"But he let her be accused!" he cried. "He stood by and let her be accused. Why? Why?"
"I think I know why," said Mr. Quin. "I should guess--it's only guess-work on my part, mind--that Richard Scott was once madly in love with Iris Staverton--so madly that even meeting her years afterwards stirred up the embers of jealousy again. I should say that Iris Staverton once fancied that she might love him, that she went on a hunting trip with him and another--and that she came back in love with the better man."
"The better man," muttered Porter, dazed. "You mean------?"
"Yes," said Mr. Quin, with a faint smile. "I mean you." He paused a minute, and then said: "If I were you--I should go to her now."
"I will," said Porter.
He turned and left the room.
CHAPTER THREE
AT THE "BELLS AND MOTLEY"
MR. SATTERTHWAITE was annoyed. Altogether it had been an unfortunate day. They had started late, there had been two punctures already, finally, they had taken the wrong turning and lost themselves amidst the wilds of Salisbury Plain. Now it was close on eight o'clock, they were still a matter of forty miles from Marswick Manor whither they were bound, and a third puncture had supervened to render matters still more trying.
Mr. Satterthwaite, looking like some small bird whose plumage had been ruffled, walked up and down in front of the village garage whilst his chauffeur conversed in hoarse undertones with the local expert.
"Half an hour at least" said that worthy pronouncing judgment.
"And lucky at that," supplemented Masters, the chauffeur. "More like three quarters if you ask me."
"What is this--place, anyway?" demanded Mr. Satterthwaite fretfully. Being a little gentleman considerate of the feelings of others, he substituted the word "place" for "God-forsaken hole" which had first risen to his lips.
"Kirtlington Mallet."
Mr. Satterthwaite was not much wiser, and yet a faint familiarity seemed to linger round the name. He looked round him disparagingly. Kirtlington Mallet seemed to consist of one straggling street, the garage and the post office on one side of it balanced by three indeterminate shops on the other side. Farther down the road, however, Mr. Satterthwaite perceived something that creaked and swung in the wind, and his spirits rose ever so slightly. "There's an Inn here, I see," he remarked. "'Bells and Motley,'" said the garage man. "That's it-- yonder."
"If I might make a suggestion, sir," said Masters, "why not try it? They would be able to give you some sort of a meal, no doubt--not, of course, what you are accustomed to." He paused apologetically, for Mr. Satterthwaite was accustomed to the best cooking of continental chefs, and had in his own service a cordon bleu to whom he paid a fabulous salary.
"We shan't be able to take the road again for another three quarters of an hour, sir. I'm sure of that. And it's already past eight o'clock. You could ring up Sir George Foster, sir, from the Inn, and acquaint him with the cause of our delay."
"You seem to think you can arrange everything, Masters," said Mr. Satterthwaite snappily.
Masters, who did think so, maintained a respectful silence Mr. Satterthwaite, in spite of his earnest wish to discountenance any suggestion that might possibly be made to him--he was in that mood--nevertheless looked down the road towards the creaking Inn sign with faint inward approval. He was a man of birdlike appetite, an epicure, but even such men can be hungry.
""The Bells and Motley,'" he said thoughtfully. "That's an odd name for an Inn. I don't know that I ever heard it before."
"There's odd folks come to it by all account," said the local man.
He was bending over the wheel, and his voice came muffled and indistinct
"Odd folks?" queried Mr. Satterthwaite. "Now what do you mean by that?"
The other hardly seemed to know what he meant.
"Folks that come and go. That kind," he said vaguely.
Mr. Satterthwaite reflected that people who come to an Inn are almost of necessity those who "come and go." The definition seemed to him to lack precision. But nevertheless his curiosity was stimulated. Somehow or other he had got to put in three quarters of an hour. The "Bells and Motley" would be as good as anywhere else.
With his usual small mincing steps he walked away down the road. From afar there came a rumble of thunder. The mechanic looked up and spoke to Masters.
"There's a storm coming over. Thought I could feel it in the air."
"Crikey," said Masters. "And forty miles to go."
