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    Three Act Tragedy: A Hercule Poirot Mystery: The Official Authorized Edition
    Three Act Tragedy: A Hercule Poirot Mystery: The Official Authorized Edition
    Three Act Tragedy: A Hercule Poirot Mystery: The Official Authorized Edition
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    Three Act Tragedy: A Hercule Poirot Mystery: The Official Authorized Edition

    By Agatha Christie

    4/5

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    In Agatha Christie’s classic, Three Act Tragedy, the normally unflappable Hercule Poirot faces his most baffling investigation: the seemingly motiveless murder of the thirteenth guest at dinner party, who choked to death on a cocktail containing not a trace of poison.

    Sir Charles Cartwright should have known better than to allow thirteen guests to sit down for dinner. For at the end of the evening one of them is dead—choked by a cocktail that contained no trace of poison.

    Predictable, says Hercule Poirot, the great detective. But entirely unpredictable is that he can find absolutely no motive for murder.…

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHarperCollins
    Release dateOct 3, 2006
    ISBN9780061754036
    Author

    Agatha Christie

    Agatha Christie is the most widely published author of all time, outsold only by the Bible and Shakespeare. Her books have sold more than a billion copies in English and another billion in a hundred foreign languages. She died in 1976, after a prolific career spanning six decades.

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    Reviews for Three Act Tragedy

    4/5

    43 ratings28 reviews

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    • 2/5
      November 1998 I have been meaning to reread this book for some time and finally I picked i up and read it through in two days. I remembered who the murderer was which is extremely frustrating when Christie tries to move in a red herring. But I couldn’t remember the motive. Poriot takes a back seat to the characters Mr. Satterwaite and Charles Cartwright which doesn’t suite his style much and though Christie tries to make the reader empathize with Cartwright, somehow he is not a very sympathetic character....all along you are hoping Cartwright will be the next murder victim so Manders can win the girl. I believe that Christie gave the true love affair to the ill fated Babbingtons.
    • 4/5
      A series of murders involving an egocentric actor.
    • 4/5
      Hercule Poirot was actually NOT the star of this novel. What a shock! Who knew it was possible for someone to overshadow Poirot?? But Christie found a way. I enjoyed it immensely, but I would have liked a bit more Poirot. I also liked the way the murder was turned into a play by use of references throughout the book. Interesting plot twists too - and expert trickery of course.
    • 4/5
      This is vintage Christie and an enjoyable read. Who would want to murder a kind old vicar at a house party and follow it up by murdering a famous psychiatrist at another house party? That is the puzzle facing three amateur sleuths who, despite their analysis of the events, can't come to any conclusion. It is up to Hercule Poirot who was actually a guest at the scene of the first murder to use his little gray cells and uncover the murderer.The book is divided into three acts, much like an actual play with a murder occurring in each act. Many of the characters come from the theater: Sir Charles Cartwright the retired actor and one of the sleuths, a female playwright who sees too much, an attractive,although aging actress. Add to the mix a charming young woman who is the second sleuth, her maybe former beau, a bookie and his fashion designer wife plus sundry butlers, secretaries, housekeepers. Hercule Poirot is joined by the third amateur sleuth Mr Satterthwaite, a character who was last seen in the Harly Quinn short stories.About a third of the way through the novel I remembered who the murderer was and I enjoyed picking out the clues as Christie laid them down. She certainly plays fair in this one and I think the novel has one of the best last lines in her entire canon.
    • 4/5
      Nice change of pace since the investigation is carried out by three characters that don't include Poirot at first. Very surprising resolution which you just don't expect but no deus ex machina here, it all makes perfect sense. I quite liked the touches of romance here and there which are reminiscent of the earlier books. It's no Orient Express but it's such a good read on a rainy afternoon.
    • 4/5
      Retired actor Sir Charles Cartwright throws a house party in his Cornwall home. He invites several locals to have dinner with his house guests. During the cocktail hour, the local reverend suddenly drops dead. The Harley Street specialist/house guest and the local doctor both attribute the death to natural causes, but are they mistaken? Could it be murder?As the title implies, the novel is structured in three “acts.” The action shifts from Cornwall to Monte Carlo, London, and Yorkshire, and to points in between. A large part of the book is narrated from the vantage point of Mr. Satterthwaite, who first appeared in the short story collection The Mysterious Mr. Quin. Nevertheless, it is Hercule Poirot who solves the crime and reveals the culprit.
    • 4/5
      Three-Act Tragedy is a bit of a gimmick novel, even for Agatha Christie! She structures the book in the promised three acts, each taking place in a different setting. The positives here are the cooperation and interactions between Hercule Poirot and Mr Satterthwaite, her odd, upper-crust-yet-colorless ‘man on the scene’ recurring character. In fact, it’s Satterthwaite who conspires with a team of amateur sleuths to solve the seemingly inexplicable poisoning of a country parson at a dinner party. The solution to the mystery, while not among Christie’s very best, is never the less good fun.On the downside, Poirot’s presence here is limited, which to his fans is of course a small disappointment. The novel also lacks particularly interesting supporting characters.Three Act Tragedy is still an engaging and charming read, however, so I recommend it without hesitation.
    • 3/5
      I remember feeling, when I first read this book many years ago, that there was something "off" about it. Something didn't quite work. When I reread it recently I was left with the same feeling. And it is one that it difficult to clearly articulate.

