"Certainly, certainly," said Mr Satterthwaite soothingly, "a train is as good a place as anywhere else."
"It was coming down from the North. We had the carriage to ourselves. I don't know why, but we began to talk. I don't know her name and I don't suppose I shall ever meet her again. I don't know that I want to. It might be - a pity." He paused, struggling to express himself. "She wasn't quite real, you know. Shadowy. Like one of the people who come out of the hills in Gaelic fairy tales."
Mr Satterthwaite nodded gently. His imagination pictured the scene easily enough. The very positive and realistic Bristow and a figure that was silvery and ghostly - shadowy, as Bristow had said.
"I suppose if something very terrible had happened, so terrible as to be almost unbearable, one might get like that. One might run away from reality into a half world of one's own and then, of course, after a time, one wouldn't be able to get back."
"Was that what had happened to her?" asked Mr Satterthwaite curiously.
"I don't know," said Bristow. "She didn't tell me anything, I am only guessing. One has to guess if one is going to get anywhere."
"Yes," said Mr Satterthwaite slowly, "One has to guess."
He looked up as the door opened. He looked up quickly and expectantly but the butler's words disappointed him.
"A lady, sir, has called to see you on very urgent business. Miss Aspasia Glen."
Mr Satterthwaite rose in some astonishment. He knew the name of Aspasia Glen. Who in London did not? First advertised as the Woman with the Scarf, she had given a series of matinûes single-handed that had taken London by storm. With the aid of her scarf she had impersonated rapidly various characters. In turn the scarf had been the coif of a nun, the shawl of a mill-worker, the head-dress of a peasant and a hundred other things, and in each impersonation Aspasia Glen had been totally and utterly different. As an artist, Mr Satterthwaite paid full reverence to her. As it happened, he had never made her acquaintance. A call upon him at this unusual hour intrigued him greatly. With a few words of apology to the others he left the room and crossed the hall to the drawing-room.
Miss Glen was sitting in the very centre of a large settee upholstered in gold brocade. So poised she dominated the room. Mr Satterthwaite perceived at once that she meant to dominate the situation. Curiously enough, his first feeling was one of repulsion. He had been a sincere admirer of Aspasia Glen's art. Her personality, as conveyed to him over the footlights, had been appealing and sympathetic. Her effects there had been wistful and suggestive rather than commanding. But now, face to face with the woman herself, he received a totally different impression. There was some thing hard - bold - forceful about her. She was tall and dark, possibly about thirty-five years of age. She was undoubtedly very goodlooking and she clearly relied upon the fact.
"You must forgive this unconventional call, Mr Satterthwaite," she said. Her voice was full and rich and seductive. "I won't say that I have wanted to know you for a long time, but I am glad of the excuse.
As for coming tonight -" she laughed - "well, when I want a thing, I simply can't wait. When I want a thing, I simply must have it."
"Any excuse that has brought me such a charming lady guest must be welcomed by me," said Mr Satterthwaite in an old-fashioned gallant manner.
"How nice you are to me," said Aspasia Glen.
"My dear lady," said Mr Satterthwaite, "may I thank you here and now for the pleasure you have so often given me - in my seat in the stalls."
She smiled delightfully at him.
"I am coming straight to the point. I was at the Harchester Galleries today. I saw a picture there I simply couldn't live without. I wanted to buy it and I couldn't because you had already bought it. So -" she paused - "I do want it so," she went on. "Dear Mr Satterthwaite, I simply must have it. I brought my cheque book." She looked at him hopefully. "Everyone tells me you are so frightfully kind. People are kind to me, you know. It is very bad for me - but there it is."
So these were Aspasia Glen's methods. Mr Satterthwaite was inwardly coldly critical of this ultra-femininity and of this spoilt child pose. It ought to appeal to him, he supposed, but it didn't. Aspasia Glen had made a mistake. She had judged him as an elderly dilettante, easily flattered by a pretty woman. But Mr Satterthwaite behind his gallant manner had a shrewd and critical mind. He saw people pretty well as they were, not as they wished to appear to him.
