Satterthwaite, by all that’s wonderful!
Just the man I’d have chosen to see.
Have you seen about poor old Tollie?
“I was just reading it now.”
Sir Charles dropped into a chair beside him.
He was immaculately got up in yachting costume.
No more grey flannels and old sweaters. He was the sophisticated yachtsman of the South of France.
“Listen, Satterthwaite, Tollie was as sound as a bell.
Never had anything wrong with him.
Am I being a complete fanciful ass, or does this business remind you of - of - ?”
“Of that business at Loomouth?
Yes, it does.
But of course we may be mistaken. The resemblance may be only superficial.
After all, sudden deaths occur the whole time from a variety of causes.”
Sir Charles nodded his head impatiently.
Then he said: “I’ve just got a letter - from Egg Lytton Gore.”
Mr. Satterthwaite concealed a smile.
“The first you’ve had from her?”
Sir Charles was unsuspecting. “No. I had a letter soon after I got here.
It followed me about a bit. Just giving me the news and all that. I didn’t answer it ... Dash it all, Satterthwaite, I didn’t dare answer it ...
The girl had no idea, of course, but I didn’t want to make a fool of myself.”
Mr. Satterthwaite passed his hand over his mouth where the smile still lingered.
“And this one?” he asked. “This is different.
It’s an appeal for help ... ”
“Help?” Mr. Satterthwaite’s eyebrows went up.
“She was there - you see - in the house - when it happened.”
“You mean she was staying with Sir Bartholomew Strange at the time of his death?”
“Yes.”
“What does she say about it?”
Sir Charles had taken a letter from his pocket. He hesitated for a moment, then he handed it to Mr. Satterthwaite.
“You’d better read it for yourself.”
Mr. Satterthwaite opened out the sheet with lively curiosity.
“DEAR SIR CHARLES, - I don’t know when this will get to you. I do hope soon.
I’m so worried, 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 ...
“Look here, can’t you come home and do something?
It sounds a bit 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 ...
“And 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.
“Yours in haste, “Egg.”
“Well?” 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.
“Who do you think she means by ‘someone,’ and ‘he’?” he asked.