

All Oliver's languid, supercilious manner

had vanished. He spoke now as boyishly and

naturally as any other young man of his age

might have done. His face, as he leaned

Again Poirot's eyebrows rose.

"How so?"

Oliver replied somberly:

"Because in the bottom of your heart you

believe that it was I who killed old Babbington."

"Quelk idee!"

"No, you think so. I can see that there is

a lot against me, but I'm not a murderer, M.

"Yes, yes, I understand very well. Because

I am old, I have not forgotten what it is to

be young." He went on gently: "That is

your complaint, man ami--youth. It is a characteristic

of youth to make itself worse than

it is." With a slightly humorous grimace, he

added: "At my age, one's preoccupation is to

arrange one's goods well in the shop

"No."

"Good."

Poirot nodded approval, and then went

on: "And the next thing?"

Oliver looked rather surprised.

"The next thing?"

"Mais oui. I fancied you had something

else to say, but perhaps I am wrong."

"No, no, you're right. There is something

more. I want you to let me work with you

over this business. You trust me now. Let

me help you."

"Help me? In what way?"

"I don't know. There must be some way

in which I could be useful. I fancy--I may

be wrong--that you are very hot on the

trail."

suspicions are pointing--"

Hercule Poirot shook his head.

"That--not just yet. I am of an unbelievable

secrecy."

Oliver's ear was sensitive enough to catch

the underlying firmness in Poirot's voice. He

insisted no further, but took his leave with a

few further words of thanks.

Her face showed such lively scorn that

Egg looked more closely at the erection on

the table. She laughed.

"Good heavens, they've sold you Happy

Families."

"What is that you say--the Happy Family?"

"Yes, it's a game. Children play it in the

nursery."

"Ah, well, one can compose the houses

just in the same manner."

Egg had picked up some of the cards from

the table and was looking at them affectionately.

"Master Bun, the baker's son--I always

loved him. And here's Mr. Mug, the milkman.

Oh, dear, I wish Sir Charles were here.

I'd show him his portrait."

"Why is that funny picture Sir Charles, mademoiselle?"

wallet. You know, the one Miss Wills picked

up and handed back to him. It seems to me

that either Oliver is telling a downright lie

when he says he doesn't remember its being

there, or else it never was there. He dropped some odd bit of paper and that woman pretended it was the nicotine cutting."

"Why should she have done that, mademoiselle?"

"Because she wanted to get rid of it. She

planted it on Oliver."

"Decidedly, that is the impasse. I should

not ask you to guess at a motive. It is of

myself that I ask that question without ceasing:

What was the motive behind Mr.

Babbington's death? When I can answer that, the case will be solved."

"You don't think just madness--" suggested

Egg.

"There must still be a motive--a mad

night tomorrow."

"Mon Dieu!" cried Poirot.

He patted Egg on the shoulder.

"You think I am mad. Not at all. I heard

what you said. You go to see the Little Dog

Laughed and Miss Sutcliffe acts in it. Go

then, and pay no attention to what I have

said."

Rather doubtfully. Egg departed. Left to

himself, Poirot strode up and down the room

swept the cards from the table.

"The Happy Family, I need it no longer,"

he said. "The problem is solved. It only

remains to act."

He caught up his hat and put on his overcoat.

Then he went downstairs and the

commissionaire called him a taxi. Poirot gave

the address of Sir Charles' flat.

"Me! Or is it I? Enfin, mm!"

Miss Milray said:

"I'm afraid you won't find Sir Charles.

He's gone to the Babylon Theater with Miss

Lytton Gore."

"It is not Sir Charles I seek. It is my stick

that I think I have left behind one day."

"Oh, I see. Well, if you'll ring. Temple

But when she had gone, Poirot seemed to

taxi.

No surprise showed on his face when the

first taxi went north and finally drew up at

Paddington Station, though Paddington is an

odd station from which to proceed to Gilling.

Poirot went to the first-class booking window

and demanded a return ticket to

Loomouth. The train was due to depart in

little station:

"Well, now, miss, we didn't expect you.

Is Sir Charles coming down?"

Miss Milray replied: (

"I've come down here unexpectedly. I shall

be going back tomorrow morning. I've just

come to fetch some things. No, I don't want

a cab, thank you. I'll walk up by the cliff

path."

torch in her hand. Poirot drew back a

little behind a convenient bush.

Miss Milray passed round behind the house

and up a scrambling, overgrown path.

Hercule Poirot followed. Up and up went

Miss Milray, until she came suddenly to an

old stone tower such as is found often on

that coast. This one was of humble and dilapidated

"You cannot do that, mademoiselle^ he

said. "For what you seek to destroy is evidence."

Twenty-Seven

hercule poirot sat in a big armchair. The

wall lights had been turned out. Only a roseshaded

lamp shed its glow on the figure in

the armchair. There seemed something symbolic

about it--he alone in the light, and the

of cards. And if the facts will not fit--if the

card will not balance--well, you must start

your house again, or else it will fall.

"As I said the other day, there are differ-rwi-i-irr^o r>>f minric* rl-ipr^ is the dramatic mind, the producer's mind, which sees the

effect of reality that can be produced by

mechanical appliances; there is also the mind

that reacts easily to dramatic appearances;

and there is the young romantic mind; and

murdered. I did not agree with that theory. I

could not believe (A) that such a man as

Stephen Babbington was likely to have been

murdered, and (B) that it was possible to

administer poison to a particular person under

the circumstances that had obtained that

evening.

"Now, here I admit that Sir Charles was

right and I was wrong. I was wrong because

I was looking at the crime from an entirely

false angle. It is only twenty-four hours ago

that I suddenly perceived the proper angle of

vision--and let me say that from that angle

of vision, the murder of Stephen Babbington

is both reasonable and possible.

"But I will pass from that point for the

"What we need, therefore, is a reasonable

common-sense theory which will link those

three deaths together--in other words, those

three crimes were committed by one and the

same person and were to the advantage and

benefit of that particular person.

"Now, I may say at once that the principal

thing that worried me was the fact that

the connection of those two people with Sir

Bartholomew Strange. However, as I remarked

before, one cannot have one^s crime

as one would like to have it. Stephen

Babbington had been murdered first and Sir

Bartholomew Strange some time later. It

seemed, therefore, as though the second

crime must necessarily arise out of the first, and that, accordingly, it was the first crime we must examine for the clue to the whole.

"I did indeed so far incline to the theory

of probability that I seriously considered the

idea of a mistake having arisen. Was it possible

that Sir Bartholomew Strange was intended

as the first victim and that Mr.

Babbington was poisoned by mistake? I was

forced, however, to abandon that idea. Anybody

who knew Sir Bartholomew Strange

with any degree of intimacy knew that he

disliked the cocktail habit.

"Another suggestion: Had Stephen Babbington

been poisoned in mistake for any

other member of the original party? I could

not find any evidence of such a thing. I was

therefore forced back to the conclusion that

the murder of Steohen Babbineton had been

definitely intended, and at once I came up

tray so as to offer him the one remaining

"Sir Charles Cartwright and Temple had

the handling of the cocktails. Were either of

those two at Melfort Abbey? They were not.

Who had the best chance of tampering with

Sir Bartholomew's port glass? The absconding

butler, Ellis, and his helper, the

parlormaid. But here, however, the possibility

that one of the guests had done so could