Free Three Act Tragedy by Agatha Christie Page B

airs they give themselves, coming into a gentleman’s house and nosing round.”
    “I hear there’s some question of a secret passage,” Sir Charles said.
    Mrs. Leckie sniffed.
    “That’s what the police say.”
    “Is there such a thing?”
    “I’ve heard mention of it,” Mrs. Leckie agreed cautiously.
    “Do you know where it starts from?”
    “No, I don’t, sir. Secret passages are all very well, but they’re not things to be encouraged in the servants’ hall. It gives the girls ideas. They might think of slipping out that way. My girls go out by the back door and in by the back door, and then we know where we are.”
    “Splendid, Mrs. Leckie. I think you’re very wise.”
    Mrs. Leckie bridled in the sun of Sir Charles’s approval.
    “I wonder,” he went on, “if we might just ask a few questions of the other servants?”
    “Of course, sir; but they can’t tell you anything more than I can.”
    “Oh, I know. I didn’t mean so much about Ellis as about Sir Bartholomew himself - his manner that night, and so on. You see, he was a friend of mine.”
    “I know, sir. I quite understand. There’s Beatrice, and there’s Alice. She waited at table, of course.”
    “Yes, I’d like to see Alice.”
    Mrs. Leckie, however, had a belief in seniority. Beatrice Church, the upper-housemaid, was the first to appear.
    She was a tall thin woman, with a pinched mouth, who looked aggressively respectable.
    After a few unimportant questions, Sir Charles led the talk to the behaviour of the house party on the fatal evening. Had they all been terribly upset? What had they said or done?
    A little animation entered into Beatrice’s manner. She had the usual ghoulish relish for tragedy.
    “Miss Sutcliffe, she quite broke down. A very warm-hearted lady, she’s stayed here before. I suggested bringing her a little drop of brandy, or a nice cup of tea, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She took some aspirin, though. Said she was sure she couldn’t sleep. But she was sleeping like a little child the next morning when I bought her her early tea.”
    “And Mrs. Dacres?”
    “I don’t think anything would upset that lady much.”
    From Beatrice’s tone, she had not liked Cynthia Dacres.
    “Just anxious to get away, she was. Said her business would suffer. She’s a big dressmaker in London, so Mr. Ellis told us.”
    A big dressmaker, to Beatrice, meant “trade,” and trade she looked down upon.
    “And her husband?”
    Beatrice sniffed.
    “Steadied his nerves with brandy, he did. Or unsteadied them, some would say.”
    “What about Lady Mary Lytton Gore?”
    “A very nice lady,” said Beatrice, her tone softening. “My great aunt was in service with her father at the Castle. A pretty young girl she was, so I’ve always heard. Poor she may be, but you can see she’s someone - and so considerate, never giving trouble and always speaking so pleasant. Her daughter’s a nice young lady, too. They didn’t know Sir Bartholomew well, of course, but they were very distressed.”
    “Miss Wills?”
    Some of Beatrice’s rigidity returned.
    “I’m sure I couldn’t say sir, what Miss Wills thought about it.”
    “Or what you thought about her?” asked Sir Charles. “Come now, Beatrice, be human.”
    An unexpected smile dinted Beatrice’s wooden cheeks. There was something appealingly schoolboyish in Sir Charles’s manner. She was not proof against the charm that nightly audiences had felt so strongly.
    “Really, sir, I don’t know what you want me to say.”
    “Just what you thought and felt about Miss Wills.”
    “Nothing, sir, nothing at all. She wasn’t, of course - ”
    Beatrice hesitated.
    “Go on, Beatrice.”
    “Well, she wasn’t quite the ‘class’ of the others, sir. She couldn’t help it, I know, went on Beatrice kindly. But she did things a real lady wouldn’t have done. She pried, if you know what I mean, sir, poked and pried about.”
    Sir Charles tried hard to get this statement amplified,