“My dear Charles. You know what talking means.”
“You mean talking about her - and me?
With that face?
And at her age?”
“She’s probably under fifty.”
“I suppose she is,” Sir Charles considered the matter. “But, seriously, Tollie, have you noticed her face?
It’s got two eyes, a nose and a mouth, but it’s not what you would call a face - not a female face.
The most scandal-loving old cat in the neighbourhood couldn’t seriously connect sexual passion with a face like that.”
“You underrate the imagination of the British spinster.”
Sir Charles shook his head.
“I don’t believe it.
There’s a kind of hideous respectability about Miss Milray that even a British spinster must recognise.
She is virtue and respectability personified - and a damned useful woman.
I always choose my secretaries plain as sin.”
“Wise man.”
Sir Charles remained deep in thought for some minutes.
To distract him, Sir Bartholomew asked: “Who’s coming this afternoon?”
“Angie, for one.”
“Angela Sutcliffe?
That’s good.”
Mr. Satterthwaite leaned forward interestedly, keen to know the composition of the house party.
Angela Sutcliffe was a well-known actress, no longer younger, but with a strong hold on the public and celebrated for her wit and charm.
She was sometimes spoken of as Ellen Terry’s successor.
“Then there are the Dacres.”
Again Mr. Satterthwaite nodded to himself.
Mrs. Dacres was Ambrosine, Ltd., that successful dressmaking establishment.
You saw it on programs -
“Miss Blank’s dresses in the first act by Ambrosine Ltd., Brook Street.”
Her husband, Captain Dacres, was a dark horse in his own racing parlance.
He spent a lot of time on racecourses - had ridden himself in the Grand National in years gone by.
There had been some trouble - nobody knew exactly - though rumours had been spread about. There had been no inquiry - nothing overt, but somehow at mention of Freddie Dacres people’s eyebrows went up a little.
“Then there’s Anthony Astor, the playwright.”
“Of course,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “She wrote One-Way Traffic.
I saw it twice. It made a great hit.”
He rather enjoyed the show that he knew that Anthony Astor was a woman.
“That’s right,” said Sir Charles. “I forget what her real name is - Wills, I think.
I’ve only met her once. I asked her to please Angela.
That’s the lot - of the house-party, I mean.”
“And the locals?” asked the doctor.
“Oh, the locals! Well, there are the Babbingtons - he’s the parson, quite a good fellow, not too parsonical, and his wife’s a really nice woman. Lectures me on gardening.
They’re coming - and Lady Mary and Egg.
That’s all.
Oh, yes, there’s a young fellow called Manders, he’s a journalist, or something.
Good-looking young fellow. That completes the party.”
Mr. Satterthwaite was a man of methodical nature. He counted heads.
“Miss Sutcliffe, one, the Dacres, three, Anthony Astor, four, Lady Mary and her daughter, six, the parson and his wife, eight, the young fellow nine, ourselves twelve.
Either you or Miss Milray must have counted wrong, Sir Charles.”
“It couldn’t be Miss Milray,” said Sir Charles with assurance. “That woman’s never wrong.
Let me see: Yes, by Jove, you’re right.
I have missed out one guest. He’s slipped my memory.” He chuckled. “Wouldn’t be best pleased at that, either.