The mysterious Mr. Quin
suppose, although she has got a French maid for herself. Clayton does
sewing and pottering little odd jobs."
She took him upstairs and presently Clayton came to them. She was a
tall, thin old woman with gray hair neatly parted, and 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.
_Darling Margery_ [she wrote],
_I am so glad you have that nice little Mr. Satterthwaite there. He
is awfully clever and knows all the big-wig spook people. You must
have them all down and investigate things thoroughly. I am sure
you will have a perfectly marvelous time and I only wish I could
be there, but I have really been quite ill the last few days. The
hotels are so careless about the food they give one. The doctor
says it is some kind of poisoning. I was really very ill._
_Sweet of you to send me the chocolates, darling, but surely
just a wee bit silly, wasn't it? I mean, there's such wonderful
confectionery out here._
_By-by, darling, and have a lovely time laying the family ghosts.
Bimbo says my tennis is coming on marvelously. Oceans of love_,
_Yours, Barbara._
"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-humored 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 colored 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 offense he had caused.
"Lunch is ready, I think," said Margery.
"Good," said Mrs. Casson, "we will hold a séance immediately afterward.
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 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. Satterthwaite 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 a little as he spoke. "Do you remember Mr. Bottacetti?" he
asked.
Immediately there came a ripple of laughter.
"Poor old Boatupsetty. Of course."
Mr. Satterthwaite 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 Boatupsetty. 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 color 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."
* * * * *
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 learned of it in the pages
of his morning paper: _Baroness Dies in Her Bath_, as the _Daily