The Mysterious Mr Quin (7 page)

‘Nothing? Suppose things took the same course without that dramatic gesture?’

‘You mean–supposing Miss Le Couteau were still to sell Ashley Grange and leave–for no reason?’

‘Well.’

‘Well, why not? It would have aroused talk, I suppose, there would have been a lot of interest displayed in the value of the contents in–Ah! wait!’

He was silent a minute, then burst out.

‘You are right, there is too much limelight, the limelight on Captain Harwell. And because of that,
she
has been in shadow.
Miss Le Couteau!
Everyone asking “Who was Captain Harwell? Where did he come from?” But because she is the injured party, no one makes inquiries about her. Was she really a French Canadian? Were those wonderful heirlooms really handed down to her? You were right when you said just now that we had not wandered far from our subject–
only across the Channel
. Those so-called heirlooms were stolen from the French châteaux, most of them valuable
objets d’art
, and in consequence difficult to dispose of. She buys the house–for a mere song, probably. Settles down there and pays a good sum to an irreproachable English woman to chaperone her. Then
he
comes. The plot is laid beforehand. The marriage, the disappearance and the nine days’ wonder! What more natural than that a broken-hearted
woman should want to sell everything that reminds her of her past happiness. The American is a connoisseur, the things are genuine and beautiful, some of them beyond price. He makes an offer, she accepts it. She leaves the neighbourhood, a sad and tragic figure. The great
coup
has come off. The eye of the public has been deceived by the quickness of the hand and the spectacular nature of the trick.’

Mr Satterthwaite paused, flushed with triumph.

‘But for you, I should never have seen it,’ he said with sudden humility. ‘You have a most curious effect upon me. One says things so often without even seeing what they really mean. You have the knack of showing one. But it is still not quite clear to me. It must have been most difficult for Harwell to disappear as he did. After all, the police all over England were looking for him.’

‘It would have been simplest to remain hidden at the Grange,’ mused Mr Satterthwaite. ‘If it could be managed.’

‘He was, I think, very near the Grange,’ said Mr Quin.

His look of significance was not lost on Mr Satterthwaite.

‘Mathias’ cottage?’ he exclaimed. ‘But the police must have searched it?’

‘Repeatedly, I should imagine,’ said Mr Quin.

‘Mathias,’ said Mr Satterthwaite, frowning.

‘And Mrs Mathias,’ said Mr Quin.

Mr Satterthwaite stared hard at him.

‘If that gang was really the Clondinis,’ he said dreamily, ‘there were three of them in it. The two young ones were Harwell and Eleanor Le Couteau. The mother now, was she Mrs Mathias? But in that case…’

‘Mathias suffered from rheumatism, did he not?’ said Mr Quin innocently.

‘Oh!’ cried Mr Satterthwaite. ‘I have it. But could it be done? I believe it could. Listen. Mathias was there a month. During that time, Harwell and Eleanor were away for a fortnight on a honeymoon. For the fortnight before the wedding, they were supposedly in town. A clever man could have doubled the parts of Harwell and Mathias. When Harwell was at Kirtlington Mallet, Mathias was conveniently laid up with rheumatism, with Mrs Mathias to sustain the fiction. Her part was very necessary. Without her, someone might have suspected the truth. As you say, Harwell was hidden in Mathias’ cottage. He
was
Mathias. When at last the plans matured, and Ashley Grange was sold, he and his wife gave out they were taking a place in Essex. Exit John Mathias and his wife–for ever.’

There was a knock at the coffee-room door, and Masters entered. ‘The car is at the door, sir,’ he said.

Mr Satterthwaite rose. So did Mr Quin, who went
across to the window, pulling the curtains. A beam of moonlight streamed into the room.

‘The storm is over,’ he said.

Mr Satterthwaite was pulling on his gloves.

‘The Commissioner is dining with me next week,’ he said importantly. ‘I shall put my theory–ah!–before him.’

‘It will be easily proved or disproved,’ said Mr Quin. ‘A comparison of the objects at Ashley Grange with a list supplied by the French police–!’

‘Just so,’ said Mr Satterthwaite. ‘Rather hard luck on Mr Bradburn, but–well–’

‘He can, I believe, stand the loss,’ said Mr Quin.

Mr Satterthwaite held out his hand.

‘Goodbye,’ he said. ‘I cannot tell you how much I have appreciated this unexpected meeting. You are leaving here tomorrow, I think you said?’

‘Possibly tonight. My business here is done…I come and go, you know.’

Mr Satterthwaite remembered hearing those same words earlier in the evening. Rather curious.

He went out to the car and the waiting Masters. From the open door into the bar the landlord’s voice floated out, rich and complacent.

‘A dark mystery,’ he was saying. ‘A dark mystery, that’s what it is.’