"Ah!" said the other. "There's no need to be hurrying over this job. You'll not be wanting to take the road till the storm's passed over. That little boss of yours doesn't look as though he'd relish being out in thunder and lightning."
"Hope they'll do him well at that place," muttered the chauffeur. "I'll be pushing along there for a bite myself presently."
"Billy Jones is all right," said the garage man. "Keeps a good table."
Mr. William Jones, a big burly man of fifty and landlord of the "Bells and Motley," was at this minute beaming ingratiatingly down on little Mr. Satterthwaite.
"Can do you a nice steak, sir--and fried potatoes, and as good a cheese as any gentleman could wish for. This way, sir, in the coffee-room. We're not very full at present, the last of the fishing gentlemen just gone. A little later we'll be full again for the hunting. Only one gentleman here at present, name of Quin------"
Mr. Satterthwaite stopped dead.
"Quin?" he said excitedly. "Did you say Quin?"
"That's the name, sir. Friend of yours perhaps?"
"Yes, indeed. Oh! Yes, most certainly." Twittering with excitement, Mr. Satterthwaite hardly realised that the world might contain more than one man of that name. He had no doubts at all. In an odd way, the information fitted in with what the man at the garage had said. "Folks that come and go..." a very apt description of Mr. Quin. And the name of the Inn, too, seemed a peculiarly fitting and appropriate one.
"Dear me, dear me," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "What a very odd thing. That we should meet like this! Mr. Harley Quin, is it not?"
"That's right, sir. This is the coffee-room, sir. Ah! Here is the gentleman."
Tall, dark, smiling, the familiar figure of Mr. Quin rose from the table at which he was sitting, and the well-remembered voice spoke.
"Ah! Mr. Satterthwaite, we meet again. An unexpected meeting!"
Mr. Satterthwaite was shaking him warmly by the hand. "Delighted. Delighted, I'm sure. A lucky breakdown for me. My car, you know. And you are staying here? For long?"
"One night only."
"Then I am indeed fortunate."
Mr. Satterthwaite sat down opposite his friend with a little sigh of satisfaction, and regarded the dark, smiling face opposite him with a pleasurable expectancy. The other man shook his head gently. "I assure you, " he said, "that I have not a bowl of goldfish or a rabbit to produce from my sleeve."
"Too bad, " cried Mr. Satterthwaite, a little taken aback. "Yes, I must confess--I do rather adopt that attitude towards you. A man of magic. Ha, ha. That is how I regard you. A man of magic."
"And yet, " said Mr. Quin, "it is you who do the conjuring tricks, not I."
"Ah!" said Mr. Satterthwaite eagerly. "But I cannot do them without you. I lack--shall we say--inspiration?" Mr. Quin smilingly shook his head.
"That is too big a word. I speak the cue, that is all"
The landlord came in at that minute with bread and a slab of yellow butter. As he set the things on the table there was a vivid flash of lightning, and a clap of thunder almost overhead.
"A wild night, gentlemen."
"On such a night------", began Mr. Satterthwaite, and stopped.
"Funny now," said the landlord, unconscious of the question, "if those weren't just the words I was going to use myself. It was just such a night as this when Captain Harwell brought his bride home, the very day before he disappeared for ever."
"Ah!" cried Mr. Satterthwaite suddenly. "Of course!"
He had got the clue. He knew now
why the name Kirtlington Mallet was familiar. Three months before he had read every detail of the astonishing disappearance of Captain Richard Harwell. Like other newspaper readers all over Great Britain he had puzzled over the details of the disappearance, and, also like every other Briton, had evolved his own theories.
"Of course," he repeated. "It was at Kirtlington Mallet it happened."