      Warning, past here there be spoilers.

      Perhaps the clearest way of explaining it is to say that I think that this would be a far better play than a novel. On stage the things that, in my opinion, worked against it might actually work for it. (Not to mention the wonderfully meta quality of staging a play about a murder that was basically staged and rehearsed much like a play.

      Since he has no Hastings to function as Watson to his Holmes Poirot is forced to discuss the murders in the book with a number of different characters who cannot successfully fill in for the missing Hastings. Poirot does not have the type of relationship with any of these characters that would justify his opening up to (or, for that matter, misleading) them. In order to "play fair" with the reader Christie must provide a limited view into the minds of the various subsidiary characters whose POVs advance the plot since to do otherwise would have immediately given away "whodunnit."

      The characters seem to be rather vaguely "realized" functioning more as types than as individual people and I felt uninvested in any of them on first reading or on rereading. Their failure to come off the page was particularly noticeable in the latter chapters of the book when I often felt that whenever one character, particularly Poirot, was speaking the other characters froze into immobility or faded from the scene. This is especially true in the dramatic "all is revealed" scene when I was as a reader distracted by the lack of distracting responses from the other people in the room.

      In short, what would have been an enjoyable play presented instead as a serviceable book.
    • 2/5
      I found this to be a sub-par Poirot novel. It just wasn't a particularly compelling mystery. Only mildly entertaining, and somewhat predictable.
    • 5/5
      i read my first agatha christie book in fifth grade when my teacher, mr. mccandless, suggested i read one of her books. i picked up "the mirror crack'd" and was hooked. i've only read a couple of her books but everytime i read one i fall in love with it. i re-read "the mirror crack'd" senior year of high school and did a report oh ms. agatha, but i haven't read any of her books since. i picked up this one because i needed a nice, fun, short book to read while i was waiting for our annual hanukkah trip to barnes and noble. once agian, i wasn't dissapointed. i was positive i knew who it was- or at least i had an idea, but when i got to the end, i was wrong. very wrong. i had expected exactly who agatha wanted me to expect. i was so bummed, too, because i normally don't fall for stuff like that. i see right through silly twists and turns in a murder mystery- but agatha is too smart for me. i don't think i've read a true murder mystery in a long time, and when i finished my mouth fell open and i was shocked at who did it. i need to read more of her books.
    • 3/5
      In which a clergyman dies at dinner – with no apparent motive or reason – and it’s only the beginning…

      On the one hand, it features a varied cast of characters, including a charismatic actor friend of Poirot’s, Sir Charles Cartwright, who dominates the proceedings. Cartwright was played by Tony Curtis in the Ustinov film, and Martin Shaw in the lovely Suchet adaptation, and is the best thing about both the novel and the films. The structure of the murders is well-conceived and elaborate without feeling contrived. The structure imposed by the title makes sense both thematically and narratively. The reveal will hopefully be surprising for all first-time readers, as it is cleverly done.

      On the other hand (does this belie everything I just said?), once the surprise wears off, I find "Three Act Tragedy" to be a bit of a bore. In retrospect, the surprise is never a shock, for reasons I won’t spoil here. Suffice it to say that several of the suspects never come alive to warrant suspicion. The few who stand out quickly take their places: “the trusted ally”, “the innocent”, etc, and looking back, you can’t really find any other viable suspects. However, I recommend this because Christie puts up some of her best smokescreens here.

      [The US title is the equally-clever-but-somehow-less-good "Murder in Three Acts", thus basically confirming my suspicion that all Christie mysteries without "murder" or "death" in the title weren't considered viable.]

      Poirot ranking: 23rd out of 38
    • 3/5


      Let's see: when I first began the book I was excited to find Mr. Satterthwaite on the terrace of the Crow's Nest, because he is usually followed by Harley Quinn, however, much to my dismay this was not to be, and instead M. Poirot turned up.

      Upon the announcement of M. Poirot's pending arrival for a dinner party, there is conjecture that there will be a murder; as murders seem to be M. Poirot's forte & seem to occur where ever he happens to be. The host (Sir Charles, the great actor) jokes to his friend the Doctor, Sir Bartholomew : "Well, you can have your murder, Tollie, if you're so keen on it. I make only one stipulation- that I shan't be the corpse!"