But he did not use the word ‘dark’. The word he used
suggested quite a different colour. Mr William Jones was a man of discrimination who suited his adjectives to his company. The company in the bar liked their adjectives full flavoured.

Mr Satterthwaite reclined luxuriously in the comfortable limousine. His breast was swelled with triumph. He saw the girl Mary come out on the steps and stand under the creaking Inn sign.

‘She little knows,’ said Mr Satterthwaite to himself. ‘She little knows what
I
am going to do!’

The sign of the ‘Bells and Motley’ swayed gently in the wind.

The Judge was finishing his charge to the jury.

‘Now, gentlemen, I have almost finished what I want to say to you. There is evidence for you to consider as to whether this case is plainly made out against this man so that you may say he is guilty of the murder of Vivien Barnaby. You have had the evidence of the servants as to the time the shot was fired. They have one and all agreed upon it. You have had the evidence of the letter written to the defendant by Vivien Barnaby on the morning of that same day, Friday, September 13th–a letter which the defence has not attempted to deny. You have had evidence that the prisoner first denied having been at Deering Hill, and later, after evidence had been given by the police, admitted he had. You will draw your own conclusions from that denial. This is not a case of direct evidence. You will have to come to your own conclusions on the subject of motive–of means,
of opportunity. The contention of the defence is that some person unknown entered the music room after the defendant had left it, and shot Vivien Barnaby with the gun which, by strange forgetfulness, the defendant had left behind him. You have heard the defendant’s story of the reason it took him half an hour to get home. If you disbelieve the defendant’s story and are satisfied, beyond any reasonable doubt, that the defendant did, upon Friday, September 13th, discharge his gun at close quarters to Vivien Barnaby’s head with intent to kill her, then, gentlemen, your verdict must be Guilty. If, on the other hand, you have any reasonable doubt, it is your duty to acquit the prisoner. I will now ask you to retire to your room and consider and let me know when you have arrived at a conclusion.’

The jury were absent a little under half an hour. They returned the verdict that to everyone had seemed a foregone conclusion, the verdict of ‘Guilty’.

Mr Satterthwaite left the court after hearing the verdict, with a thoughtful frown on his face.

A mere murder trial as such did not attract him. He was of too fastidious a temperament to find interest in the sordid details of the average crime. But the Wylde case had been different. Young Martin Wylde was what is termed a gentleman–and the victim, Sir George Barnaby’s young wife, had been personally known to the elderly gentleman.

He was thinking of all this as he walked up Holborn, and then plunged into a tangle of mean streets leading in the direction of Soho. In one of these streets there was a small restaurant, known only to the few, of whom Mr Satterthwaite was one. It was not cheap–it was, on the contrary, exceedingly expensive, since it catered exclusively for the palate of the jaded
gourmet
. It was quiet–no strains of jazz were allowed to disturb the hushed atmosphere–it was rather dark, waiters appeared soft-footed out of the twilight, bearing silver dishes with the air of participating in some holy rite. The name of the restaurant was Arlecchino.

Still thoughtful, Mr Satterthwaite turned into the Arlecchino and made for his favourite table in a recess in the far corner. Owing to the twilight before mentioned, it was not until he was quite close to it that he saw it was already occupied by a tall dark man who sat with his face in shadow, and with a play of colour from a stained window turning his sober garb into a kind of riotous motley.

Mr Satterthwaite would have turned back, but just at that moment the stranger moved slightly and the other recognized him.

‘God bless my soul,’ said Mr Satterthwaite, who was given to old-fashioned expressions. ‘Why, it’s Mr Quin!’

Three times before he had met Mr Quin, and each time the meeting had resulted in something a little out of the ordinary. A strange person, this Mr Quin, with a knack of showing you the things you had known all along in a totally different light.

At once Mr Satterthwaite felt excited–pleasurably excited. His role was that of the looker-on, and he knew it, but sometimes when in the company of Mr Quin he had the illusion of being an actor–and the principal actor at that.

‘This is very pleasant,’ he said, beaming all over his dried-up little face. ‘Very pleasant indeed. You’ve no objection to my joining you, I hope?’

‘I shall be delighted,’ said Mr Quin. ‘As you see, I have not yet begun my meal.’

A deferential head waiter hovered up out of the shadows. Mr Satterthwaite, as befitted a man with a seasoned palate, gave his whole mind to the task of selection. In a few minutes, the head waiter, a slight smile of approbation on his lips, retired, and a young satellite began his ministrations. Mr Satterthwaite turned to Mr Quin.

‘I have just come from the Old Bailey,’ he began. ‘A sad business, I thought.’

‘He was found guilty?’ said Mr Quin.

‘Yes, the jury were out only half an hour.’

