20
“Now, are you a friend or are you a sleuth? I simply must know.”
Miss Sutcliffe flashed a pair of mocking eyes as she spoke¹. She was sitting in a straight-backed chair, her grey hair becomingly arranged, her legs were crossed and Mr. Satterthwaite admired the perfection of her beautifully shod feet and her slender ankles. Miss Sutcliffe was a very fascinating woman, mainly owing to the fact that she seldom took anything seriously.
“Is that quite fair?” asked Mr. Satterthwaite.
“My dear man, of course it’s fair. Have you come here for the sake of my beautiful eyes, as the French say so charmingly, or have you, you nasty man, come just to pump me about murders?”
“Can you doubt that your first alternative is the correct one?” asked Mr. Satterthwaite with a little bow.
“I can and I do,” said the actress with energy. “You are one of those people who look so mild, and really wallow in blood.”
“No, no.”
“Yes, yes. The only thing I can’t make up my mind about is whether it is an insult or a compliment to be considered a potential murderess. On the whole, I think it’s a compliment.”
She cocked her head a little on one side and smiled that slow bewitching smile that never failed.
Mr. Satterthwaite thought to himself:
“Adorable creature.”
Aloud he said, “I will admit, dear lady, that the death of Sir Bartholomew Strange has interested me considerably². I have, as you perhaps know, dabbled³ in such doings before ... ”
He paused modestly, perhaps hoping that Miss Sutcliffe would show some knowledge of his activities. However, she merely asked:
“Tell me one thing - is there anything in what that girl said?”
“Which girl, and what did she say?”
“The Lytton Gore⁴ girl. The one who is so fascinated by Charles. (What a wretch⁵ Charles is - he will do it!) She thinks that that nice old man down in Cornwall was murdered, too.”
“What do you think?”
“Well, it certainly happened just the same way ... She’s an intelligent girl, you know. Tell me - is Charles serious?”
“I expect your views on the subject are likely to be much more valuable than mine,” said Mr. Satterthwaite.
“What a tiresomely⁶ discreet⁷ man you are,” cried Miss Sutcliffe.
“Now I - she sighed - am appallingly⁸ indiscreet ... ”
She fluttered an eyelash at him.
“I know Charles pretty well. I know men pretty well. He seems to me display all the signs of settling down. There’s an air of virtue⁹ about him. He’ll Bartholomew banding round the plate and founding a family in record time - that’s my view. How dull men are when they decide to settle down! They lose all their charm.”
“I’ve often wondered why Sir Charles has never married,” said Mr. Satterthwaite.
“My dear, he never showed any signs of wanting to marry. He wasn’t what they call a marrying man. But he was a very attractive man ... ” She sighed. A slight twinkle shoed in her eyes as she looked at Mr. Satterthwaite. “He and I were once - well, why deny what everybody knows? It was very pleasant while it lasted … and we’re still the best of friends. I suppose that’s the reason the Lytton Gore child looks at me so fiercely. She suspects I still have a
tendresse for Charles. Have I? Perhaps I have. But at any rate I haven’t yet written my memoirs¹⁰ describing all my affairs in detail as most of my friends seem to have done. If I did, you know, the girl wouldn’t like it. She’d be shocked. Modern girls are easily shocked. Her mother wouldn’t be shocked at all. You can’t really shock a sweet mid-Victorian. They say so little, but always think the worst ...
”
Mr. Satterthwaite contented¹¹ himself with saying:
“I think you are right in suspecting that Egg Lytton Gore mistrusts you.”
Miss Sutcliffe frowned.
“I’m not at all sure that I’m not a little jealous of her ... We women are such cats, aren’t we? Scratch, scratch, miauw, miauw, purr, purr ... ”
She laughed.
“Why didn’t Charles come and catechise me on this business? Too much nice feeling, I suppose. The man must think me guilty ... Am I guilty, Mr. Satterthwaite? What do you think now?”
She stood up and stretched out a hand.
“All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand - ”
She broke off.
“No, I’m not Lady MacBeth. Comedy’s my line.”
“There seems also a certain lack of motive,” said Mr. Satterthwaite.
“True. I liked Bartholomew Strange. We were friends. I had no reason for wishing him out of the way. Because we were friends I’d rather like to take an active part in hunting down his murderer. Tell me if I can help in any way.”
“I suppose, Miss Sutcliffe, you didn’t see or hear anything that might have a bearing on the crime?”
“Nothing that I haven’t already told the police. The house party had only just arrived, you know. His death occurred on that first evening.”
“The butler?”
“I hardly noticed him.”
“Any peculiar¹² behaviour on the part of the guests?”
“No. Of course that boy - what’s his name? - Manders turned up rather unexpectedly.”
“Did Sir Bartholomew Strange seem surprised?”
“Yes, I think he was. He said to me just before we went in to dinner that it was an odd business, ‘a new method of gate crashing,’ he called it. ‘Only,’ he said, ‘it’s my wall he’s crashed, not my gate.’”
“Sir Bartholomew was in good spirits?”
“Very good spirits.”
“What about this secret passage you mentioned to the police?”
“I believe it led out of the library. Sir Bartholomew promised to show it to me - but of course the poor man died.”
“How did the subject come up?”
“We were discussing a recent purchase of his - an old walnut¹³ bureau. I asked if it had a secret drawer in it. I told him I adored secret drawers. It’s a secret passion of mine. And he said, ‘No, there wasn’t a secret drawer that he knew of - but he had got a secret passage in the house.’”
“He didn’t mention a patient of his, a Mrs. de Rushbridger?”
“No.”
“Do you know a place called Gilling, in Kent?”
“Gilling? Gilling, no, I don’t think I do. Why?”
“Well, you knew Mr. Babbington before, didn’t you?”
“Who is Mr. Babbington?”
“The man who died, or who was killed, at the Crow's Nest.”
“Oh, the clergyman. I’d forgotten his name. No, I’d never seen him before in my life. Who told you I knew him?”
“Someone who ought to know,” said Mr. Satterthwaite boldly. Miss Sutcliffe seemed amused.
“Dear old man, did they think I’d had an affair with him?
Archdeacons are sometimes very naughty, aren’t they? So why not vicars? There’s the man in the barrel, isn’t there? But I must clear the poor mans’ memory. I’d never seen him before in my life.”
And with that statement Mr. Satterthwaite was forced to rest content.

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