      The dinner party consists of: Sir Charles; Egg Lytton-Gore (whom is very fond of Sir Charles & visa-versa) & her mother; the parson & his wife, the Babbingtons, Sir Bartholomew; Mr. Satterthaite; M. Poirot; the Dacres (she's a famous designer, he's a gambler & a lout); Angel Sutcliffe (the actress); Anthony Astor (the female playwright); Oliver Manders (Egg's friend); and Miss Milray (Sir Charles' secretary who sits in at the last minute to even out the t able to 14)

      After dinner, Pastor Babbington, who has no enemies, sips a cocktail & falls over dead, the inquest rules, heart failure ..... M. Poirot, Sir Charles, & Mr. Satterthwaite begin to make inquiries but get nowhere.

      A short time later, Sir Bartholomew gives a dinner party (inviting most of the same people) and falls over dead while sipping sherry (nicotine poisoning)... Then butler mysteriously disappears and the police pin him as the most obvious suspect.

      Mr. Satterthwaite, Egg, & Sir Charles join forces to investigate the murder of the good Doctor. Eventually M. Poirot joins the group and they break-up into teams; M. Poirot with Egg and Sir Charles with Mr. Satterthwaite.

      The Pastor Babbington is exhumed & is found to have been poisoned by nicotine thus connecting his murder to that of the Doctor's, there is no end of clues and there are a few Red Herrings.....

      To my dismay, Mr. Satterthwaite, who usually figures it out w/ his sound ability to weigh evidence and use his keen powers of observation of people & human nature is shown up by M. Poirot..... This is where I knocked off 1 ?.

      But, I NEVER had a clue "Who done it"!
    • 3/5
      Almost a four-star rating for this 11th Poirot mystery from Agatha Christie. The story was very refreshing and unlike most of the other Poirot's not written from Hasting's first person. It's funny to see how Christie mocks the whole detective genre in this book and I was very surprised by the confindings of Poirot in one of the characters in the very last page about his methods and character.

