The Poisoned Chocolates Case · Chapter 7 (2/2)

“Just as I differ from Sir Charles over the identity of the third person in the triangle,” went on Mrs. Fielder-Flemming, happily ignorant of her friends’ memories, “so I differ from him in the means by which that identity is to be established. We are at complete variance in our ideas regarding the very heart of the problem, the motive. Sir Charles would have us think that this was a murder committed (or attempted, rather) for gain; I am convinced that the incentive was, at any rate, a less ignoble one than that. Murder, we are taught, can never be really justifiable; but there are occasions when it comes dangerously near it. This, in my opinion, was one of them.

“It is in the character of Sir Eustace himself that I see the clue to the identity of the third person. Let us consider it for a moment. We are not restricted by any considerations of slander, and we can say at once that, from certain points of view, Sir Eustace is a quite undesirable member of the community. From the point of view of a young man, for the sake of example, who is in love with a girl, Sir Eustace must be one of the very last persons with whom the young man would wish that girl to come into contact. He is not merely immoral, he is without excuse for his immorality, a far more serious thing. He is a rake, a spendthrift, without honour or scruples where women are concerned, and a man moreover who has already made a mess of marriage with a very charming woman and one by no means too narrow to overlook even a more than liberal allowance of the usual male peccadilloes and lapses. As a prospective husband for any young girl Sir Eustace Pennefather is a tragedy.

“And as a prospective husband for a young girl whom a man loves with all his heart,” intoned Mrs. Fielder-Flemming very solemnly, “it is easy to conceive that, in that particular man’s regard, Sir Eustace Pennefather becomes nothing short of an impossibility.

“And a man who is a man,” added Mrs. Fielder-Flemming, quite mauve with intensity, “does not admit impossibilities.”

She paused, pregnantly.

“Curtain, Act I,” confided Mr. Bradley behind his hand to Mr. Ambrose Chitterwick.

Mr. Chitterwick smiled nervously.