The Mysterious Mr Quin (15 page)

She took him upstairs and presently Clayton came to them. She was a tall, thin, old woman, with grey hair neatly parted, and she looked the acme of respectability.

‘No, sir,’ she said in answer to Mr Satterthwaite’s inquiries. ‘I have never heard anything of the house being haunted. To tell you the truth, sir, I thought it was all Miss Margery’s imagination until last night. But I actually felt something–brushing by me in the darkness. And I can tell you this, sir,
it was not anything human
. And then there is that wound in Miss Margery’s neck. She didn’t do that herself, poor lamb.’

But her words were suggestive to Mr Satterthwaite. Was it possible that Margery could have inflicted that wound herself? He had heard of strange cases where girls apparently just as sane and well-balanced as Margery had done the most amazing things.

‘It will soon heal up,’ said Clayton. ‘It’s not like this scar of mine.’

She pointed to a mark on her own forehead.

‘That was done forty years ago, sir; I still bear the mark of it.’

‘It was the time the “Uralia” went down,’ put in Margery. ‘Clayton was hit on the head by a spar, weren’t you, Clayton?’

‘Yes, Miss.’

‘What do you think yourself, Clayton,’ asked Mr Satterthwaite, ‘what do you think was the meaning of this attack on Miss Margery?’

‘I really should not like to say, sir.’

Mr Satterthwaite read this correctly as the reserve of the well-trained servant.

‘What do you really think, Clayton?’ he said persuasively.

‘I think, sir, that something very wicked must have been done in this house, and that until that is wiped out there won’t be any peace.’

The woman spoke gravely, and her faded blue eyes met his steadily.

Mr Satterthwaite went downstairs rather disappointed. Clayton evidently held the orthodox view, a deliberate ‘haunting’ as a consequence of some evil deed in the past. Mr Satterthwaite himself was not so easily
satisfied. The phenomena had only taken place in the last two months. Had only taken place since Marcia Keane and Roley Vavasour had been there. He must find out something about these two. It was possible that the whole thing was a practical joke. But he shook his head, dissatisfied with that solution. The thing was more sinister than that. The post had just come in and Margery was opening and reading her letters. Suddenly she gave an exclamation.

‘Mother is too absurd,’ she said. ‘Do read this.’ She handed the letter to Mr Satterthwaite.

It was an epistle typical of Lady Stranleigh.

‘Mother always wants me to call her Barbara,’ said Margery. ‘Simply silly, I think.’

Mr Satterthwaite smiled a little. He realized that the stolid conservatism of her daughter must on occasions be very trying to Lady Stranleigh. The contents of her letter struck him in a way in which obviously they did not strike Margery.

‘Did you send your mother a box of chocolates?’ he asked.

Margery shook her head. ‘No, I didn’t, it must have been someone else.’

Mr Satterthwaite looked grave. Two things struck him as of significance. Lady Stranleigh had received a gift of a box of chocolates and she was suffering from a severe attack of poisoning. Apparently she had not connected these two things. Was there a connection? He himself was inclined to think there was.

A tall dark girl lounged out of the morning-room and joined them.

She was introduced to Mr Satterthwaite as Marcia Keane. She smiled on the little man in an easy good-humoured fashion.

‘Have you come down to hunt Margery’s pet ghost?’ she asked in a drawling voice. ‘We all rot her about that ghost. Hello, here’s Roley.’

A car had just drawn up at the front door. Out of it tumbled a tall young man with fair hair and an eager boyish manner.

‘Hello, Margery,’ he cried. ‘Hello, Marcia! I have brought down reinforcements.’ He turned to the two women who were just entering the hall. Mr Satterthwaite recognized in the first one of the two the Mrs Casson of whom Margery had spoken just now.

‘You must forgive me, Margery, dear,’ she drawled, smiling broadly. ‘Mr Vavasour told us that it would be quite all right. It was really his idea that I should bring down Mrs Lloyd with me.’

She indicated her companion with a slight gesture of the hand.

‘This is Mrs Lloyd,’ she said in a tone of triumph. ‘Simply the most wonderful medium that ever existed.’

