“Yes,” said Mr. Satterthwaite.
“Do we believe that the second murder sprang directly from the first? I mean, do we believe that Bartholomew Strange was killed in order to prevent his revealing the facts of the first murder, or his suspicion about it?”
“Yes,” said Egg and Mr. Satterthwaite again, but in unison this time.
“Then it is the first murder we must investigate, not the second—”
Egg nodded.
“In my mind, until we discover the motive for the first murder, we can hardly hope to discover the murderer. The motive presents extraordinary difficulty. Babbington was a harmless, pleasant, gentle old man without, one would say, an enemy in the world. Yet he was killed—and there must have been some reason for the killing. We’ve got to find that reason.”
He paused and then said in his ordinary everyday voice:
“Let’s get down to it. What reasons are there for killing people? First, I suppose, gain.”
“Revenge,” said Egg.
“Homicidal mania,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “The crime passionel would hardly apply in this case. But there’s fear.”
Charles Cartwright nodded. He was scribbling on a piece of paper.
“That about covers the ground,” he said. “First, Gain. Does anyone gain by Babbington’s death? Has he any money—or expectation of money?”
“I should think it very unlikely,” said Egg.
“So should I, but we’d better approach Mrs. Babbington on the point.”
“Then there’s revenge. Did Babbington do any injury to anyone—perhaps in his young days? Did he marry the girl that some other man wanted? We’ll have to look into that, too.”
“Then homicidal mania. Were both Babbington and Tollie killed by a lunatic? I don’t think that theory will hold water. Even a lunatic has some kind of reasonableness in his crimes. I mean a lunatic might think himself divinely appointed to kill doctors, or to kill clergymen, but not to kill both. I think we can wash out the theory of homicidal mania. There remains fear.
“Now, frankly, that seems to me far the most likely solution. Babbington knew something about somebody—or he recognized somebody. He was killed to prevent him telling what that something was.”
“I can’t see what someone like Mr. Babbington could know that was damaging about anybody who was there that night.”
“Perhaps,” said Sir Charles, “it was something that he didn’t know that he knew.”
He went on, trying to make his meaning clear.
“It’s difficult to say just what I mean. Suppose, for instance (this is only an instance) that Babbington saw a certain person in a certain place at a certain time. As far as he knows, there’s no reason why that person shouldn’t be there. But suppose also that that person had concocted a very clever alibi for some reason showing that at that particular time he was somewhere else a
hundred miles away. Well, at any minute old Babbington, in the most innocent way in the world, might give the show away.”
“I see,” said Egg. “Say there’s a murder committed in London, and Babbington sees the man who did it at Paddington Station, but the man has proved that he didn’t do it by having an alibi showing that he was at Leeds at the time. Then Babbington might give the whole show away.”
“That’s what I mean exactly. Of course that’s only an instance. It might be anything. Someone he saw that evening whom he’d known under a different name—”
“It might be something to do with a marriage,” said Egg. “Clergymen do lots of marriages. Somebody who’d committed bigamy.”
“Or it might have to do with a birth or a death,” suggested Mr. Satterthwaite.
“It’s a very wide field,” said Egg, frowning. “We’ll have to get at it the other way. Work back from the people who were there. Let’s make a list. Who was at your house, and who was at Sir Bartholomew’s.”
She took the paper and pencil from Sir Charles.
“The Dacres, they were at both. That woman like a wilted cabbage, what’s her name—Wills. Miss Sutcliffe.”
“You can leave Angela out of it,” said Sir Charles. “I’ve known her for years.”