      I did find the beginning very confusing however, due to the great number of characters introduced and their rather difficult names. I took me a while to start enjoying the book. That's why it's only a three-star rating from me.
    • 4/5
      A renowned but retired British actor throws a dinner party at his country home, where the village vicar unexpectedly drops dead. Was it ... murder?! No one seems to think so except the actor, his friend Satterthwaite ("A dried-up little pipkin of a man"), and the actor's erstwhile young lover, Miss Hermione Lytton Gore (Egg to you, if you please). Even Hercule Poirot, who was a guest at the party, pooh-poohs the idea.But when one of the other guests at that party, a nerve doctor named Strange, throws his own dinner party with more or less the same guest list back in London some months later, another death occurs and suddenly no one is pooh-poohing anything, least of all Poirot.Another twisty plot from the queen of twisty plots, as the spotlight of suspicion falls plausibly on one after another of the characters. Poirot's part is seemingly minor, except that he is the one in the end who solves the seemingly unsolvable mystery. Additional kudos to Dame Agatha for structuring a mystery involving denizens of the theater scene as a play: Act One, the first murder; Act Two, the second murder and the amateur investigation; Act Three, the unmasking of the murderer. Or, as she says in the mock Production Notes at the beginning, Illumination by Hercule Poirot. Bravo!
    • 3/5
      Three amateur sleuths investigate a suspicious death at a house party, with Hercule Poirot's help. Mr. Satterthwaite, the main character from her Harley Quinn stories, also features prominently.This is a fairly entertaining little mystery that employs many of Dame Agatha's signature plot devices: a large cast of potential suspects, clues that both illuminate and mislead, "assistants" who help Poirot along and a final scene in which everything is spelled out for the reader. It's perfectly decent, but it lacks that special something that makes certain of Ms. Christie's books really sparkle. The final twist is also one she's used elsewhere, and to greater effect. Good for completists, but by no means essential reading for anyone not devoted to the author's work.
    • 4/5
      The more I read Agatha Christie's mysteries the more I like them. It seems like with every new volume there's an extra something that makes them more than just an engaging riddle. Either I'm reading the books with a more pronounced human element or I'm just noticing it more and somehow I'm inclined to think that it is the latter. I really liked Mr. Satterthwaite, the intelligent little man with an absolutely unpronounceable name and a way with people. The Lytton Gore ladies were my "human element" here introducing the subject of being able to see people for who they really are and not in the way Poirot does it. They made mistakes sometimes, sure, but their perceptions felt warm and uncalculating. I liked these characters more than the rest particularly because we learned more about them as people than we did about any of the others and that is really my only gripe - the rest of the cast are barely fleshed out and I wish we knew a little more about them. Of course I didn't figure out who the culprit was even though I suspected everyone. It almost detracted from the story, this constant watchfulness, attentiveness to every word and trying to see in what way it could be a clue, whether it could be a clue. I really need to turn off that part of my brain next time and just enjoy the story. Learn from my mistakes, my friends!
    • 4/5
      I have a soft spot for this story as I like the idea of applying a three act structure to a novel. Its not classic Christie, but it passes the time very nicely all the same.
    • 3/5
      Continuing on in my summer Agatha Christie challenge, I come to Three Act Tragedy. This is my first Hercule Poirot book and I was a little disappointed. I thought he would figure more prominently in the book but after dismissing the first death as accidentally in the beginning of the book we don't hear much more from him until the end. He does not hold the same appeal Miss Marple does for me, at least in this book. I will see if I like him any better as I read other books featuring him this summer. The central mystery at the heart of this novel was not that engaging for me. There were a lot of characters to keep track of in the beginning and that was somewhat confusing, although that did get easier as the novel went on. Like in the previous AC mystery I reviewed, the solution was presented in the final pages. I had rather liked the murderer so that was disappointing although Eggs did seem to get her happy ever after. I am off to view the Masterpiece Classic film of Three Act tragedy. Perhaps when I view it on film, I will like it better. If this had been the first AC I read I might have given up on the challenge. I will see if Endless Night is more to my liking.
    • 5/5
      A dinner party at "Crow's Nest", the home of bachelor Sir Charles Cartwright at Loomouth, turns to tragedy when the Rev. Stephen Babbington takes a sip of his cocktail, convulses, and drops dead. Babbington's death is diagnosed as a seizure, and not suspicious. However not all the dinner guests are satisified, and at least one thinks it is murder.Among the dinner party are Mr. Satterthwaite, an actress, an author, Sir Bartholomew Strange, Hermione Lytton Gore, and, making up the numbers at the table, Hercule Poirot. Nothing comes of the suspicions, analysis of the vestiges of liquid in the cocktail glass reveals nothing, and the book moves on.Mr Satterthwaite is a great observer of people and he concludes two things about Sir Charles Cartwright - firstly he is always playing a part. Cartwright is by profession an actor, but in Satterthwaite's estimation, he is always seeking to play out roles, and take centre stage in real life. Secondly he sees that he is head over heels in love with Hermione Lytton Gore who is a good thirty years younger than him, and he is not sure that the young lady reciprocates.The action moves to the Riviera. Mr Satterthwaite is in Monaco for the day and reads an announcement in the newspaper of the death of Sir Bartholomew Strange, in circumstances very similar to Babbington's. He meets Sir Charles Cartwright and learns that many of the Crow's Nest houseparty were also at Sir Bartholomew's dinner party. Hermione Lytton Gore has written requesting Sir Charles return to London as soon as he can. An inquest has already decided the death was due to nicotine poisoning.Strolling in the gardens Sattertwaite comes across a familiar egg-shaped head, that of Hercule Poirot. Separately he and Satterthwaite decide to return to London by the next train.THREE ACT TRAGEDY was also published as MURDER IN THREE ACTS. Indeed the story is laid out to reinforce that impression. There is a frontispiece that saysDirected bySIR CHARLES CARTWRIGHTAssistant DirectorsMR SATTERTHWAITEMISS HERMIONE LYTTON GOREClothes byAMBROSINE LTDIllumination byHERCULE POIROTThe story is broken into 3 acts.In FIRST ACT -SUSPICION Babbington dies and there are suspicions about how he died.SECOND ACT - CERTAINTY begins with the announcement of Sir Bartholomew Strange's death.THIRD ACT - DISCOVERY brings Hercule Poirot into his own.This is a story of coincidences,quite a number of false trails, and one in which both Mr Satterthwaite and Hercule Poirot play the matchmaker. Poirot is determined that the mystery will not defeat him. He is very aggrieved that he did not originally think Babbington was murdered.This is the one book in which Satterthwaite collaborates with Poirot. He previously appeared in the stories which feature Mr. Harley Quin, in particular those collected in The Mysterious Mr. Quin (1930). The book gives us quite a detailed description of Mr Satterthwaite, as well as some further background about Hercule Poirot. (this is his 9th appearance in a novel - and there is no mention at all of Captain Hastings).
    • 3/5
      Hercule Poirot has been invited to many parties, but this one was different. The local vicar dropped dead after drinking a cocktail. At first, the death is presumed to be from natural causes. But a few weeks later, a doctor who was a guest at the fatal party also drops dead after finishing a drink.Poirot is not a central character in this book until towards the end. The main character at first is Mr. Satterthwaite, a conventional gentleman of uncertain age. That makes it a little different from the regular Poirot book. Well done and fun, but not extraordinary.
    • 3/5
      Three Act Tragedy by Agatha Christie - good

      So, I'm an Agatha Christie addict. I'm slowly working through her books as I find them in charity shops or bookcrossing and use them as comfort reading when I need respite from something heavy going or my annual stats are down & I need a quick read. This time it was the stats.