Mrs Lloyd uttered no modest protest, she bowed and remained with her hands crossed in front of her. She was a highly-coloured young woman of commonplace appearance. Her clothes were unfashionable but rather ornate. She wore a chain of moonstones and several rings.

Margery Gale, as Mr Satterthwaite could see, was not too pleased at this intrusion. She threw an angry
look at Roley Vavasour, who seemed quite unconscious of the offence he had caused.

‘Lunch is ready, I think,’ said Margery.

‘Good,’ said Mrs Casson. ‘We will hold a
séance
immediately afterwards. Have you got some fruit for Mrs Lloyd? She never eats a solid meal before a
séance
.’

They all went into the dining-room. The medium ate two bananas and an apple, and replied cautiously and briefly to the various polite remarks which Margery addressed to her from time to time. Just before they rose from the table, she flung back her head suddenly and sniffed the air.

‘There is something very wrong in this house. I feel it.’

‘Isn’t she wonderful?’ said Mrs Casson in a low delighted voice.

‘Oh! undoubtedly,’ said Mr Satterthwaite dryly.

The
séance
was held in the library. The hostess was, as Mr Satterthwaite could see, very unwilling, only the obvious delight of her guests in the proceedings reconciled her to the ordeal.

The arrangements were made with a good deal of care by Mrs Casson, who was evidently well up in those matters, the chairs were set round in a circle, the curtains were drawn, and presently the medium announced herself ready to begin.

‘Six people,’ she said, looking round the room. ‘That is bad. We must have an uneven number, Seven is ideal. I get my best results out of a circle of seven.’

‘One of the servants,’ suggested Roley. He rose. ‘I will rout out the butler.’

‘Let’s have Clayton,’ said Margery.

Mr Satterthwaite saw a look of annoyance pass over Roley Vavasour’s good-looking face.

‘But why Clayton?’ he demanded.

‘You don’t like Clayton,’ said Margery slowly.

Roley shrugged his shoulders. ‘Clayton doesn’t like me,’ he said whimsically. ‘In fact she hates me like poison.’ He waited a minute or two, but Margery did not give way. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘have her down.’

The circle was formed.

There was a period of silence broken by the usual coughs and fidgetings. Presently a succession of raps were heard and then the voice of the medium’s control, a Red Indian called Cherokee.

‘Indian Brave says you Good evening ladies and gentlemen. Someone here very anxious speak. Someone here very anxious give message to young lady. I go now. The spirit say what she come to say.’

A pause and then a new voice, that of a woman, said softly:

‘Is Margery here?’

Roley Vavasour took it upon himself to answer.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘she is. Who is that speaking?’

‘I am Beatrice.’

‘Beatrice? Who is Beatrice?’

To everyone’s annoyance the voice of the Red Indian Cherokee was heard once more.

‘I have message for all of you people. Life here very bright and beautiful. We all work very hard. Help those who have not yet passed over.’

Again a silence and then the woman’s voice was heard once more.

‘This is Beatrice speaking.’

‘Beatrice who?’

‘Beatrice Barron.’

Mr Sattherwaite leaned forward. He was very excited.

‘Beatrice Barron who was drowned in the “Uralia”?’

‘Yes, that is right. I remember the “Uralia”. I have a message–for this house–
Give back what is not yours
.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Margery helplessly. ‘I–oh, are you really Aunt Beatrice?’

‘Yes, I am your aunt.’

‘Of course she is,’ said Mrs Casson reproachfully. ‘How can you be so suspicious? The spirits don’t like it.’

And suddenly Mr Satterthwaite thought of a very simple test. His voice quivered as he spoke.

‘Do you remember Mr Bottacetti?’ he asked.

Immediately there came a ripple of laughter.

‘Poor old Boatsupsetty. Of course.’

Mr Sattherwaite was dumbfounded. The test had succeeded. It was an incident of over forty years ago which had happened when he and the Barron girls had found themselves at the same seaside resort. A young Italian acquaintance of theirs had gone out in a boat and capsized, and Beatrice Barron had jestingly named him Boatsupsetty. It seemed impossible that anyone in the room could know of this incident except himself.

