Agatha Christie - The Mysterious Mr. Quin

But at that moment one of the windows opened and the lady who occupied Mr. Satterthwaite's thoughts came out. She came straight to him with a buoyant swaying walk, like someone carried on a great wave of exultation. Her eyes were shining, her colour high. She looked like a figure of joy on a frieze. There was no hesitation about her, no doubts or tremors. Straight to Mr. Satterthwaite she came, put her hands on his shoulders and kissed him―not once but many times. Large, dark, red roses, very velvety―that is how he thought of it afterwards. Sunshine, summer, birds singing― that was the atmosphere into which he felt himself caught up. Warmth, joy and tremendous vigour.

"I'm so happy," she said. "You darling! How did you know? How could you know? You're like the good magician in the fairy tales."

She paused, a sort of breathlessness of happiness upon her.

"We're going over to-day―to the Consul―to get married. When John comes, his father will be there. We'll tell him there was some misunderstanding in the past. Oh! He won't ask questions. Oh! I'm so happy―so happy―so happy."

Happiness did indeed surge from her like a tide. It lapped round Mr. Satterthwaite in a warm exhilarating flood.

"It's so wonderful to Anthony to find he has a son. I never dreamt he'd mind or care." She looked confidently into Mr. Satterthwaite's eyes. "Isn't it strange how things come right and end all beautifully?"

He had his clearest vision of her yet. A child―still a child―with her love of make believe―her fairy tales that ended beautifully with two people "living happily ever afterwards."

He said gently―

"If you bring this man of yours happiness in these last months, you will indeed have done a very beautiful thing."

Her eyes opened wide―surprised.

"Oh!" she said. "You don't think I'd let him die, do you? After all these years―when he's come to me. I've known lots of people whom doctors have given up and who are alive today. Die? Of course he's not going to die!"

He looked at her―her strength, her beauty, her vitality―her indomitable courage and will. He, too, had known doctors to be mistaken... The personal factor―you never knew how much and how little it counted.

She said again, with scorn and amusement in her voice―

"You don't think I'd let him die, do you?"

"No," said Mr. Satterthwaite at last very gently. "Somehow, my dear, I don't think you will..."

Then at last he walked down the cypress path to the bench overlooking the sea and found there the person he was expecting to see. Mr. Quin rose and greeted him―the same as ever, dark, saturnine, smiling and sad.

"You expected me?" he asked.

And Mr. Satterthwaite answered―"Yes, I expected you."

They sat together on the bench.

"I have an idea that you have been playing Providence once more, to judge by your expression," said Mr. Quin presently.

Mr. Satterthwaite looked at him reproachfully.

"As if you didn't know all about it."

"You always accuse me of omniscience," said Mr. Quin, smiling.

"If you know nothing, why were you here the night before last―waiting?" countered Mr. Satterthwaite.

"Oh, that―――?"

"Yes, that."

"I had a―commission to perform.1"

"For whom?"

"You have sometimes fancifully named me an advocate for the dead."

"The dead?" said Mr. Satterthwaite, a little puzzled. "I don't understand."

Mr. Quin pointed a long, lean finger down at the blue depths below.

"A man was drowned down there twenty-two years ago."

"I know―but I don't see―――"

"Supposing that, after all, that man loved his young wife. Love can make devils of men as well as angels. She had a girlish adoration for him, but he could never touch the womanhood in her―and that drove him mad. He tortured her because he loved her. Such things happen. You know that as well as I do."

"Yes," admitted Mr. Satterthwaite, "I have seen such things―but rarely―very rarely..."

"And you have also seen, more commonly, that there is such a thing as remorse―the desire to make amends―at all costs to make amends."

"Yes, but death came too soon..."

"Death!" "There was contempt in Mr. Quin's voice. "You believe in a life after death, do you not? And who are you to say that the same wishes, the same desires, may not operate in that other life? If the desire is strong enough―a messenger may be found."

His voice tailed away.

Mr. Satterthwaite got up, trembling a little.

"I must get back to the hotel," he said. "If you are going that way."

But Mr. Quin shook his head.

"No," he said. "I shall go back the way I came."

When Mr. Satterthwaite looked back over his shoulder, he saw his friend walking towards the edge of the cliff.

"I AM a little worried about Margery," said Lady Stranleigh.

"My girl, you know," she added.

She sighed pensively.

"It makes one feel terribly old to have a grown-up daughter."

Mr. Satterthwaite, who was the recipient of these confidences, rose to the occasion gallantly.

"No one could believe it possible," he declared with a little bow.

"Flatterer," said Lady Stranleigh, but she said it vaguely and it was clear that her mind was elsewhere.

Mr. Satterthwaite looked at the slender white-clad figure in some admiration. The Cannes sunshine was searching, but Lady Stranleigh came through the test very well. At a distance the youthful effect was really extraordinary. One almost wondered if she were grown-up or not. Mr. Satterthwaite, who knew everything, knew that it was perfectly possible for Lady Stranleigh to have grown-up grandchildren. She represented the extreme triumph of art over nature. Her figure was marvellous, her complexion was marvellous. She had enriched many beauty parlours and certainly the results were astounding.

Lady Stranleigh lit a cigarette, crossed her beautiful legs encased in the finest of nude silk stockings and murmured―"Yes, I really am rather worried about Margery."

"Dear me," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "what is the trouble?"

Lady Stanleigh turned her beautiful blue eyes upon him

"You have never met her, have you? She is Charles' daughter, "she added helpfully.

If entries in "Who's Who" were strictly truthful, the entries concerning Lady Stranleigh might have ended as follows― hobbies― getting married- She had floated through life shedding husbands as she went. She had lost three by divorce and one by death.

"If she had been Rudolph's child I could have understood it, "mused Lady Stranleigh. "You remember Rudolf? He was always temperamental. Six months after we married I had to apply for those queer things―what do they call them? Conjugal what nots, you know what I mean. Thank goodness it is all much simpler nowadays. I remember I had to write him the silliest kind of letter―my lawyer practically dictated it to me. Asking him to come back, you know, and that I would do all I could, etc, etc, but you never could count on Rudolf, he was so temperamental. He came rushing home at once, which was quite the wrong thing to do, and not all what the lawyers meant."

She sighed.

"About Margery?" suggested Mr. Satterthwaite, tactfully leading her back to the subject under discussion.

"Of course. I was just going to tell you, wasn't I? Margery has been seeing things, or hearing them. Ghosts, you know, and all that. I should never have thought that Margery could be so imaginative. She is a dear good girl, always has been, but just a shade―dull."

"Impossible," murmured Mr. Satterthwaite with a confused idea of being complimentary.

"In fact, very dull," said Lady Stranleigh. "Doesn't care for dancing, or cocktails or any of the things a young girl ought to care about. She much prefers staying at home to hunt instead of coming out here with me."