      Of course, this one has been adapted for TV and I've seen it and, more to the point, can actually remember the plot. Normally that doesn't spoil it for me but, for a change, the TV version stuck very closely to the book and I knew from page 1 'whodonit'.

      Still a good read, enough
      changes from my remembrances to make it worthwhile and of course, written

      to the usual AC standards. Not too many ouch moments with the use of

      non-pc language either. A good read.
    • 4/5
      An actor throws a dinner party, and when someone dies an accident is at first assumed. Hercule Poirot gets involved and solves the mystery in his inimitable fashion. Clever plotting and a bit of humour.
    • 2/5
      Not something I would read again, although I didn't skip to the end to find out "whodunnit" until the 2nd or 3rd-to-last chapter....
    • 3/5
      A local vicar keels over dead at an actor's dinner party. His death is assumed to be natural until a knighted neurologist suffers a similar fate at his own home. The actor and a couple of friends decide to investigate, and M. Poirot, who has retired from detecting, can't resist the opportunity to help.I particularly enjoyed the character of Egg, an ambitious young lady; none of the others had much to them. Ms. Christie has some fun with the "three acts" idea. Overall there isn't much to it, other than some typical Poirot cleverness at the end.
    • 5/5
      This was excellent. I enjoyed the investigative trio of Egg, Sir Charles and Mr Satterthwaite, even though it meant we saw less of Poirot. The solution was ingenious and completely satisfactory.
    • 4/5
      Three-Act Tragedy by Agatha Christie features Hercule Poirot as he tracks down a particularly clever murderer. As one of several guests at a dinner party given by the famous actor Sir Charles Cartwright, Poirot actually considers the first murder, that of a gentle country vicar, as a natural death. It is not until some months later when at another dinner party, attended by many of the same guests, another death occurs that is found to be by poison, that attention is returned to the first.Sir Charles, his friend Mr. Satterthwaite and a young lady, Hermione Lytton Gore, known as “Egg” come together and work on trying to discover what happened but it is not until Hercule Poirot joins them that the pieces are fully gathered and put together.Entertaining, humorous and original, I found Three-Act Tragedy to be a really fun read. The author obviously enjoyed supplying plenty of red herrings for her readers to ponder upon and there was enough misdirection to keep everyone’s “little grey cells” working overtime.
    • 4/5
      Christie’s book do get better if you read them in chronological order. I found the motive convincing, and the reveal held together better than some of the earlier Poirot books. Also, I can more easily overlook Christie’s casual anti-semitism, because Oliver does get the girl in the end. Still, thus far, Murder on the Orient Express is the one I’ve enjoyed the most.
    • 4/5
      I enjoyed reading this typical 'whodunnit' great cast of characters, each with their own story and background, a charming get together, and of course a murder. The plot seems to follow a Drama theme, with characters involved or have a drama/acting background, and the title is nice play on the plot as it does come in "three acts"Although Poirot is central to the story and is in it, he does take somewhat of a background role for this one. He does however, bring his sleuthing skills in the last third of the book to tie all the ends together. Definitely am taking a liking to the Poirot mysteries. There's more intrigue and mystery than the Miss Marple series.

    Book preview

    Three Act Tragedy - Agatha Christie

    FIRST ACT

    SUSPICION

    One

    CROW’S NEST

    Mr. Satterthwaite sat on the terrace of Crow’s Nest and watched his host, Sir Charles Cartwright, climbing up the path from the sea.

    Crow’s Nest was a modern bungalow of the better type. It had no half-timbering, no gables, no excrescences dear to a third-class builder’s heart. It was a plain white solid building—deceptive as to size, since it was a good deal bigger than it looked. It owed its name to its position, high up, overlooking the harbour of Loomouth. Indeed from one corner of the terrace, protected by a strong balustrade, there was a sheer drop to the sea below. By road Crow’s Nest was a mile from the town. The road ran inland and then zigzagged high up above the sea. On foot it was accessible in seven minutes by the steep fisherman’s path that Sir Charles Cartwright was ascending at this minute.

    Sir Charles was a well-built, sunburnt man of middle age. He wore old grey flannel trousers and a white sweater. He had a slight rolling gait, and carried his hands half closed as he walked. Nine people out of ten would say, Retired Naval man—can’t mistake the type. The tenth, and more discerning, would have hesitated, puzzled by something indefinable that did not ring true. And then perhaps a picture would rise, unsought: the deck of a ship—but not a real ship—a ship curtailed by hanging curtains of thick rich material—a man, Charles Cartwright, standing on that deck, light that was not sunlight streaming down on him, the hands half clenched, the easy gait and a voice—the easy pleasant voice of an English sailor and gentleman, a great deal magnified in tone.

