For soon, perhaps, he himself ... But why think of that?
“I’m good for another twenty years,” said Mr. Satterthwaite robustly to himself.
The only other occupant of the Ship-room was Bartholomew Strange.
He nodded approval at the sight of Mr. Satterthwaite.
“Good man,” he said. “We can do with Satterthwaite.
He knows life.”
A little surprised, Mr. Satterthwaite sat down in an armchair near the doctor.
Sir Charles was pacing up and down.
He had forgotten the semi-clenching of his hands and looked definitely less naval.
“Charles doesn’t like it,” said Sir Bartholomew. “Poor old Babbington’s death, I mean.”
Mr. Satterthwaite thought the sentiment ill expressed.
Surely nobody could be expected to “like” what had occurred.
He realised that Strange had quite another meaning from the bald one the words conveyed.
“It was very distressing,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, cautiously feeling his way. “Very distressing indeed,” he added with a reminiscent shiver.
“H’m, yes, it was rather painful,” said the physician, the professional accent creeping for a moment into his voice.
Cartwright paused in his pacing.
“Ever see anyone die quite like that before, Tollie?”
“No,” said Sir Bartholomew thoughtfully. “I can’t say that I have.” “But,” he added in a moment or two. “I haven’t really seen as many deaths as you might suppose.
A nerve specialist doesn’t kill off many of his patients.
He keeps ’em alive and makes his income out of them. MacDougal has seen far more deceases than I have, I don’t doubt.”
Dr. MacDougal was the principal doctor in Loomouth, whom Miss Milray had summoned.
“MacDougal didn’t see this man die.
He was dead when he arrived.
There was only what we could tell him, what you could tell him.
He said it was some kind of seizure,” said Babbington was elderly, and his health was none too good.
That doesn’t satisfy me.”
“Probably didn’t satisfy him,” grunted the other. “ But a doctor has to say something.
Seizure is a good word - means nothing at all, but satisfies the lay mind.
And, after all, Babbington was elderly, and his health had been giving him trouble lately; his wife told us so.
There may have been some unsuspected weakness somewhere.”
“Was that a typical fit or seizure, or whatever you call it?”
“Typical of what?”
“Of any known disease?”
“If you’d ever studied medicine,” said Sir Bartholomew, “you’d know that there is hardly any such thing as a typical case.”
“What, precisely, are you suggesting, Sir Charles?” asked Mr. Satterthwaite.
Cartwright did not answer. He made a vague gesture with his hand.
Strange gave a slight chuckle. “Charles doesn’t know himself,” he said. “It’s just this mind turning naturally to the dramatic possibilities.”
Sir Charles made a reproachful gesture.
His face was absorbed - thoughtful.
He shook his head slightly in an abstracted manner.
An elusive resemblance teased Mr. Satterthwaite - then he got it. Aristide Duval, the head of the Secret Service, unravelling the tangled plot of Underground Wires. In another minute he was sure.
Sir Charles was limping unconsciously as he walked.
Aristide Duval had been known as The Man With a Limp.
Sir Bartholomew continued to apply ruthless common sense to Sir Charles’s unformulated suspicious.
“Yes, what do you suspect, Charles?
Suicide?
Murder?
Who wants to murder a harmless old clergyman?
It’s fantastic.
Suicide? Well, I suppose that is a point.