Mr Quin bowed his head.

‘An inevitable result–on the evidence,’ he said.

‘And yet,’ began Mr Satterthwaite–and stopped.

Mr Quin finished the sentence for him.

‘And yet your sympathies were with the accused? Is that what you were going to say?’

‘I suppose it was. Martin Wylde is a nice-looking young fellow–one can hardly believe it of him. All the same, there have been a good many nice-looking young fellows lately who have turned out to be murderers of a particularly cold-blooded and repellent type.’

‘Too many,’ said Mr Quin quietly.

‘I beg your pardon?’ said Mr Satterthwaite, slightly startled.

‘Too many for Martin Wylde. There has been a tendency from the beginning to regard this as just one more of a series of the same type of crime–a man seeking to free himself from one woman in order to marry another.’

‘Well,’ said Mr Satterthwaite doubtfully. ‘On the evidence–’

‘Ah!’ said Mr Quin quickly. ‘I am afraid I have not followed all the evidence.’

Mr Satterthwaite’s self-confidence came back to him with a rush. He felt a sudden sense of power. He was tempted to be consciously dramatic.

‘Let me try and show it to you. I have met the
Barnabys, you understand. I know the peculiar circumstances. With me, you will come behind the scenes–you will see the thing from inside.’

Mr Quin leant forward with his quick encouraging smile.

‘If anyone can show me that, it will be Mr Satterthwaite,’ he murmured.

Mr Satterthwaite gripped the table with both hands. He was uplifted, carried out of himself. For the moment, he was an artist pure and simple–an artist whose medium was words.

Swiftly, with a dozen broad strokes, he etched in the picture of life at Deering Hill. Sir George Barnaby, elderly, obese, purse-proud. A man perpetually fussing over the little things of life. A man who wound up his clocks every Friday afternoon, and who paid his own house-keeping books every Tuesday morning, and who always saw to the locking of his own front door every night. A careful man.

And from Sir George he went on to Lady Barnaby. Here his touch was gentler, but none the less sure. He had seen her but once, but his impression of her was definite and lasting. A vivid defiant creature–pitifully young. A trapped child, that was how he described her.

‘She hated him, you understand? She had married him before she knew what she was doing. And now–’

She was desperate–that was how he put it. Turning this way and that. She had no money of her own, she was entirely dependent on this elderly husband. But all the same she was a creature at bay–still unsure of her own powers, with a beauty that was as yet more promise than actuality. And she was greedy. Mr Satterthwaite affirmed that definitely. Side by side with defiance there ran a greedy streak–a clasping and a clutching at life.

‘I never met Martin Wylde,’ continued Mr Satterthwaite. ‘But I heard of him. He lived less than a mile away. Farming, that was his line. And she took an interest in farming–or pretended to. If you ask me, it was pretending. I think that she saw in him her only way of escape–and she grabbed at him, greedily, like a child might have done. Well, there could only be one end to that. We know what that end was, because the letters were read out in court. He kept her letters–she didn’t keep his, but from the text of hers one can see that he was cooling off. He admits as much. There was the other girl. She also lived in the village of Deering Vale. Her father was the doctor there. You saw her in court, perhaps? No, I remember, you were not there, you said. I shall have to describe her to you. A fair girl–very fair. Gentle. Perhaps–yes, perhaps a tiny bit stupid. But very restful, you know. And loyal. Above all, loyal.’

He looked at Mr Quin for encouragement, and Mr Quin gave it him by a slow appreciative smile. Mr Satterthwaite went on.

‘You heard that last letter read–you must have seen it, in the papers, I mean. The one written on the morning of Friday, September 13th. It was full of desperate reproaches and vague threats, and it ended by begging Martin Wylde to come to Deering Hill that same evening at six o’clock. “
I will leave the side door open for you, so that no one need know you have been here. I shall be in the music room
.” It was sent by hand.’

Mr Satterthwaite paused for a minute or two.

‘When he was first arrested, you remember, Martin Wylde denied that he had been to the house at all that evening. His statement was that he had taken his gun and gone out shooting in the woods. But when the police brought forward their evidence, that statement broke down. They had found his finger-prints, you remember, both on the wood of the side door and on one of the two cocktail glasses on the table in the music room. He admitted then that he had come to see Lady Barnaby, that they had had a stormy interview, but that it had ended in his having managed to soothe her down. He swore that he left his gun outside leaning against the wall near the door, and that he left Lady Barnaby alive and well, the time being then a minute or two after a quarter past six. He went straight home,
he says. But evidence was called to show that he did not reach his farm until a quarter to seven, and as I have just mentioned, it is barely a mile away. It would not take half an hour to get there. He forgot all about his gun, he declares. Not a very likely statement–and yet–’

‘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 train. 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.