    No, sir, Charles Cartwright was saying, I’m afraid I can’t give you any answer to that question.

    And swish fell the heavy curtains, up sprang the lights, an orchestra plunged into the latest syncopated measure, girls with exaggerated bows in their hair said, Chocolates? Lemonade? The first act of The Call of the Sea, with Charles Cartwright as Commander Vanstone, was over.

    From his post of vantage, looking down, Mr. Satterthwaite smiled.

    A dried-up little pipkin of a man, Mr. Satterthwaite, a patron of art and the drama, a determined but pleasant snob, always included in the more important house parties and social functions (the words and Mr. Satterthwaite appeared invariably at the tail of a list of guests). Withal a man of considerable intelligence and a very shrewd observer of people and things.

    He murmured now, shaking his head, I wouldn’t have thought it. No, really, I wouldn’t have thought it.

    A step sounded on the terrace and he turned his head. The big grey-haired man who drew a chair forward and sat down had his profession clearly stamped on his keen, kindly, middle-aged face. Doctor and Harley Street. Sir Bartholomew Strange had succeeded in his profession. He was a well-known specialist in nervous disorders, and had recently received a knighthood in the Birthday Honours list.

    He drew his chair forward beside that of Mr. Satterthwaite and said:

    What wouldn’t you have thought? Eh? Let’s have it.

    With a smile Mr. Satterthwaite drew attention to the figure below rapidly ascending the path.

    I shouldn’t have thought Sir Charles would have remained contented so long in—er—exile.

    By Jove, no more should I! The other laughed, throwing back his head. I’ve known Charles since he was a boy. We were at Oxford together. He’s always been the same—a better actor in private life than on the stage! Charles is always acting. He can’t help it—it’s second nature to him. Charles doesn’t go out of a room—he ‘makes an exit’—and he usually has to have a good line to make it on. All the same, he likes a change of part—none better. Two years ago he retired from the stage—said he wanted to live a simple country life, out of the world, and indulge his old fancy for the sea. He comes down here and builds this place. His idea of a simple country cottage. Three bathrooms and all the latest gadgets! I was like you, Satterthwaite, I didn’t think it would last. After all, Charles is human—he needs his audience. Two or three retired captains, a bunch of old women and a parson—that’s not much of a house to play to. I thought the ‘simple fellow, with his love of the sea,’ would run for six months. Then, frankly, I thought he’d tire of the part. I thought the next thing to fill the bill would be the weary man of the world at Monte Carlo, or possibly a laird in the Highlands—he’s versatile, Charles is.

    The doctor stopped. It had been a long speech. His eyes were full of affection and amusement as he watched the unconscious man below. In a couple of minutes he would be with them.

    However, Sir Bartholomew went on, it seems we were wrong. The attraction of the simple life holds.

    A man who dramatises himself is sometimes misjudged, pointed out Mr. Satterthwaite. One does not take his sincerities seriously.

    The doctor nodded.

    Yes, he said thoughtfully. That’s true.

    With a cheerful halloo Charles Cartwright ran up the steps onto the terrace.

    "Mirabelle surpassed herself, he said. You ought to have come, Satterthwaite."

    Mr. Satterthwaite shook his head. He had suffered too often crossing the Channel to have any illusions about the strength of his stomach afloat. He had observed the Mirabelle from his bedroom window that morning. There had been a stiff sailing breeze and Mr. Satterthwaite had thanked heaven devoutly for dry land.

    Sir Charles went to the drawing room window and called for drinks.

    You ought to have come, Tollie, he said to his friend. Don’t you spend half your life sitting in Harley Street telling your patients how good life on the ocean wave would be for them?

    The great merit of being a doctor, said Sir Bartholomew, is that you are not obliged to follow your own advice.

    Sir Charles laughed. He was still unconsciously playing his part—the bluff breezy Naval man. He was an extraordinarily good-looking man, beautifully proportioned, with a lean humorous face, and the touch of grey at his temples gave him a kind of added distinction. He looked what he was—a gentleman first and an actor second.

    Did you go alone? asked the doctor.

    No, Sir Charles turned to take his drink from a smart parlourmaid who was holding a tray. I had a ‘hand.’ The girl Egg, to be exact.

    There was something, some faint trace of self-consciousness in his voice which made Mr. Satterthwaite look up sharply.

    Miss Lytton Gore? She knows something about sailing, doesn’t she?

    Sir Charles laughed rather ruefully.

    She succeeds in making me feel a complete landlubber; but I’m coming on—thanks to her.

    Thoughts slipped quickly in and out of Mr. Satterthwaite’s mind.

    I wonder—Egg Lytton Gore—perhaps that’s why he hasn’t tired—the age—a dangerous age—it’s always a young girl at that time of life….

