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II
“We’ve found out nothing,” said Egg later, as they were speeding back to London.
“Nonsense, we’ve found out the only thing worth finding out…What do I care about dead clergymen or dead doctors? You’re the only thing that matters…You know, my dear, I’m thirty years older than you—are you sure it doesn’t matter?”
Egg pinched his arm gently.
“Don’t be silly…I wonder if the others have found out anything?”
“They’re welcome to it,” said Sir Charles generously.
“Charles—you used to be so keen.”
But Sir Charles was no longer playing the part of the great detective.
“Well, it was my own show. Now I’ve handed over to Moustachios. It’s his business.”
“Do you think he really knows who committed the crimes? He said he did.”
“Probably hasn’t the faintest idea, but he’s got to keep up his professional reputation.”
Egg was silent. Sir Charles said:
“What are you thinking about, darling?”
“I was thinking about Miss Milray. She was so odd in her manner that evening I
told you about. She had just bought the paper about the exhumation, and she said she didn’t know what to do.”
“Nonsense,” said Sir Charles cheerfully. “That woman always knows what to do.”
“Do be serious, Charles. She sounded—worried.”
“Egg, my sweet, what do I care for Miss Milray’s worries? What do I care for anything but you and me?”
“You’d better pay some attention to the trams!” said Egg. “I don’t want to be widowed before I’m a wife.”
They arrived back at Sir Charles’s flat for tea. Miss Milray came out to meet them.
“There is a telegram for you, Sir Charles.”
“Thank you, Miss Milray.” He laughed, a nervous boyish laugh. “Look here, I must tell you our news. Miss Lytton Gore and I are going to get married.”
There was a moment’s pause, and then Miss Milray said:
“Oh! I’m sure—I’m sure you’ll be very happy.”
There was a queer note in her voice. Egg noticed it, but before she could formulate her impression Charles Cartwright had swung round to her with a quick exclamation.
“My God, Egg, look at this. It’s from Satterthwaite.”
He shoved the telegram into her hands. Egg read it, and her eyes opened wide.
Thirteen
MRS. DE RUSHBRIDGER
Before catching their train Hercule Poirot and Mr. Satterthwaite had had a brief interview with Miss Lyndon, the late Sir Bartholomew Strange’s secretary. Miss Lyndon had been very willing to help, but had had nothing of importance to tell them. Mrs. de Rushbridger was only mentioned in Sir Bartholomew’s casebook in a purely professional fashion. Sir Bartholomew had never spoken of her save in medical terms.
