Agatha Christie - Mysterious Mr Quin

by [Novels 11] -The Mysterious Mr Quin (lit)

  "And yet?" queried Mr. Quin.

  "Well," said Mr. Satterthwaite slowly," it's a possible one, isn't it? Counsel ridiculed the supposition, of course, but I think he was wrong. You see, I've known a good many young men, and these emotional scenes upset them very much--especially the dark, nervous type like Martin Wylde. Women now, can go through a scene like that and feel positively better for it afterwards, with all their wits about them. It acts like a safety valve for them, steadies their nerves down and all that. But I can see Martin Wylde going away with his head in a whirl, sick and miserable, and without a thought of the gun he had left leaning up against the wall-He was silent for some minutes before he went on.

  "Not that it matters. For the next part is only too clear, unfortunately. It was exactly twenty minutes past six when the shot was heard. All the servants heard it, the cook, the kitchen-maid, the butler, the housemaid and Lady Barnaby's own maid. They came rushing to the music room. She was lying huddled over the arm of her chair. The gun had been discharged close to the back of her head, so that the shot hadn't a chance to scatter. At least two of them penetrated the brain."

  He paused again and Mr. Quin asked casually.

  "The servants gave evidence, I suppose?"

  Mr. Satterthwaite nodded.

  "Yes. The butler got there a second or two before the others, but their evidence was practically a repetition of each other's."

  "So they all gave evidence," said Mr. Quin musingly. "There were no exceptions?"

  "Now I remember it," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "the housemaid was only called at the inquest She's gone to Canada since, I believe."

  "I see," said Mr. Quin.

  There was a silence, and somehow the air of the little restaurant seemed to be charged with an uneasy feeling. Mr. Satterthwaite felt suddenly as though he were on the defensive.

  "Why shouldn't she?" he said abruptly.

  "Why should she?" said Mr. Quin with a very slight shrug of the shoulders.

  Somehow, the question annoyed Mr. Satterthwaite. He wanted to shy away from it--to get back on familiar ground.

  "There couldn't be much doubt who fired the shot. As a matter of fact the servants seemed to have lost their heads a bit. There was no one in the house to take charge. It was some minutes before anyone thought of ringing up the police, and when they did so they found that the telephone was out of order."

  "Oh!" said Mr. Quin. "The telephone was out of order."

  "It was," said Mr. Satterthwaite--and was struck suddenly by the feeling that he had said something tremendously important. "It might, of course, have been done on purpose," he said slowly. "But there seems no point in that. Death was practically instantaneous."

  Mr. Quin said nothing, and Mr. Satterthwaite felt that his explanation was unsatisfactory.

  "There was absolutely no one to suspect but young Wylde," he went on. "By his own account, even, he was only out of the house three minutes before the shot was fired. And who else could have fired it? Sir George was at a bridge party a few houses away. He left there at half-past six and was met just outside the gate by a servant bringing him the news. The last rubber finished at half-past six exactly--no doubt about that. Then there was Sir George's secretary, Henry Thompson. He was in London that day, and actually at a business meeting at the moment the shot was fired. Finally, there is Sylvia Dale who, after all, had a perfectly good motive, impossible as it seems that she should have had anything to do with such a crime. She was at the station of Deering Vale seeing a friend off by the 6.28 tram. That lets her out. Then the servants. What earthly motive could any one of them have? Besides they all arrived on the spot practically simultaneously. No, it must have been Martin Wylde."

  But he said it in a dissatisfied kind of voice.

  They went on with their lunch. Mr. Quin was not in a talkative mood, and Mr. Satterthwaite had said all he had to say. But the silence was not a barren one. It was filled with the growing dissatisfaction of Mr. Satterthwaite, heightened and fostered in some strange way by the mere acquiescence of the other man.

  Mr. Satterthwaite suddenly put down his knife and fork with a clatter.

  "Supposing that that young man is really innocent," he said. "he's going to be hanged."

  He looked very startled and upset about it. And still Mr. Quin said nothing.

  "It's not as though------" began Mr. Satterthwaite, and stopped. "Why shouldn't the woman go to Canada?" he ended inconsequently.

  Mr. Quin shook his head.

  "I don't even know what part of Canada she went to, "continued Mr. Satterthwaite peevishly.

  "Could you find out?" suggested the other.

  "I suppose I could. The butler, now. He'd know. Or possibly Thompson, the secretary."

  He paused again. When he resumed speech, his voice sounded almost pleading.

  "It's not as though it were anything to do with me?"

  "That a young man is going to be hanged in a little over three weeks?"

  "Well, yes--if you put it that way, I suppose. Yes, I see what you mean. Life and death. And that poor girl, too. It's not that I'm hard-headed--but, after all--what good will it do? Isn't the whole thing rather fantastic? Even if 1 found out where the woman's gone in Canada--why, it would probably mean that I should have to go out there myself."

