24

at once an excited discussion sprang up. an abc 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 of the mystery is?” asked egg.

“i can’t imagine. but it can’t fail to throw some light on the babbington affair. if tollie got those people together on purpose, as i feel pretty sure he did, then the ‘surprise’ he talked of springing on them had something to do with this rushbridger woman. i think we can assume that, don’t you, m. poirot?”

poirot shook his head in a perplexed manner.

“this telegram complicates the affair,” he murmured. “but we must be quick - extremely quick.”

mr. satterthwaite did not see the need for extreme haste, but he agreed politely.

“certainly, we will go by the first train in the morning. er - that is to say, is it necessary for us all to go?”

“sir charles and i had arranged to go down to gilling,” said egg.

“we can postpone that,” said sir charles.

“i don’t think we ought to postpone anything,” said egg. “there is no need for all 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 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 much more than she would to anyone else. you’re her daughter’s employer, and she’ll have confidence in you.”

sir charles looked into egg’s glowing, earnest face.

“i’ll come to gilling,” he said. “i think you’re quite right.”

“i know i’m right,” said egg.

“in my opinion an excellent arrangement,” said poirot briskly. “as mademoiselle says, sir charles is pre-eminently the person to interview this mrs. milray. who knows, you may learn from her facts of much more importance than those we shall learn in yorkshire.”

matters were arranged on this basis, and the following morning sir charles picked up egg in his car at a quarter to ten. poirot and mr. satterthwaite had already left london by train.

it was a lovely crisp morning with just a touch of frost in the air. egg felt her spirits rising as they turned and twisted through the various short cuts which sir charles’s experience had discovered south of the thames.

at last, however, they were flying smoothly along the folkestone road. after passing through maidstone, sir charles consulted a map, and they turned off from the main road and were shortly winding through country lanes. it was about a quarter to twelve when they at last reached their objective.

gilling was a village which the world had left behind. it had an old church, a vicarage, two or three shops, a row of cottages, three or four new council houses and a very attractive village green. miss milray’s mother lived in a tiny house on the other side of the green to 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.”

egg laughed.

mrs. milray turned out to be almost ludicrously unlike her daughter. where miss milray was hard, she was soft, where miss milray was angular, she was round. mrs. milray was an immense dumpling of a woman immovably fixed in an armchair conveniently placed so that she could, from the window, observe all that went on in the world outside.

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 almost interesting for her working with you all these years. won’t you sit down, miss lytton gore? you’ll excuse my not getting up. i’ve lost the use of my limbs for many years now. the lord’s will, and i don’t complain, and what i say is one can get used to anything. perhaps you’d like a little refreshment after your drive down?”

both sir charles and egg disclaimed the need of refreshment, but mrs. milray paid no attention. she clapped her hands in an oriental manner, and tea and biscuits made their appearance. as they nibbled and sipped, sir charles came to the object of their visit.

“i expect you’ve heard, mrs. milray, all about the tragic death of mr. babbington who used to be vicar here?”

the dumpling nodded its head in vigorous 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 fact, we wondered if you could possibly throw any light upon the matter.”

“me? but i haven’t seen the babbingtons - let me see - it must be over fifteen years.”

“i know, but some of us have the idea that there might be something in the past to account for his death.”

“i’m sure i don’t know what there could be. they led very quiet lives

-very badly off, poor things, with all those children.”

mrs. milray was willing enough to reminisce, but her reminiscences seemed to shed little light on the problem they had set out to 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.

“i can’t say i remember any of them - of course it’s a long time ago. but this is a small place. there’s not much coming and going. the agnew girls, the doctor’s daughters - they’re all married and out in the world, and our present doctor’s a bachelor - he’s got a new young partner. then there were the old miss cayleys - sat in the big 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 hen and often over at the vicarage.”

sir charles tried to envisage miss milray as a young girl and failed. he asked mrs. milray if she remembered anyone of the name of rushbridger, but the name failed to evoke any response.

finally they took their leave.

their next move was a scratch lunch in the baker’s shop. sir charles had hankerings for fleshpots elsewhere, but egg pointed out that they might get hold of some local gossip.

“and boiled eggs and scones will do you 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 about him.

after lunch they went to the church and looked through the register of births, marriages and deaths. here again there seemed nothing hopeful or suggestive.

they came out into the churchyard and lingered. egg read the names on the tombstones.

“what queer names there are,” she said. “listen, here’s a whole family of stavepennys and here’s a mary ann sticklepath.”

“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 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 persistence creature you are, egg. why do you want to know?”

“because you won’t tell me.”

“you adorable child,” said sir charles a little unsteadily.

“i’m not a child.”

“aren’t you? i wonder.”

“tell me,” whispered egg softly.

a humorous and rueful smile twisted sir charles’s mouth.

“very well, here goes. my father’s name was mugg.”

“not really?”

“really and truly.”

“h’m,” said egg. “that is a bit catastrophic. to go through life as mugg - ”

“wouldn’t have taken me far in my career. 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.” egg tried to make her voice nonchalant.

sir charles said abruptly: “egg, somehow or other this murder business doesn’t seem real any more. today especially, it seems fantastic. i meant to clear the thing up before - before anything else. i’ve been superstitious about it. i’ve associated success in solving problems with - with another kind of success. oh, damn, why do i beat about the bush? i’ve made love on the stage so often that i’m diffident about it in real life ... is it me or is it young manders, egg? i must know. yesterday i thought it was me ... ”

“you thought right ... ”

“you incredible angel,” cried sir charles.

“charles, charles, you can’t kiss me in a churchyard ... ”

“i shall kiss you anywhere i please ... ”

“we’ve found out nothing,” said egg later, as they were speeding back to london.

“nonsense, we’ve found out the only thing worth finding out ... what do i care about dead clergymen or dead doctors? you’re the only thing that matters ... you know, my dear, i’m thirty years older than you - are you sure it doesn’t matter?”

egg pinched his arm gently.

“don’t be silly ... i wonder if the others have found out anything!”

“they’re welcome to it,” said sir charles generously.

“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 over to moustachios. it’s his business.”

“do you think he really knows who committed the crimes? he said he did.”

“probably hasn’t the faintest idea, but he’s got to keep up his professional reputation.”

egg was silent. sir charles said:

“what are you thinking about, darling?”

“i was thinking about miss milray. she was so odd in her manner that evening i told 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 sweet, what do i care for miss milray’s worries? what do i care for anything but you and me?”

“you’d better pay some attention to the trams!” said egg. “i don’t want to be widowed before i’m a wife.”

they arrived back at sir charles’s flat for tea. miss milray came out to meet them.

“there is a telegram for you, sir charles.”

“thank you, miss milray.” he laughed, a nervous boyish laugh.

“look here, i must tell you our news. miss lytton gore and i are going to get married.”

there was a moment’s pause, and then miss milray said:

“oh! i’m sure - i’m sure you’ll be very happy.”

there was a queer note in her voice. egg noticed it, but before she could formulate her impression charles cartwright had swung round to her with a quick exclamation.

“my god, egg, look at this. it’s from satterthwaite.”

he shoved the telegram into her hands. egg read it, and her eyes opened wide.