Three Act Tragedy by Agatha Christie

very proud of this place, I know,” said Sir Charles.
    â€œYes, his treatments were a great success.”
    â€œMostly nerve cases, isn’t it?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œThat reminds me—fellow I met out at Monte had some kind of relation coming here. I forget her name now—odd sort of name—Rushbridger—Rusbrigger—something like that.”
    â€œMrs. de Rushbridger, you mean?”
    â€œThat’s it. Is she here now?”
    â€œOh, yes. But I’m afraid she won’t be able to see you—not for some time yet. She’s having a very strict rest cure.” The Matron smiled just a trifle archly. “No letters, no exciting visitors….”
    â€œI say, she’s not very bad, is she?”
    â€œRather a bad nervous breakdown—lapses of memory, and severe nervous exhaustion. Oh, we shall get her right in time.”
    The Matron smiled reassuringly.
    â€œLet me see, haven’t I heard Tollie—Sir Bartholomew—speak of her? She was a friend of his as well as a patient, wasn’t she?”
    â€œI don’t think so, Sir Charles. At least the doctor never said so. She has recently arrived from the West Indies—really, it was very funny, I must tell you. Rather a difficult name for a servant to remember—the parlourmaid here is rather stupid. She came and said to me, ‘Mrs. West India has come,’ and of course I suppose Rushbridger does sound rather like West India—but it was rather a coincidence her having just come from the West Indies.”
    â€œRather—rather—most amusing. Her husband over, too?”
    â€œHe’s still out there.”
    â€œAh, quite—quite. I must be mixing her up with someone else. It was a case the doctor was specially interested in?”
    â€œCases of amnesia are fairly common, but they’re always interesting to a medical man—the variations, you know. Two cases are seldom alike.”
    â€œSeems all very odd to me. Well, thank you, Matron, I’m glad to have had a little chat with you. I know how much Tollie thought of you. He often spoke about you,” finished Sir Charles mendaciously.
    â€œOh, I’m glad to hear that.” The Matron flushed and bridled. “Such a splendid man—such a loss to us all. We were absolutely shocked—well, stunned would describe it better. Murder! Who ever would murder Dr. Strange, I said. It’s incredible. That awful butler. I hope the police catch him. And no motive or anything.”
    Sir Charles shook his head sadly and they took their departure, going round by the road to the spot where the car awaited them.
    In revenge for his enforced quiescence during the interview with the Matron, Mr. Satterthwaite displayed a lively interest in the scene of Oliver Manders’ accident, plying the lodge keeper, a slow-witted man of middle age, with questions.
    Yes, that was the place, where the wall was broken away. On a motorcycle the young gentleman was. No, he didn’t see it happen. He heard it, though, and come out to see. The young gentleman was standing there—just where the other gentleman was standing now. He didn’t seem to be hurt. Just looking rueful-like at his bike—and a proper mess that was. Just asked what the name of the place might be, and when he heard it was Sir Bartholomew Strange’s he said, “That’s a piece of luck,” and went on up to the house. A very calm young gentleman he seemed to be—tired like. How he come to have such an accident, the lodge keeper couldn’t see, but he supposed them things went wrong sometimes.
    â€œIt was an odd accident,” said Mr. Satterthwaite thoughtfully.
    He looked at the wide straight road. No bends, no dangerous crossroads, nothing to cause a motor cyclist to swerve suddenly into a ten-foot wall. Yes, an odd accident.
    â€œWhat’s in your mind, Satterthwaite?” asked Sir Charles