  Mr. Satterthwaite looked seriously upset. "And I was thinking of going to the Riviera next week," he said pathetically.

  And his glance towards Mr. Quin said as plainly as it could be said, "Do let me off, won't you?" "You have never been to Canada?" "Never."

  "A very interesting country." Mr. Satterthwaite looked at him undecidedly. "You think I ought to go?"

  Mr. Quin leaned back in his chair and lighted a cigarette. Between puffs of smoke, he spoke deliberately.

  "You are, I believe, a rich man, Mr. Satterthwaite. Not a millionaire, but a man able to indulge a hobby without counting the expense. You have looked on at the dramas of other people. Have you never contemplated stepping in and playing a part? Have you never seen yourself for a minute as the arbiter of other peoples' destinies--standing in the centre of the stage with life and death in your hands?"

  Mr. Satterthwaite leant forward. The old eagerness surged over him.

  "You mean--if I go on this wild-goose chase to Canada------?''

  Mr. Quin smiled.

  "Oh! It was your suggestion, going to Canada, not mine," he said lightly.

  "You can't put me off like that," said Mr. Satterthwaite earnestly. "Whenever I have come across you------" he stopped. "Well?"

  "There is something about you I do not understand. Perhaps I never shall. The last time I met you------"

  "On Midsummer's Eve."

  Mr. Satterthwaite was startled, as though the words held a clue that he did not quite understand.

  "Was it Midsummer's Eve?" he asked confusedly.

  "Yes. But let us not dwell on that. It is unimportant, is it not?"

  "Since you say so," said Mr. Satterthwaite courteously. He felt that elusive clue slipping through his fingers. "When I come back from Canada"--he paused a little awkwardly--"I--I--should much like to see you again."

  "I am afraid I have no fixed address for the moment," said Mr. Quin regretfully. "But I often come to this place. If you also frequent it, we shall no doubt meet before very long."

  They parted pleasantly.

  Mr. Satterthwaite was very excited. He hurried round to Cook's and inquired about boat sailings. Then he rang up Deering Hill. The voice of a butler, suave and deferential, answered him.

  "My name is Satterthwaite. I am speaking for a--er-- firm of solicitors. I wished to make a few inquiries about a young woman who was recently housemaid in your establishment."

  "Would that be Louisa, sir? Louisa Bullard?"

  "That is the name," said Mr. Satterthwaite, very pleased to be told it.

  "I regret she is not in this country, sir. She went to Canada six months ago."

  "Can you give me her present address?"


  The butler was afraid he couldn't. It was a place in the mountains she had gone to--a Scotch name--ah! Banff, that was it. Some of the other young women in the house had been expecting to hear from her, but she had never written or given them any address.

  Mr. Satterthwaite thanked him and rang off. He was still undaunted. The adventurous spirit was strong in his breast.

  He would go to Banff. If this Louisa Bullard was there, he would track her down somehow or other.

  To his own surprise, he enjoyed the trip greatly. It was many years since he had taken a long sea voyage. The Riviera, Le Touquet and Deauville, and Scotland had been his usual round. The feeling that he was setting off on an impossible mission added a secret zest to his journey. What an utter fool these fellow travellers of his would think him did they but know the object of his quest! But then--they were not acquainted with Mr. Quin.

  In Banff he found his objective easily attained. Louisa Bullard was employed in the large Hotel there. Twelve hours after his arrival he was standing face to face with her.

  She was a woman of about thirty-five, anaemic looking, but with a strong frame. She had pale brown hair inclined to curl, and a pair of honest brown eyes. She was, he thought, slightly stupid, but very trustworthy.

  She accepted quite readily his statement that he had been asked to collect a few further facts from her about the tragedy at Deering Hill.

  "I saw in the paper that Mr. Martin Wylde had been convicted, sir. Very sad, it is, too."

  She seemed, however, to have no doubt as to his guilt. "A nice young gentleman gone wrong. But though I wouldn't speak ill of the dead, it was her ladyship what led him on. Wouldn't leave him alone, she wouldn't. Well, they've both got their punishment. There's a text used to hang on my wall when I was a child," God is not mocked, "and it's very true. I knew something was going to happen that very evening--and sure enough it did." " ow was that?" said Mr. Satterthwaite. "I was in my room, sir, changing my dress, and I happened to glance out of the window. There was a train going along, and the white smoke of it rose up in the air, and if you'll believe me it formed itself into the sign of a gigantic hand. A great white hand against the crimson of the sky. The fingers were crooked like, as though they were reaching out for something. It fair gave me a turn. "Did you ever now?" I said to myself. "That's a sign of something coming"--and sure enough at that very minute I heard the shot. "It's come," I said to myself, and I rushed downstairs and joined Carrie and the others who were in the hall, and we went into the music room and there she was, shot through the head-- and the blood and everything. Horrible! I spoke up, I did, and told Sir George how I'd seen the sign beforehand, but he didn't seem to think much of it. An unlucky day, that was, I'd felt it in my bones from early in the morning. Friday, and the 13th--what could you expect?"