He saw before him, not a charming woman pleading for a whim, but a ruthless egoist determined to get her own way for some reason which was obscure to him. And he knew quite certainly that Aspasia Glen was not going to get her own way. He was not going to give up the picture of the Dead Harlequin to her. He sought rapidly in his mind for the best way of circumventing her without overt rudeness.
"I am sure," he said, "that everyone gives you your own way as often as they can and is only too delighted to do so."
"Then you are really going to let me have the picture?"
Mr Satterthwaite shook his head slowly and regretfully. "I am afraid that is impossible. You see -" he paused - "I bought that picture for a lady. It is a present."
"Oh! but surely -"
The telephone on the table rang sharply. With a murmured word of excuse Mr Satterthwaite took up the receiver. A voice spoke to him, a small, cold voice that sounded very far away.
"Can I speak to Mr Satterthwaite, please?"
"It is Mr Satterthwaite speaking."
"I am Lady Charnley, Alix Charnley. I daresay you don't remember me, Mr Satterthwaite, it is a great many years since we met."
"My dear Alix. Of course, I remember you."
"There is something I wanted to ask you. I was at the Harchester Galleries at an exhibition of pictures today, there was one called The Dead Harlequin, perhaps you recognised it - it was the Terrace Room at Charnley. I - I want to have that picture. It was sold to you."
She paused. "Mr Satterthwaite, for reasons of my own I want that picture. Will you resell it to me?"
Mr Satterthwaite thought to himself, "Why, this is a miracle."
As he spoke into the receiver he was thankful that Aspasia Glen could only hear one side of the conversation.
"If you will accept my gift, dear lady, it will make me very happy." He heard a sharp exclamation behind him and hurried on.
"I bought it for you. I did indeed. But listen, my dear Alix, I want to ask you to do me a great favour, if you will."
"Of course, Mr Satterthwaite, I am so very grateful."
He went on. "I want you to come round now to my house, at once."
There was a slight pause and then she answered quietly, "I will come at once."
Mr Satterthwaite put down the receiver and turned to Miss Glen.
She said quickly and angrily, "That was the picture you were talking about?"
"Yes," said Mr Satterthwaite, "the lady to whom I am presenting it is coming round to this house in a few minutes."
Suddenly Aspasia Glen's face broke once more into smiles.
"You will give me a chance of persuading her to turn the picture over to me?"
"I will give you a chance of persuading her." Inwardly he was strangely excited. He was in the midst of a drama that was shaping itself to some foredoomed end. He, the looker on, was playing a star part. He turned to Miss Glen.
"Will you come into the other room with me? I should like you to meet some friends of mine."
He held the door open for her and, crossing the hall, opened the door of the smoking-room.
"Miss Glen," he said, "let me introduce you to an old friend of mine, Colonel Monckton. Mr Bristow, the painter of the picture you admire so much." Then he started as a third figure rose from the chair which he had left empty beside his own.
"I think you expected me this evening," said Mr Quin. "During your absence I introduced myself to your friends. I am so glad I was able to drop in."
"My dear friend," said Mr Satterthwaite, "I - I have been carrying on as well as I am able, but -" he stopped before the
slightly sardonic glance of Mr Quin's dark eyes.
"Let me introduce you. Mr Harley Quin, Miss Aspasia Glen."
Was it fancy - or did she shrink back slightly. A curious expression flitted over her face.
Suddenly Bristow broke in boisterously. "I have got it."
"Got what?"
"Got hold of what was puzzling me. There is a likeness, there is a distinct likeness." He was staring curiously at Mr Quin. "You see it?"
He turned to Mr Satterthwaite. "Don't you see a distinct likeness to the Harlequin of my picture - the man looking in through the window?"
It was no fancy this time. He distinctly heard Miss Glen draw in her breath sharply and even saw that she stepped back one pace.
"I told you that I was expecting someone," said Mr Satterthwaite. He spoke with an air of triumph. "I must tell you that my friend, Mr Quin, is a most extraordinary person. He can unravel mysteries. He can make you see things."
"Are you a medium, sir?" demanded Colonel Monckton, eyeing Mr Quin doubtfully.
The latter smiled and slowly shook his head.