    Sir Charles went on: The sea—there’s nothing like it—sun and wind and sea—and a simple shanty to come home to.

    And he looked with pleasure at the white building behind him, equipped with three bathrooms, hot and cold water in all the bedrooms, the latest system of central heating, the newest electrical fittings and a staff of parlourmaid, housemaid, chef, and kitchenmaid. Sir Charles’s interpretation of simple living was, perhaps, a trifle exaggerated.

    A tall and exceedingly ugly woman issued from the house and bore down upon them.

    Good morning, Miss Milray.

    Good morning, Sir Charles. Good morning (a slight inclination of the head towards the other two). This is the menu for dinner. I don’t know whether you would like it altered in any way?

    Sir Charles took it and murmured:

    Let’s see. Melon Cantaloupe, Borscht Soup, Fresh Mackerel, Grouse, Soufflé Surprise, Canapé Diane…No, I think that will do excellently, Miss Milray. Everyone is coming by the four thirty train.

    I have already given Holgate his orders. By the way, Sir Charles, if you will excuse me, it would be better if I dined with you tonight.

    Sir Charles looked startled, but said courteously:

    Delighted, I am sure, Miss Milray—but—er—

    Miss Milray proceeded calmly to explain.

    Otherwise, Sir Charles, it would make thirteen at table; and so many people are superstitious.

    From her tone it could be gathered that Miss Milray would have sat down thirteen to dinner every night of her life without the slightest qualm. She went on:

    I think everything is arranged. I have told Holgate the car is to fetch Lady Mary and the Babbingtons. Is that right?

    Absolutely. Just what I was going to ask you to do.

    With a slightly superior smile on her rugged countenance, Miss Milray withdrew.

    That, said Sir Charles reverently, is a very remarkable woman. I’m always afraid she’ll come and brush my teeth for me.

    Efficiency personified, said Strange.

    She’s been with me for six years, said Sir Charles. First as my secretary in London, and here, I suppose, she’s a kind of glorified housekeeper. Runs this place like clockwork. And now, if you please, she’s going to leave.

    Why?

    She says—Sir Charles rubbed his nose dubiously—"she says she’s got an invalid mother. Personally I don’t believe it. That kind of woman never had a mother at all. Spontaneously generated from a dynamo. No, there’s something else."

    Quite probably, said Sir Bartholomew, people have been talking.

    Talking? The actor stared. Talking—what about?

    My dear Charles. You know what talking means.

    You mean talking about her—and me? With that face? And at her age?

    She’s probably under fifty.

    I suppose she is, Sir Charles considered the matter. "But seriously, Tollie, have you noticed her face? It’s got two eyes, a nose and a mouth, but it’s not what you would call a face—not a female face. The most scandal-loving old cat in the neighbourhood couldn’t seriously connect sexual passion with a face like that."

    You underrate the imagination of the British spinster.

    Sir Charles shook his head.

    I don’t believe it. There’s a kind of hideous respectability about Miss Milray that even a British spinster must recognize. She is virtue and respectability personified—and a damned useful woman. I always choose my secretaries plain as sin.

    Wise man.

    Sir Charles remained deep in thought for some minutes. To distract him, Sir Bartholomew asked: Who’s coming this afternoon?

    Angie, for one.

    Angela Sutcliffe? That’s good.

    Mr. Satterthwaite leaned forward interestedly, keen to know the composition of the house party. Angela Sutcliffe was a well-known actress, no longer young, but with a strong hold on the public and celebrated for her wit and charm. She was sometimes spoken of as Ellen Terry’s successor.

    Then there are the Dacres.

    Again Mr. Satterthwaite nodded to himself. Mrs. Dacres was Ambrosine, Ltd, that successful dressmaking establishment. You saw it on programmes—Miss Blank’s dresses in the first act by Ambrosine Ltd, Brook Street. Her husband, Captain Dacres, was a dark horse in his own racing parlance. He spent a lot of time on race courses—had ridden himself in the Grand National in years gone by. There had been some trouble—nobody knew exactly—though rumours had been spread about. There had been no inquiry—nothing overt, but somehow at mention of Freddie Dacres people’s eyebrows went up a little.

    Then there’s Anthony Astor, the playwright.

    Of course, said Mr. Satterthwaite. "She wrote One-Way Traffic. I saw it twice. It made a great hit."

    He rather enjoyed showing that he knew that Anthony Astor was a woman.

    That’s right, said Sir Charles. I forget what her real name is—Wills, I think. I’ve only met her once. I asked her to please Angela. That’s the lot—of the house party, I mean.

    And the locals? asked the doctor.

    Oh, the locals! Well, there are the Babbingtons—he’s the parson, quite a good fellow, not too parsonical, and his wife’s a really nice woman. Lectures me on gardening. They’re coming—and Lady Mary and Egg. That’s all. Oh, yes, there’s a young fellow called Manders, he’s a journalist, or something. Good-looking young fellow. That completes the party.