  She rambled on. Mr. Satterthwaite was patient. Again and again he took her back to the crime, questioning her closely. In the end he was forced to confess defeat. Louisa Bullard had told all she knew, and her story was perfectly simple and straightforward.

  Yet he did discover one fact of importance. The post in question had been suggested to her by Mr. Thompson, Sir George's secretary. The wages attached were so large that she was tempted, and accepted the job, although it involved her leaving England very hurriedly. A Mr. Denman had made all the arrangements this end and had also warned her not to write to her fellow-servants in England, as this might get her into trouble with the immigration authorities, which statement she had accepted in blind faith.

  The amount of wages, casually mentioned by her, was indeed so large that Mr. Satterthwaite was startled. After some hesitation he made up his mind to approach this Mr. Denman.

  He found very little difficulty in inducing Mr. Denman to tell all he knew. The latter had come across Thompson in London and Thompson had done him a good turn. The secretary had written to him in September saying that for personal reasons Sir George was anxious to get this girl out of England. Could he find her a job? A sum of money had been sent to raise the wages to a high figure.

  "Usual trouble, I guess," said Mr. Denman, leaning back nonchalantly in his chair. "Seems a nice quiet girl, too." Mr. Satterthwaite did not agree that this was the usual trouble. Louisa Bullard, he was sure, was not a cast-off fancy of Sir George Barnaby's. For some reason it had been vital to get her out of England. But why? And who was at the bottom of it? Sir George himself, working through Thompson? Or the latter working on his own initiative, and dragging in his employer's name?

  Still pondering over these questions, Mr. Satterthwaite made the return journey. He was cast down and despondent. His journey had done no good.

  Smarting under a sense of failure, he made his way to the Arlecchino the day after his return. He hardly expected to be successful the first time, but to his satisfaction the familiar figure was sitting at the table in the recess, and the dark face of Mr. Harley Quin smiled a welcome.

  "Well," said Mr. Satterthwaite as he helped himself to a pat of butter, "you sent me on a nice wild-goose chase." Mr. Quin raised his eyebrows.

  "I sent you?" he objected. "It was your own idea entirely."

  "Whosever idea it was, it's not succeeded. Louisa Bullard has nothing to tell."

  Thereupon Mr. Satterthwaite related the details of his conversation with the housemaid and then went on to his interview with Mr. Denman. Mr. Quin listened in silence.

  "In one sense, I was justified," continued Mr. Satterthwaite. "She was deliberately got out of the way. But why? I can't see it."

  "No?" said Mr. Quin, and his voice was, as ever, provocative.

  Mr. Satterthwaite flushed.

  "I daresay you think I might have questioned her more adroitly. I can assure you that I took her over the story again and again. It was not my fault that I did not get what we want."

  "Are you sure," said Mr. Quin, "that you did not get what you want?"

  Mr. Satterthwaite looked up at him in astonishment, and met that sad, mocking gaze he knew so well. The little man shook his head, slightly bewildered There was a silence, and then Mr. Quin said, with a total change of manner--

  "You gave me a wonderful picture the other day of the people in this business. In a few words you made them stand out as clearly as though they were etched. I wish you would do something of that kind for the place--you left that in shadow."

  Mr. Satterthwaite was flattered.

  "The place? Deering Hill? Well, it's a very ordinary sort of house nowadays. Red brick, you know, and bay windows. Quite hideous outside, but very comfortable inside. Not a very large house. About two acres of ground They're all much the same, those houses round the links. Built for rich men to live in. The inside of the house is reminiscent of a hotel--the bedrooms are like hotel suites. Baths and hot and cold basins in all the bedrooms and a good many gilded electric-light fittings. All wonderfully comfortable, but not very country-like. You can tell that Deering Vale is only nineteen miles from London. "Mr. Quin listened attentively.

  "The train service is bad, I have heard," he remarked. "Oh! I don't know about that," said Mr. Satterthwaite, warming to his subject. "I was down there for a bit last summer. I found it quite convenient for town. Of course the trains only go every hour. 48 minutes past the hour from Waterloo--up to 10.48."

  "And how long does it take to Deering Vale?" "Just about three quarters of an hour. 28 minutes past the hour at Deering Vale."

  "Of course," said Mr. Quin with a gesture of vexation. "I should have remembered. Miss Dale saw someone off by the 6.28 that evening, didn't she?"

  Mr. Satterthwaite did not reply for a minute or two. His mind had gone back with a rush to his unsolved problem. Presently he said--

  "I wish you would tell me what you meant just now when you asked me if I was sure I had not got what I wanted?"

  It sounded rather complicated, put that way, but Mr. Quin made no pretence of not understanding.