“Eh bien, then I had reached a certain stage. I knew the identity of the murderer.
But I did not know the motive for the original crime.
“I reflected. “And once again, more clearly than ever, I saw the death of Sir Bartholomew Strange as the original and purposeful murder.
What reason could Sir Charles Cartwright have for the murder of his friend?
Could I imagine a motive?
I thought I could.”
There was a deep sigh.
Sir Charles Cartwright rose slowly to his feet and strolled to the fireplace. He stood there, his hand on his hip, looking down at Poirot.
His attitude (Mr. Satterthwaite could have told you) was that of Lord Eaglemount as he looks scornfully at the rascally solicitor who has succeeded in fastening an accusation of fraud upon him.
He radiated nobility and disgust. He was the aristocrat looking down at the ignoble canaille.
“You have an extraordinary imagination, M. Poirot, he said. It’s hardly worth while saying that there’s not one single word of truth in your story.
How you have the damned impertinence to dish up such an absurd fandangle of lies I don’t know.
But go on, I am interested.
What was my motive for murdering a man whom I had known ever since boyhood?”
Hercule Poirot, the little bourgeois, looked up at the aristocrat.
He spoke quickly but firmly. “Sir Charles, we have a proverb that says,
‘Cherchez la femme.’
It was there that I found my motive.
I had seen you with Mademoiselle Lytton Gore.
It was clear that you loved her - loved her with that terrible absorbing passion that comes to a middle-aged man and which is usually inspired by an innocent girl.
“You loved her. She, I could see, had the hero worship for you.
You had only to speak and she would fall into your arms.
But you did not speak.
Why?
“You pretended to your friend, Mr. Satterthwaite, that you were the dense lover who cannot recognise his mistress’s answering passion. You pretended to think that Miss Lytton Gore was in love with Oliver Manders.
But I say, Sir Charles, that you are a man of the world. You are a man with a great experience of women.
You cannot have been deceived.
You knew perfectly well that Miss Lytton Gore cared for you.
Why, then, did you not marry her? You wanted to do so.
“It must be that there was some obstacle.
What could that obstacle be?
It could only be the fact that you already had a wife.
But nobody ever spoke of you as a married man.
You passed always as a bachelor.
The marriage, then, had taken place when you were very young - before you became known as a rising young actor.
“What had happened to your wife?
If she were still alive, why did nobody know about her?
If you were living apart there was the remedy of divorce.
If your wife was a Catholic, or one who disapproved of divorce, she would still be known as living apart from you.
“But there are two tragedies where the law gives no relief.
The woman you married might be serving a life sentence in some prison, or she might be confined in a lunatic asylum.
In neither case could you obtain a divorce, and if it had happened while you were still a boy nobody might know about it.
“If nobody knew, you might marry Miss Lytton Gore without telling her the truth.
But supposing one person knew - a friend who had known you all your life?
Sir Bartholomew Strange was an honourable, upright physician.
He might pity you deeply, he might sympathise with a liaison or an irregular life, but he would not stand by silent and see you enter into a bigamous marriage with an unsuspecting young girl.
Before you could marry Miss Lytton Gore, Sir Bartholomew Strange must be removed ... ”
Sir Charles laughed.
“And dear old Babbington?
Did he know all about it, too?”