    Mr. Satterthwaite was a man of methodical nature. He counted heads.

    Miss Sutcliffe, one, the Dacres, three, Anthony Astor, four, Lady Mary and her daughter, six, the parson and his wife, eight, the young fellow nine, ourselves twelve. Either you or Miss Milray must have counted wrong, Sir Charles.

    It couldn’t be Miss Milray, said Sir Charles with assurance. "That woman’s never wrong. Let me see: Yes, by Jove, you’re right. I have missed out one guest. He’d slipped my memory."

    He chuckled. Wouldn’t be best pleased at that, either. The fellow is the most conceited little devil I ever met.

    Mr. Satterthwaite’s eyes twinkled. He had always been of the opinion that the vainest men in creation were actors. He did not exempt Sir Charles Cartwright. This instance of the pot calling the kettle black amused him.

    Who is the egoist? he asked.

    Rum little beggar, said Sir Charles. Rather a celebrated little beggar, though. You may have heard of him. Hercule Poirot. He’s a Belgian.

    The detective, said Mr. Satterthwaite. I have met him. Rather a remarkable personage.

    He’s a character, said Sir Charles.

    I’ve never met him, said Sir Bartholomew, but I’ve heard a good deal about him. He retired some time ago, though, didn’t he? Probably most of what I’ve heard is legend. Well, Charles, I hope we shan’t have a crime this weekend.

    Why? Because we’ve got a detective in the house? Rather putting the cart before the horse, aren’t you, Tollie?

    Well, it’s by way of being a theory of mine.

    What is your theory, doctor? asked Mr. Satterthwaite.

    That events come to people—not people to events. Why do some people have exciting lives and other people dull ones? Because of their surroundings? Not at all. One man may travel to the ends of the earth and nothing will happen to him. There will be a massacre a week before he arrives, and an earthquake the day after he leaves, and the boat that he nearly took will be shipwrecked. And another man may live at Balham and travel to the City every day, and things will happen to him. He will be mixed up with blackmailing gangs and beautiful girls and motor bandits. There are people with a tendency to shipwrecks—even if they go on a boat on an ornamental lake something will happen to it. In the same way men like your Hercule Poirot don’t have to look for crime—it comes to them.

    In that case, said Mr. Satterthwaite, perhaps it is as well that Miss Milray is joining us, and that we are not sitting down thirteen to dinner.

    Well, said Sir Charles handsomely, you can have your murder, Tollie, if you’re so keen on it. I make only one stipulation—that I shan’t be the corpse.

    And, laughing, the three men went into the house.

    Two

    INCIDENT BEFORE DINNER

    The principal interest of Mr. Satterthwaite’s life was people.

    He was on the whole more interested in women than men. For a manly man, Mr. Satterthwaite knew far too much about women. There was a womanish strain in his character which lent him insight into the feminine mind. Women all his life had confided in him, but they had never taken him seriously. Sometimes he felt a little bitter about this. He was, he felt, always in the stalls watching the play, never on the stage taking part in the drama. But in truth the rôle of onlooker suited him very well.

    This evening, sitting in the large room giving onto the terrace, cleverly decorated by a modern firm to resemble a ship’s cabin de luxe, he was principally interested in the exact shade of hair dye attained by Cynthia Dacres. It was an entirely new tone—straight from Paris, he suspected—a curious and rather pleasing effect of greenish bronze. What Mrs. Dacres really looked like it was impossible to tell. She was a tall woman with a figure perfectly disciplined to the demands of the moment. Her neck and arms were her usual shade of summer tan for the country—whether naturally or artificially produced it was impossible to tell. The greenish bronze hair was set in a clever and novel style that only London’s best hairdresser could achieve. Her plucked eyebrows, darkened lashes, exquisitively made-up face, and mouth lipsticked to a curve that its naturally straight line did not possess, seemed all adjuncts to the perfection of her evening gown of a deep and unusual blue, cut very simply it seemed (though this was ludicrously far from the case) and of an unusual material—dull, but with hidden lights in it.

    That’s a clever woman, said Mr. Satterthwaite, eyeing her with approval. I wonder what she’s really like.

    But this time he meant in mind, not in body.

    Her words came drawlingly, in the mode of the moment.

    My dear, it wasn’t possible. I mean, things either are possible or they’re not. This wasn’t. It was simply penetrating.

    That was the new word just now—everything was penetrating.

    Sir Charles was vigorously shaking cocktails and talking to Angela Sutcliffe, a tall, grey-haired woman with a mischievous mouth and fine eyes.

    Dacres was talking to Bartholomew Strange.

    Everyone knows what’s wrong with old Ladisbourne. The whole stable knows.

    He spoke in a high clipped voice—a little red, foxy

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