Three Act Tragedy Read Online Free PDF

Charles and I.” She flushed slightly.
    Mr. Satterthwaite thought in the words and metre of his generation when Quotations for All Occasions was to be found in every bookcase.
    â€œOf more than twice her years,
    Seam’d with an ancient swordcut on the cheek,
    And bruised and bronzed, she lifted up her eyes
    And loved him, with that love which was her doom.”
    He felt a little ashamed of himself for thinking in quotations—Tennyson, too, was very little thought of nowadays. Besides, though Sir Charles was bronzed, he was not scarred, and Egg Lytton Gore, though doubtless capable of a healthy passion, did not look at all likely to perish of love and drift about rivers on a barge. There was nothing of the lily maid of Astolat about her.
    â€œExcept,” thought Mr. Satterthwaite, “her youth….”
    Girls were always attracted to middle-aged men with interesting pasts. Egg seemed to be no exception to this rule.
    â€œWhy hasn’t he ever married?” she asked abruptly.
    â€œWell…” Mr. Satterthwaite paused. His own answer, put bluntly, would have been, “Caution,” but he realized that such a word would be unacceptable to Egg Lytton Gore.
    Sir Charles Cartwright had had plenty of affairs with women, actresses and others, but he had always managed to steer clear of matrimony. Egg was clearly seeking for a more romantic explanation.
    â€œThat girl who died of consumption—some actress, name began with an M—wasn’t he supposed to be very fond of her?”
    Mr. Satterthwaite remembered the lady in question. Rumour had coupled Charles Cartwright’s name with hers, but only very slightly, and Mr. Satterthwaite did not for a moment believe that Sir Charles had remained unmarried in order to be faithful to her memory. He conveyed as much tactfully.
    â€œI suppose he’s had lots of affairs,” said Egg.
    â€œEr—h’m—probably,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, feeling Victorian.
    â€œI like men to have affairs,” said Egg. “It shows they’re not queer or anything.”
    Mr. Satterthwaite’s Victorianism suffered a further pang. He was at a loss for a reply. Egg did not notice his discomfiture. She went on musingly.
    â€œYou know, Sir Charles is really cleverer than you’d think. He poses a lot, of course, dramatises himself; but behind all that he’s got brains. He’s far better sailing a boat than you’d ever think, to hear him talk. You’d think, to listen to him, that it was all pose, butit isn’t. It’s the same about this business. You think it’s all done for effect—that he wants to play the part of the great detective. All I say is: I think he’d play it rather well.”
    â€œPossibly,” agreed Mr. Satterthwaite.
    The inflection of his voice showed his feelings clearly enough. Egg pounced on them and expressed them in words.
    â€œBut your view is that ‘Death of a Clergyman’ isn’t a thriller. It’s merely ‘Regrettable Incident at a Dinner Party.’ Purely a social catastrophe. What did M. Poirot think? He ought to know.”
    â€œM. Poirot advised us to wait for the analysis of the cocktail; but in his opinion everything was quite all right.”
    â€œOh, well,” said Egg, “he’s getting old. He’s a back number.” Mr. Satterthwaite winced. Egg went on, unconscious of brutality: “Come home and have tea with Mother. She likes you. She said so.”
    Delicately flattered, Mr. Satterthwaite accepted the invitation.
    On arrival Egg volunteered to ring up Sir Charles and explain the nonappearance of his guest.
    Mr. Satterthwaite sat down in the tiny sitting room with its faded chintzes and its well-polished pieces of old furniture. It was a Victorian room, what Mr. Satterthwaite called in his own mind a lady’s room, and he approved of it.
    His conversation with Lady Mary was agreeable, nothing brilliant,