Agatha Christie - The Mysterious Mr. Quin

"Because the case against her could not be proved. I fancy―it may be only a fancy―that she is still―facing the music."

Portal had sunk into a chair, his face buried in his hands.

Quin turned to Satterthwaite.

"Good-bye, Mr. Satterthwaite. You are interested in the drama, are you not?"

Mr. Satterthwaite nodded―surprised.

"I must recommend the Harlequinade to your attention. It is dying out nowadays―-but it repays attention, I assure you. Its symbolism is a little difficult to follow―but the immortals are always immortal, you know. I wish you all good-night."

They saw him stride out into the dark. As before, the coloured glass gave the effect of motley...

Mr. Satterthwaite went upstairs. He went to draw down his window, for the air was cold. The figure of Mr. Quin moved down the drive, and from a side door came a woman's figure, running. For a moment they spoke together, then she retraced her steps to the house. She passed just below the window, and Mr. Satterthwaite was struck anew by the vitality of her face. She moved now like a woman in a happy dream.

"Eleanor!"

Alex Portal had joined her.

"Eleanor, forgive me―forgive me――― You told me the truth, but God forgive me―I did not quite believe..."

Mr. Satterthwaite was intensely interested in other people's affairs, but he was also a gentleman It was borne in upon him that he must shut the window. He did so.

But he shut it very slowly.

He heard her voice, exquisite and indescribable.

"I know-I know. You have been in hell. So was I once. Loving―yet alternately believing and suspecting― thrusting aside one's doubts and having them spring up again with leering faces... I know, Alex, I know... But there is a worse hell than that, the hell I have lived in with you. I have seen your doubt―your fear of me... poisoning all our love. That man―that chance passer by, saved me. I could bear it no longer, you understand. Tonight―Tonight I was going to kill myself... Alex... Alex..."

"LISTEN to this," said Lady Cynthia Drage.

She read aloud from the journal she held in her hand.

"Mr. and Mrs. Unkerton are entertaining a party at Greenways House this week. Amongst the guests are Lady Cynthia Drage, Mr. and Mrs. Richard Scott, Major Porter, D.S.O., Mrs. Staverton, Captain Allenson and Mr. Satterthwaite."

"It's as well, "remarked Lady Cynthia, casting away the paper, "to know what we're in for. But they have made a mess of things!"

Her companion, that same Mr. Satterthwaite whose name figured at the end of the list of guests, looked at her interrogatively. It had been said that if Mr. Satterthwaite were found at the houses of those rich who had newly arrived, it was a sign either that the cooking was unusually good, or that a drama of human life was to be enacted there. Mr. Satterthwaite was abnormally interested in the comedies and tragedies of his fellow men.

Lady Cynthia, who was a middle-aged woman, with a hard face and a liberal allowance of make-up, tapped him smartly with the newest thing in parasols which lay rakishly across her knee.

"Don't pretend you don't understand me. You do perfectly. What's more I believe you're here on purpose to see the fur fly!"

Mr. Satterthwaite protested vigorously. He didn't know what she was talking about.

"I'm talking about Richard Scott Do you pretend you've never heard of him?"

"No, of course not. He's the Big Game man, isn't he?"

"That's it――― 'Great big bears and tigers, etc.' as the song says. Of course, he's a great lion himself just now―the Unkertons would naturally be mad to get hold of him―and the bride! A charming child―Oh! Quite a charming child―but so naive, only twenty, you know, and he must be at least forty-five."

"Mrs. Scott seems to be very charming," said Mr. Satterthwaite sedately.

"Yes, poor child."

"Why poor child?"

Lady Cynthia cast him a look of reproach, and went on approaching the point at issue in her own manner.

"Porter's all right―a dull dog, though―another of these African hunters, all sunburnt and silent. Second fiddle to Richard Scott and always has been―life-long friends and all that sort of thing. When I come to think of it, I believe they were together on that trip―――"

"Which trip?"

"The trip. The Mrs. Staverton trip. You'll be saying next you've never heard of Mrs. Staverton."

"I have heard of Mrs. Staverton," said Mr. Satterthwaite, almost with unwillingness.

And he and Lady Cynthia exchanged glances

"It's so exactly like the Unkertons, "wailed the latter, "they are absolutely hopeless―socially, I mean. The idea of asking those two together! Of course they'd heard that Mrs. Staverton was a sportswoman and a traveller and all that, and about her book. People like the Unkertons don't even begin to realise what pitfalls there are! I've been running them, myself, for the last year, and what I've gone through nobody knows. One has to be constantly at their elbow. 'Don't do that!' 'You can't do this!' Thank goodness, I'm through with it now. Not that we've quarrelled―Oh! No, I never quarrel, but somebody else can take on the job. As I've always said, I can put up with vulgarity, but I can't stand meanness!"

After this somewhat cryptic utterance, Lady Cynthia was silent for a moment, ruminating on the Unkertons' meanness as displayed to herself.

"If I'd still been running the show for them," she went on presently, "I should have said quite firmly and plainly―"You can't ask Mrs. Staverton with the Richard Scotts. She and he were once――-"

She stopped eloquently.

"But were they once?" asked Mr. Satterthwaite.

"My dear man! It's well known. That trip into the Interior! I'm surprised the woman had the face to accept the invitation."

"Perhaps she didn't know the others were coming?" suggested Mr. Satterthwaite.

"Perhaps she did. That's far more likely."

"You think―――?"

"She's what I call a dangerous woman―the sort of woman who'd stick at nothing. I wouldn't be in Richard Scott's shoes this week-end."

"And his wife knows nothing, you think?"

"I'm certain of it. But I suppose some kind friend will enlighten her sooner or later. Here's Jimmy Allenson. Such a nice boy. He saved my life in Egypt last winter―I was so bored, you know. Hullo, Jimmy, come here at once."

Captain Allenson obeyed, dropping down on the turf beside her. He was a handsome young fellow of thirty, with white teeth and an infectious smile.

"I'm glad somebody wants me," he observed." The Scotts are doing the turtle dove stunt, two required, not three, Porter's devouring the Field, and I've been in mortal danger of being entertained by my hostess."

He laughed. Lady Cynthia laughed with him. Mr. Satterthwaite, who was in some ways a little old-fashioned, so much so that he seldom made fun of his host and hostess until after he had left their house, remained grave.

"Poor Jimmy," said Lady Cynthia,

"Mine not to reason why, mine but to swiftly fly. I had a Barrow escape of being told the family ghost story."

"An Unkerton ghost," said Lady Cynthia. " ow screaming."

"Not an Unkerton ghost," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "A Greenways ghost. They bought it with the house."

"Of course," said Lady Cynthia. "I remember now. But it doesn't clank chains, does it? It's only something to do with a window."

Jimmy Allenson looked up quickly.

"A window?"

But for the moment Mr. Satterthwaite did not answer. He was looking over Jimmy's head at three figures approaching from the direction of the house―a slim girl between two men. There was a superficial resemblance between the men, both were tall and dark with bronzed faces and quick eyes, but looked at more closely the resemblance vanished. Richard Scott, hunter and explorer, was a man of extraordinarily vivid personality. He had a manner that radiated magnetism. John Porter, his friend and fellow hunter, was a man of squarer build with an impassive, rather wooden face, and very thoughtful grey eyes. He was a quiet man, content always to play second fiddle to his friend.