"Mr Satterthwaite exaggerates," he said quietly. "Once or twice when I have been with him he has done some extraordinary good deductive work. Why he puts the credit down to me I can't say. His modesty, I suppose."
"No, no," said Mr Satterthwaite excitedly. "It isn't. You make me see things - things that I ought to have seen all along - that I actually have seen - but without knowing that I saw them."
"It sounds to me deuced complicated," said Colonel Monckton.
"Not really," said Mr Quin. "The trouble is that we are not content just to see things - we will tack the wrong interpretation on to the things we see."
Aspasia Glen turned to Frank Bristow.
"I want to know," she said nervously, "what put the idea of painting that picture into your head?"
Bristow shrugged his shoulders.
"I don't quite know," he confessed. "Something about the place about Charnley, I mean, took hold of my imagination. The big empty room. The terrace outside, the idea of ghosts and things, I suppose.
I have just been hearing the tale of the last Lord Charnley, who shot himself. Supposing you are dead, and your spirit lives on? It must be odd, you know. You might stand outside on the terrace looking in at the window at your own dead body, and you would see everything."
"What do you mean?" said Aspasia Glen. "See everything?"
"Well, you would see what happened. You would see -"
The door opened and the butler announced Lady Charnley.
Mr Satterthwaite went to meet her. He had not seen her for nearly thirteen years. He remembered her as she once was, an eager, glowing girl. And now he saw - a Frozen Lady. Very fair, very pale, with an air of drifting rather than walking, a snowflake driven at random by an icy breeze. Something unreal about her. So cold, so far away.
"It was very good of you to come," said Mr Satterthwaite.
He led her forward. She made a half gesture of recognition towards Miss Glen and then paused as the other made no response.
"I am so sorry," she murmured, "but surely I have met you somewhere, haven't I?"
"Over the footlights, perhaps," said Mr Satterthwaite. "This is Miss Aspasia Glen, Lady Charnley."
"I am very pleased to meet you, Lady Charnley," said Aspasia Glen.
Her voice had suddenly a slight transatlantic tinge to it. Mr Satterthwaite was reminded of one of her various stage impersonations.
"Colonel Monckton you know," continued Mr Satterthwaite, "and this is Mr Bristow."
He saw a sudden faint tinge of colour in her cheeks.
"Mr Bristow and I have met too," she said, and smiled a little.
"In a train."
"And Mr Harley Quin."
He watched her closely, but this time there was no flicker of recognition. He set a chair for her, and then, seating himself, he cleared his throat and spoke a little nervously.
"I - this is rather an unusual little gathering. It centres round this picture. I - I think that if we liked we could - clear things up."
"You are not going to hold a sûance, Satterthwaite?" asked Colonel Monckton. "You are very odd this evening."
"No," said Mr Satterthwaite, "not exactly a sûance. But my friend, Mr Quin, believes, and I agree, that one can, by looking back over the past, see things as they were and not as they appeared to be."
"The past?" said Lady Charnley.
"I am speaking of your husband's suicide, Alix. I know it hurts you -"
"No," said Alix Charnley, "it doesn't hurt me. Nothing hurts me now."
Mr Satterthwaite thought of Frank Bristow's words. "She was not quite real you know. Shadowy, like one of those people who come out of hills in Gaelic fairy tales."
"Shadowy," he had called her. That described her exactly. A shadow, a reflection of something else. Where then was the real Alix, and his mind answered quickly, "In the past. Divided from us by fourteen years of time."
"My dear," he said, "you frighten me. You are like the Weeping Lady with the Silver Ewer."
Crash! The coffee cup on the table by Aspasia's elbow fell shattered to the floor. Mr Satterthwaite waved aside her apologies. He thought, "We are getting nearer, we are getting nearer every minute - but nearer to what?"
"Let us take our minds back to that night fourteen years ago," he said." Lord Charnley killed himself. For what reason? No one knows."
Lady Charnley stirred slightly in her chair.
"Lady Charnley knows," said Frank Bristow abruptly.
"Nonsense," said Colonel Monckton, then stopped, frowning at her curiously.
