Three Act Tragedy by Agatha Christie Read Free Book Online Page A

I don’t know what to do. You’ll have seen, I expect, in the papers that Sir Bartholomew Strange is dead. Well, he died just the same way as Mr. Babbington. It can’t be a coincidence—it can’t—it can’t…I’m worried to death….
    â€œLook here, can’t you come home and do something? It sounds abit crude put like that, but you did have suspicions before, and nobody would listen to you, and now it’s your own friend who’s been killed; and perhaps if you don’t come back nobody will ever find out the truth, and I’m sure you could. I feel it in my bones….
    â€œAnd there’s something else. I’m worried, definitely, about someone…He had absolutely nothing to do with it, I know that, but things might look a bit odd. Oh, I can’t explain in a letter. But won’t you come back? You could find out the truth. I know you could.
    â€œYours in haste,
“EGG.”
    â€œWell?” demanded Sir Charles impatiently. “A bit incoherent of course; she wrote it in a hurry. But what about it?”
    Mr. Satterthwaite folded the letter slowly to give himself a minute or two before replying.
    He agreed that the letter was incoherent, but he did not think it had been written in a hurry. It was, in his view, a very careful production. It was designed to appeal to Sir Charles’s vanity, to his chivalry, and to his sporting instincts.
    From what Mr. Satterthwaite knew of Sir Charles, that letter was a certain draw.
    â€œWho do you think she means by ‘someone,’ and ‘he’?” he asked.
    â€œManders, I suppose.”
    â€œWas he there, then?”
    â€œMust have been. I don’t know why. Tollie never met him except on that one occasion at my house. Why he should ask him to stay, I can’t imagine.”
    â€œDid he often have those big house parties?”
    â€œThree or four times a year. Always one for the St. Leger.”
    â€œDid he spend much time in Yorkshire?”
    â€œHad a big sanatorium—nursing home, whatever you like to call it. He bought Melfort Abbey (it’s an old place), restored it and built a sanatorium in the grounds.”
    â€œI see.”
    Mr. Satterthwaite was silent for a minute or two. Then he said:
    â€œI wonder who else there was in the house party?”
    Sir Charles suggested that it might be in one of the other newspapers, and they went off to institute a newspaper hunt.
    â€œHere we are,” said Sir Charles.
    He read aloud:
    â€œSir Bartholomew Strange is having his usual house party for the St. Leger. Amongst the guests are Lord and Lady Eden, Lady Mary Lytton Gore, Sir Jocelyn and Lady Campbell, Captain and Mrs. Dacres, and Miss Angela Sutcliffe, the well-known actress.”
    He and Mr. Satterthwaite looked at each other.
    â€œThe Dacres and Angela Sutcliffe,” said Sir Charles. “Nothing about Oliver Manders.”
    â€œLet’s get today’s Continental Daily Mail, ” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “There might be something in that.”
    Sir Charles glanced over the paper. Suddenly he stiffened.
    â€œMy God, Satterthwaite, listen to this:
    â€œSIR BARTHOLOMEW STRANGE.
    â€œAt the inquest today on the late Sir Bartholomew Strange, a verdict of Death by Nicotine Poisoning was returned, therebeing no evidence to show how or by whom the poison was administered.”
    He frowned.
    â€œNicotine poisoning. Sounds mild enough—not the sort of thing to make a man fall down in a fit. I don’t understand all this.”
    â€œWhat are you going to do?”
    â€œDo? I’m going to book a berth on the Blue Train tonight.”
    â€œWell,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, “I might as well do the same.”
    â€œYou?” Sir Charles wheeled round on him, surprised.
    â€œThis sort of thing is rather in my line,” said Mr. Satterthwaite modestly. “I’ve—er—had a little experience. Besides, I