"It was at this house he stayed for the hunting last winter," said the landlord. "Oh! I knew him well. A main handsome young gentleman and not one that you'd think had a care on his mind. He was done away with--that's my belief. Many's the time I've seen them come riding home together--he and Miss Le Couteau, and all the village saying there'd be a match come of it--and sure enough, so it did. A very beautiful young lady, and well thought of, for all she was a Canadian and a stranger. Ah! There's some dark mystery there. We'll never know the rights of it. It broke her heart, it did, sure enough. You've heard as she's sold the place up and gone abroad, couldn't abear to go on here with everyone staring and pointing after her--through no fault of her own, poor young dear! A black mystery, that's what it is."
He shook his head, then suddenly recollecting his duties, hurried from the room.
"A black mystery," said Mr. Quin softly.
His voice was provocative in Mr. Satterthwaite's ears.
"Are you pretending that we can solve the mystery where Scotland Yard failed?" he asked sharply.
The other made a characteristic gesture.
"Why not? Time has passed. Three months. That makes a difference."
"That is a curious idea of yours," said Mr. Satterthwaite slowly. "That one sees things better afterwards than at the time."
"The longer the time that has elapsed, the more things fall into proportion. One sees them in their true relationship to one another."
There was a silence which lasted for some minutes.
"I am not sure," said Mr. Satterthwaite, in a hesitating voice, "that I remember the facts clearly by now."
"I think you do," said Mr. Quin quietly.
It was all the encouragement Mr. Satterthwaite needed. His general role in life was that of listener and looker-on. Only in the company of Mr. Quin was the position reversed. There Mr. Quin was the appreciative listener, and Mr. Satterthwaite took the centre of the stage.
"It was just over a year ago," he said, "that Ashley Grange passed into the possession of Miss Eleanor Le Couteau. It is a beautiful old house, but it had been neglected and allowed to remain empty for many years. It could not have found a better chatelaine. Miss Le Couteau was a French Canadian, her forebears were emigres from the French Revolution, and had handed down to her a collection of almost priceless French relics and antiques. She was a buyer and a collector also, with a very fine and discriminating taste. So much so, that when she decided to sell Ashley Grange and everything it contained after the tragedy, Mr. Cyrus G. Bradburn, the American millionaire, made no bones about paying the fancy price of sixty thousand pounds for the Grange as it stood."
Mr. Satterthwaite paused.
"I mention these things," he said apologetically, "not because they are relevant to the story--strictly speaking, they are not--but to convey an atmosphere, the atmosphere of young Mrs. Harwell."
Mr. Quin nodded.
"Atmosphere is always valuable," he said gravely.
'So we get a picture of this girl," continued the other. "Just twenty-three, dark, beautiful, accomplished, nothing crude and unfinished about her. And rich--we must not forget that. She was an orphan. A Mrs. St. Clair, a lady of unimpeachable breeding and social standing, lived with her as duenna. But Eleanor Le Couteau had complete control of her own fortune. And fortune-hunters are never hard to seek. At least a dozen impecunious young men were to be found dangling round her on all occasions, in the hunting field, in the ballroom, wherever she went. Young Lord Leccan, the most eligible parti in the country, is reported to have asked her to marry him, but she remained heart free. That is, until the coming of Captain Richard Harwell
"Captain Harwell had put up at the local Inn for the hunting. He was a dashing rider to hounds. A handsome, laughing daredevil of a fellow. You remember the old saying, Mr. Quin? 'Happy the wooing that's not long doing.' The adage was carried out at least in part. At the end of two months, Richard Harwell and Eleanor Le Couteau were engaged."
"The marriage followed three months afterwards. The happy pair went abroad for a two weeks' honeymoon, and then returned to take up their residence at Ashley Grange. The landlord has just told us that it was on a night of storm such as this that they returned to their home. An omen, I wonder? Who can tell? Be that as it may, the following morning very early--about half-past seven, Captain Harwell was seen walking in the garden by one of the gardeners, John Mathias. He was bareheaded, and was whistling. We have a picture there, a picture of light-heartedness, of careless happiness. And yet from that minute, as far as we know, no one ever set eyes on Captain Richard Harwell again."
Mr. Satterthwaite paused, pleasantly conscious of a dramatic moment. The admiring glance of Mr. Quin gave him the tribute he needed, and he went on.
