“It’s not for me to say anything - or to gossip.”
“Of course not,” said Egg. “Go on.”
“But if you ask me - the firm’s not far off Queer Street.
There was a Jewish gentleman came to see Madam, and there have been one or two things - it’s my belief she’s been borrowing to keep going in the hope that trade would revive, and that she’s got in deep.
Really, Miss Lytton Gore, she looks terrible sometimes. Quite desperate. I don’t know what she’d look like without her make-up.
I don’t believe she sleeps of nights.”
“What’s her husband like?”
“He’s a queer fish. Bit of a bad lot, if you ask me.
Not that we ever see much of him.
None of the other girls agree with me, but I believe she’s very keen on him still.
Of course a lot of nasty things have been said - ”
“Such as?” asked Egg.
“Well, I don’t like to repeat things. I never have been one for that.”
“Of course not.
Go on, you were saying - ”
“Well, there’s been a lot of talk among the girls. About a young fellow - very rich and very soft. Not exactly balmy, if you know what I mean - sort of betwixt and between.
Madam’s been running him for all she was worth. He might have put things right - he was soft enough for anything - but then he was ordered on a sea voyage - suddenly.”
“Ordered by whom - a doctor?”
“Yes, someone in Harley Street.
I believe now that it was the same doctor who was murdered up in Yorkshire - poisoned, so they said.”
“Sir Bartholomew Strange?”
“That was the name.
Madam was at the house-party, and we girls said among ourselves - just laughing, you know - well, we said, supposing Madame did him in - out of revenge, you know!
Of course it was fun - ”
“Naturally,” said Egg. “Girlish fun. I quite understand. You know, Mrs. Dacres is quite my idea of a murderess - so hard and remorseless.” “She’s ever so hard - and she’s got a wicked temper!
When she lets go, there’s not one of us dares to come near her.
They say her husband’s frightened of her - and no wonder.”
“Have you ever heard her speak of anyone called Babbington or of a place in Kent - Gilling?”
“Really, now, I can’t call to mind that I have.” Doris looked at her watch and uttered an exclamation. “Oh, dear, I must hurry. I shall be late.”
“Good-bye, and thanks so much for coming.”
“It’s been a pleasure, I’m sure.
Good-bye, Miss Lytton Gore, and I hope the article will be a great success.
I shall look out for it.”
“You’ll look in vain, my girl,” thought Egg, as she asked for her bill.
Then, drawing a line through the supposed jottings for the article, she wrote in her little notebook:
“Cynthia Dacres.
Believed to be in financial difficulties.
Described as having a ‘wicked temper.’
Young man (rich) with whom she was believed to be having an affair was ordered on sea voyage by Sir Bartholomew Strange.
Showed no reaction at mention of Gilling or at statement that Babbington knew her.”
“There doesn’t seem much there,” said Egg to herself. “A possible motive for the murder of Sir Bartholomew, but very thin.
M. Poirot may be able to make something of that.
I can’t.”
19
Egg had not yet finished her programme for the day.
Her next move was to St. John’s House, in which building the Dacres had a flat.
There were sumptuous window boxes and uniformed porters of such magnificence that they looked like foreign generals.
Egg did not enter the building. She strolled up and down on the opposite side of the street.
After about an hour of this she calculated that she must have walked several miles.
It was half-past five. Then a taxi drew up at the Mansions, and Captain Dacres alighted from it.