Three Act Tragedy Read Online Free PDF Page A

behind all that bombardment of words he was hedging? What he said amounted to this: that there was nothing to show death had not arisen from natural causes. He didn’t say it was the result of natural causes.”
    â€œAren’t you splitting hairs a little, my dear?”
    â€œThe point is that he did—he was puzzled, but he had nothing to go upon, so he had to take refuge in medical caution. What did Sir Bartholomew Strange think?”
    Mr. Satterthwaite repeated some of the physician’s dictums.
    â€œPooh-poohed it, did he?” said Egg thoughtfully. “Of course, he’s a cautious man—I suppose a Harley Street big bug has to be.”
    â€œThere was nothing in the cocktail glass but gin and vermouth,” Mr. Satterthwaite reminded her.
    â€œThat seems to settle it. All the same, something that happened after the inquest made me wonder—”
    â€œSomething Sir Bartholomew said to you?”
    Mr. Satterthwaite began to feel a pleasant curiosity.
    â€œNot to me—to Oliver. Oliver Manders—he was at dinner that night, but perhaps you don’t remember him.”
    â€œYes, I remember him very well. Is he a great friend of yours?”
    â€œUsed to be. Now we scrap most of the time. He’s gone into his uncle’s office in the city, and he’s getting—well, a bit oily, if you know what I mean. Always talks of chucking it and being a journalist—he writes rather well. But I don’t think it’s any more than talk now. He wants to get rich. I think everybody is rather disgusting about money, don’t you, Mr. Satterthwaite?”
    Her youth came home to him then—the crude, arrogant childishness of her.
    â€œMy dear,” he said, “so many people are disgusting about so many things.”
    â€œMost people are swine, of course,” agreed Egg cheerfully. “That’s why I’m really cut up about old Mr. Babbington. Because you see, he really was rather a pet. He prepared me for confirmation and all that, and though of course a lot of that business is all bunkum, he really was rather sweet about it. You see, Mr. Satterthwaite, I really believe in Christianity—not like Mother does, with little books and early service, and things—but intelligently and as a matter of history. The Church is all clotted up with the Pauline tradition—in fact the Church is a mess—but Christianity itself is all right. That’s why I can’t be a communist like Oliver. In practice our beliefs would work out much the same, things in common and ownership by all, but the difference—well, I needn’t go into that. But the Babbingtons really were Christians; they didn’t poke and pry and condemn, and they were never unkind about people or things. They were pets—and there was Robin….”
    â€œRobin?”
    â€œTheir son…He was out in India and got killed…I—I had rather a pash on Robin….”
    Egg blinked. Her gaze went out to sea….
    Then her attention returned to Mr. Satterthwaite and the present.
    â€œSo, you see, I feel rather strongly about this. Supposing it wasn’t a natural death….”
    â€œMy dear child!”
    â€œWell, it’s damned odd! You must admit it’s damned odd.”
    â€œBut surely you yourself have just practically admitted that the Babbingtons hadn’t an enemy in the world.”
    â€œThat’s what’s so queer about it. I can’t think of any conceivable motive….”
    â€œFantastic! There was nothing in the cocktail.”
    â€œPerhaps someone jabbed him with a hypodermic.”
    â€œContaining the arrow poison of the South American Indians,” suggested Mr. Satterthwaite, gently ridiculing.
    Egg grinned.
    â€œThat’s it. The good old untraceable stuff. Oh, well, you’re all very superior about it. Someday, perhaps, you’ll find out we are right.”
    â€œWe?”
    â€œSir