"The disappearance was remarkable--unaccountable. It was not till the following day that the distracted wife called in the police. As you know, they have not succeeded in solving the mystery."
"There have, I suppose, been theories?" asked Mr. Quin.
"Oh I theories, I grant you. Theory No. 1, that Captain Harwell had been murdered, done away with. But if so, where was the body? It could hardly have been spirited away. And besides, what motive was there? As far as was known, Captain Harwell had not an enemy in the world."
He paused abruptly, as though uncertain. Mr. Quin leaned forward.
"You are thinking," he said softly, "of young Stephen Grant."
"I am," admitted Mr. Satterthwaite. "Stephen Grant, if I remember rightly, had been in charge of Captain Harwell's horses, and had been discharged by his master for some trifling offence. On the morning after the homecoming, very early, Stephen Grant was seen in the vicinity of Ashley Grange, and could give no good account of his presence there. He was detained by the police as being concerned in the disappearance of Captain Harwell, but nothing could be proved against him, and he was eventually discharged. It is true that he might be supposed to bear a grudge against Captain Harwell for his summary dismissal, but the motive was undeniably of the flimsiest. I suppose the police felt they must do something. You see, as I said just now, Captain Harwell had not an enemy in the world."
"As far as was known," said Mr. Quin reflectively.
Mr. Satterthwaite nodded appreciatively.
"We are coming to that. What, after all, was known of Captain Harwell? When the police came to look into his antecedents they were confronted with a singular paucity of material. Who was Richard Harwell? Where did he come from? He had appeared, literally out of the blue as it seemed. He was a magnificent rider, and apparently well off. Nobody in Kirtlington Mallet had bothered to inquire further. Miss Le Couteau had had no parents or guardians to make inquiries into the prospects and standing of her fiancé. She was her own mistress. The police theory at this point was clear enough. A rich girl and an impudent impostor. The old story!
"But it was not quite that. True, Miss Le Couteau had no parents or guardians, but she had an excellent firm of solicitors in London who acted for her. Their evidence made the mystery deeper. Eleanor Le Couteau had wished to settle a sum outright upon her prospective husband, but he had refused. He himself was well off, he declared. It was proved conclusively that Harwell never had a penny of his wife's money. Her fortune was absolutely intact.
"He was, therefore, no common swindler, but was his object a refinement of the art? Did he propose blackmail at some future date if Eleanor Harwell should wish to marry some other man? I will admit that something of that kind seemed to me the most likely solution. It has always seemed so to me--until Tonight."
Mr. Quin leaned forward, prompting him.
"Tonight?"
/> "Tonight. I am not satisfied with that. How did he manage to disappear so suddenly and completely--at that hour in the morning, with every labourer bestirring himself and tramping to work? Bareheaded, too."
"There is no doubt about the latter point--since the gardener saw him?"
"Yes--the gardener--John Mathias. Was there anything there, I wonder?"
"The police would not overlook him," said Mr. Quin.
"They questioned him closely. He never wavered in his statement. His wife bore him out. He left his cottage at seven to attend to the greenhouses, he returned at twenty minutes to eight. The servants in the house heard the front door slam at about a quarter after seven. That fixes the time when Captain Harwell left the house. Ah 1 yes, I know what you are thinking."
"Do you, I wonder?" said Mr. Quin.
"I fancy so. Time enough for Mathias to have made away with his master. But why, man, why? And if so, where did he hide the body?"
The landlord came in bearing a tray.
"Sorry to have kept you so long, gentlemen."
He set upon the table a mammoth steak and beside it a dish filled to overflowing with crisp brown potatoes. The odour from the dishes was pleasant to Mr. Satterthwaite's nostrils. He felt gracious.
"This looks excellent," he said. "Most excellent. We have been discussing the disappearance of Captain Harwell. What became of the gardener, Mathias?"
"Took a place in Essay, I believe. Didn't care to stay hereabouts. There were some as looked askance at him, you understand. Not that I ever believe he had anything to do with it."
Agatha Christie - [Collections 02] Page 5
