Agatha Christie - The Mysterious Mr. Quin

He came to it at last―rather vaguely and incoherently. Hadn't felt quite the thing―nothing much. Saw his doctor, and the doctor had persuaded him to go to a Harley Street man. And then―the incredible truth. They'd tried to hedge about it―spoke of great care―a quiet life, but they hadn't been able to disguise that that was all eyewash―letting him down lightly. It boiled down to this―six months. That's what they gave him. Six months.

He turned those bewildered brown eyes on Mr. Satterthwaite. It was, of course, rather a shock to a fellow. One didn't―one didn't somehow, know what to do.

Mr. Satterthwaite nodded gravely and understandingly.

It was a bit difficult to take in all at once, Anthony Cosden went on. How to put in the time. Rather a rotten business waiting about to get pipped He didn't feel really ill―not yet. Though that might come later, so the specialist had said―in fact, it was bound to. It seemed such nonsense to be going to die when one didn't in the least want to. The best thing, he had thought, would be to carry on as usual. But somehow that hadn't worked.

Here Mr. Satterthwaite interrupted him. Wasn't there, he hinted delicately, any woman?

But apparently there wasn't. There were women, of course, but not that kind. His crowd was a very cheery crowd. They didn't, so he implied, like corpses. He didn't wish to make a kind of walking funeral of himself. It would have been embarrassing for everybody. So he had come abroad.

"You came to see these islands? But why?" Mr. Satterthwaite was hunting for something, something intangible but delicate that eluded him and yet which he was sure was there. "You've been here before, perhaps?"

"Yes." he admitted it almost unwillingly. "Years ago when I was a youngster."

And suddenly, almost unconsciously so it seemed, he shot a quick glance backward over his shoulder in the direction of the villa.

"I remembered this place," he said, nodding at the sea.

"One step to eternity!"

"And that is why you came up here last night," finished Mr. Satterthwaite calmly.

Anthony Cosden shot him a dismayed glance.

"Oh! I say―really―――" he protested.

"Last night you found someone here. This afternoon you have found me. Your life has been saved―twice."

"You may put it that way if you like―but damn it all, it's my life. I've a right to do what I like with it."

"That is a cliche" said Mr. Satterthwaite wearily.

"Of course I see your point," said Anthony Cosden generously. "Naturally you've got to say what you can. I'd try to dissuade a fellow myself, even though I knew deep down that he was right. And you know that I'm right. A clean quick end is better than a lingering one―causing trouble and expense and bother to all. In any case it's not as though I had anyone in the world belonging to me..."

"If you had―――?" said Mr. Satterthwaite sharply.

Cosden drew a deep breath.

"I don't know. Even then, I think, this way would be best But anyway―I haven't..."

He stopped abruptly. Mr. Satterthwaite eyed him curiously. Incurably romantic, he suggested again that there was, somewhere, some woman. But Cosden negatived it. He oughtn't, he said, to complain. He had had, on the whole, a very good life. It was a pity it was going to be over so soon, that was all. But at any rate he had had, he supposed, everything worth having. Except a son. He would have liked a son. He would like to know now that he had a son living after him. Still, he reiterated the fact, he had had a very good life――-

It was at this point that Mr. Satterthwaite lost patience. Nobody, he pointed out, who was still in the larval stage, could claim to know anything of life at all. Since the words larval stage clearly meant nothing at all to Cosden, he proceeded to make his meaning clearer.

"You have not begun to live yet. You are still at the beginning of life."

Cosden laughed.

"Why, my hair's grey. I'm forty―――"

Mr. Satterthwaite interrupted him.

"That has nothing to do with it. Life is a compound of physical and mental experiences. I, for instance, am sixty-nine, and I am really sixty-nine. I have known, either at first or second hand, nearly all the experiences life has to offer. You are like a man who talks of a full year and has seen nothing but snow and ice! The flowers of Spring, the languorous days of Summer, the falling leaves of Autumn―he knows nothing of them―not even that there are such things. And you are going to turn your back on even this opportunity of knowing them."

"You seem to forget," said Anthony Cosden dryly, "that, in any case, I have only six months."

"Time, like everything else, is relative," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "That six months might be the longest and most varied experience of your whole life."

Cosden looked unconvinced.

"In my place," he said, "you would do the same."

Mr. Satterthwaite shook his head.

"No," he said simply. "In the first place, I doubt if I should have the courage. It needs courage and I am not at all a brave individual And in the second place―――"

"Well?"

"I always want to know what is going to happen tomorrow.''

Cosden rose suddenly with a laugh.

"Well, sir, you've been very good in letting me talk to you. I hardly know why―anyway, there it is. I've said a lot too much. Forget it"

"And tomorrow, when an accident is reported, I am to leave it at that? To make no suggestion of suicide?"

"That's as you like. I'm glad you realise one thing―that you can't prevent me."

"My dear young man," said Mr. Satterthwaite placidly, "I can hardly attach myself to you like the proverbial limpet. Sooner or later you would give me the slip and accomplish your purpose. But you are frustrated at any rate for this afternoon. You would hardly like to go to your death leaving me under the possible imputation of having pushed you over."

"That is true," said Cosden. "If you insist on remaining here―――"

"I do," said Mr. Satterthwaite firmly.

Cosden laughed good-humouredly.

"Then the plan must be deferred for the moment. In which case I will go back to the hotel See you later perhaps. "Mr. Satterthwaite was left looking at the sea.

"And now," he said to himself softly, "what next? There must be a next. I wonder..."

He got up. For a while he stood at the edge of the plateau looking down on the dancing water beneath. But he found no inspiration there, and turning slowly he walked back along the path between the cypresses and into the quiet garden. He looked at the shuttered, peaceful house and he wondered, as he had often wondered before, who had lived there and what had taken place within those placid walk On a sudden impulse he walked up some crumbling stone steps and laid a hand on one of the faded green shutters.

To his surprise it swung back at his touch. He hesitated a moment, then pushed it boldly open. The next minute he stepped back with a little exclamation of dismay. A woman stood in the window facing him. She wore black and had a black lace mantilla draped over her head.

Mr. Satterthwaite floundered wildly in Italian interspersed with German―the nearest he could get in the hurry of the moment to Spanish- He was desolated and ashamed, he explained haltingly. The Signora must forgive. He thereupon retreated hastily, the woman not having spoken one word.

He was halfway across the courtyard when she spoke―― two sharp words like a pistol crack.

"Come back!"

It was a barked-out command such as might have been addressed to a dog, yet so absolute was the authority it conveyed, that Mr. Satterthwaite had swung round hurriedly and trotted back to the window almost automatically before it occurred to him to feel any resentment. He obeyed like a dog. The woman was still standing motionless at the window. She looked him up and down appraising him with perfect calmness.