She was looking across at the artist. It was as though he drew the words out of her. She spoke, nodding her head slowly, and her voice was like a snowflake, cold and soft. "Yes, you are quite right. I know.
That is why as long as I live I can never go back to Charnley. That is why when my boy Dick wants me to open the place up and live there again I tell him it can't be done."
"Will you tell us the reason, Lady Charnley?" said Mr Quin.
She looked at him. Then, as though hypnotised, she spoke as quietly and naturally as a child.
"I will tell you if you like. Nothing seems to matter very much now. I found a letter among his papers and I destroyed it."
"What letter?" said Mr Quin.
"The letter from the girl - from that poor child. She was the Merriam's nursery governess. He had - he had made love to her - yes, while he was engaged to me just before we were married. And she - she was going to have a child too. She wrote saying so, and that she was going to tell me about it. So, you see, he shot himself."
She looked round at them wearily and dreamily like a child who has repeated a lesson it knows too well.
Colonel Monckton blew his nose.
"My God," he said, "so that was it. Well, that explains things with a vengeance."
"Does it?" said Mr Satterthwaite, "it doesn't explain one thing. It doesn't explain why Mr Bristow painted that picture."
"What do you mean?"
Mr Satterthwaite looked across at Mr Quin as though for encouragement, and apparently got it, for he proceeded, "Yes, I know I sound mad to all of you, but that picture is the focus of the whole thing. We are all here tonight because, of that picture. That picture had to be painted - that is what I mean."
"You mean the uncanny influence of the Oak Parlour?" began Colonel Monckton.
"No," said Mr Satterthwaite. "Not the Oak Parlour. The Terrace Room. That is it! The spirit of the dead man standing outside the window and looking in and seeing his own dead body on the floor."
"Which he couldn't have done," said the Colonel, "because the body was in the Oak Parlour."
"Supposing it wasn't," said Mr Satterthwaite, "supposing it was exactly where Mr Bristow saw it, saw it imaginatively, I mean, on the black and white flags in front of the window."
"You are talking nonsense," said Colonel Monckton, "if it was there we shouldn't have found it in the Oak
Parlour."
"Not unless someone carried it there," said Mr Satterthwaite.
"And in that case how could we have seen Charnley going in at the door of the Oak Parlour?" inquired Colonel Monckton.
"Well, you didn't see his face, did you?" asked Mr Satterthwaite.
"What I mean is, you saw a man going into the Oak Parlour in fancy dress, I suppose."
"Brocade things and a wig," said Monckton.
"Just so, and you thought it was Lord Charnley because the girl called out to him as Lord Charnley."
"And because when we broke in a few minutes later there was only Lord Charnley there dead. You can't get away from that, Satterthwaite."
"No," said Mr Satterthwaite, discouraged. "No - unless there was a hiding-place of some kind."
"Weren't you saying something about there being a Priests hole in that room?" put in Frank Bristow.
"Oh!" cried Mr Satterthwaite.
"Supposing -?"
He waved a hand for silence and sheltered his forehead with his other hand and then spoke slowly and hesitatingly.
"I have got an idea - it may be just an idea, but I think it hangs together. Supposing someone shot Lord Charnley. Shot him in the Terrace Room. Then he - and another person - dragged the body into the Oak Parlour. They laid it down there with the pistol by its right hand. Now we go on to the next step. It must seem absolutely certain Lord Charnley has committed suicide. I think that could be done very easily. The man in his brocade and wig passes along the hall by the Oak Parlour door and someone, to make sure of things, calls out to him as Lord Charnley from the top of the stairs. He goes in and locks both doors and fires a shot into the woodwork. There were bullet holes already in that room if you remember, one more wouldn't be noticed. He then hides quietly in the secret chamber. The doors are broken open and people rush in. It seems certain that Lord Charnley has committed suicide. No other hypothesis is even entertained."
"Well, I think that is balderdash," said Colonel Monckton. "You forget that Charnley had a motive right enough for suicide."
"A letter found afterwards," said Mr Satterthwaite. "A lying cruel letter written by a very clever and unscrupulous little actress who meant one day to be Lady Charnley herself."
Short Stories Page 49