The medium stirred and groaned.

‘She is coming out,’ said Mrs Casson. ‘That is all we will get out of her today, I am afraid.’

The daylight shone once more on the room full of people, two of whom at least were badly scared.

Mr Satterthwaite saw by Margery’s white face that she was deeply perturbed. When they had got rid of Mrs Casson and the medium, he sought a private interview with his hostess.

‘I want to ask you one or two questions, Miss Margery. If you and your mother were to die who succeeds to the title and estates?’

‘Roley Vavasour, I suppose. His mother was Mother’s first cousin.’

Mr Satterthwaite nodded.

‘He seems to have been here a lot this winter,’ he
said gently. ‘You will forgive me asking–but is he–fond of you?’

‘He asked me to marry him three weeks ago,’ said Margery quietly. ‘I said No.’

‘Please forgive me, but are you engaged to anyone else?’

He saw the colour sweep over her face.

‘I am,’ she said emphatically. ‘I am going to marry Noel Barton. Mother laughs and says it is absurd. She seems to think it is ridiculous to be engaged to a curate. Why, I should like to know! There are curates and curates! You should see Noel on a horse.’

‘Oh, quite so,’ said Mr Satterthwaite. ‘Oh, undoubtedly.’

A footman entered with a telegram on a salver. Margery tore it open. ‘Mother is arriving home tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Bother. I wish to goodness she would stay away.’

Mr Satterthwaite made no comment on this filial sentiment. Perhaps he thought it justified. ‘In that case,’ he murmured, ‘I think I am returning to London.’

IV

Mr Satterthwaite was not quite pleased with himself. He felt that he had left this particular problem in an unfinished state. True that, on Lady Stranleigh’s return, his responsibility was ended, yet he felt assured that he had not heard the last of the Abbot’s Mede mystery.

But the next development when it came was so serious in its character that it found him totally unprepared. He learnt of it in the pages of his morning paper. ‘Baroness Dies in her Bath,’ as the
Daily Megaphone
had it. The other papers were more restrained and delicate in their language, but the fact was the same. Lady Stranleigh had been found dead in her bath and her death was due to drowning. She had, it was assumed, lost consciousness, and whilst in that state her head had slipped below the water.

But Mr Satterthwaite was not satisfied with that explanation. Calling for his valet he made his toilet with less than his usual care, and ten minutes later his big Rolls-Royce was carrying him out of London as fast as it could travel.

But strangely enough it was not for Abbot’s Mede he was bound, but for a small inn some fifteen miles distant which bore the rather unusual name of the
‘Bells and Motley’. It was with great relief that he heard that Mr Harley Quin was still staying there. In another minute he was face to face with his friend.

Mr Satterthwaite clasped him by the hand and began to speak at once in an agitated manner.

‘I am terribly upset. You must help me. Already I have a dreadful feeling that it may be too late–that that nice girl may be the next to go, for she is a nice girl, nice through and through.’

‘If you will tell me,’ said Mr Quin, smiling, ‘what it is all about?’

Mr Satterthwaite looked at him reproachfully.

‘You know. I am perfectly certain that you know. But I will tell you.’

He poured out the story of his stay at Abbot’s Mede and, as always with Mr Quin, he found himself taking pleasure in his narrative. He was eloquent and subtle and meticulous as to detail.

‘So you see,’ he ended, ‘there must be an explanation.’

He looked hopefully at Mr Quin as a dog looks at his master.

‘But it is you who must solve the problem, not I,’ said Mr Quin. ‘I do not know these people. You do.’

‘I knew the Barron girls forty years ago,’ said Mr Satterthwaite with pride.

Mr Quin nodded and looked sympathetic, so much so that the other went on dreamily.

‘That time at Brighton now, Bottacetti-Boatsupsetty, quite a silly joke but how we laughed. Dear, dear, I was young then. Did a lot of foolish things. I remember the maid they had with them. Alice, her name was, a little bit of a thing–very ingenuous. I kissed her in the passage of the hotel, I remember, and one of the girls nearly caught me doing it. Dear, dear, how long ago that all was.’