The mysterious Mr. Quin
"Why, of course," cried Conway, "it was just before the Appleton case."
"Just after, wasn't it?"
"No, no, don't you remember? Capel knew the Appletons--he'd stayed with
the old man the previous spring--just a week before he died. He was
talking of him one night--what an old curmudgeon he was, and how awful
it must have been for a young and beautiful woman like Mrs. Appleton to
be tied to him. There was no suspicion then that she had done away with
him."
"By Jove, you're right. I remember reading the paragraph in the paper
saying an exhumation order had been granted. It would have been that
same day--I remember only seeing it with half my mind, you know, the
other half wondering about poor old Derek lying dead upstairs."
"A common, but very curious phenomenon, that," observed Mr. Quin. "In
moments of great stress, the mind focuses itself upon some quite
unimportant matter which is remembered long afterward with the utmost
fidelity, driven in, as it were, by the mental stress of the moment. It
may be some quite irrelevant detail, like the pattern of a wallpaper,
but it will never be forgotten."
"Rather extraordinary, your saying that, Mr. Quin," said Conway. "Just
as you were speaking, I suddenly felt myself back in Derek Capel's
room--with Derek lying dead on the floor. I saw as plainly as possible
the big tree outside the window, and the shadow it threw upon the snow
outside. Yes, the moonlight, the snow, and the shadow of the tree--I
can see them again this minute. By Gad, I believe I could draw them,
and yet I never realized I was looking at them at the time."
"His room was the big one over the porch, was it not?" asked Mr. Quin.
"Yes, and the tree was the big beech, just at the angle of the drive."
Mr. Quin nodded, as though satisfied. Mr. Satterthwaite was curiously
thrilled. He was convinced that every word, every reflection of
Mr. Quin's voice was pregnant with purpose. He was driving at
something--exactly what Mr. Satterthwaite did not know, but he was
quite convinced as to whose was the master hand.
There was a momentary pause, and then Evesham reverted to the
preceding topic. "That Appleton case, I remember it very well now.
What a sensation it made. She got off, didn't she? Pretty woman, very
fair--remarkably fair."
Almost against his will, Mr. Satterthwaite's eyes sought the kneeling
figure up above. Was it his fancy, or did he see it shrink a little, as
though at a blow? Did he see a hand slide upward to the tablecloth--and
then pause?
There was a crash of falling glass. Alec Portal, helping himself to
whisky, had let the decanter slip. "I say--damn' sorry. Can't think
what came over me."
Evesham cut short his apologies. "Quite all right. Quite all right,
my dear fellow. Curious--that smash reminded me. That's what she did,
didn't she? Mrs. Appleton? Smashed the port decanter?"
"Yes. Old Appleton had his glass of port--only one--each night. The
day after his death, one of the servants saw her take the decanter out
and smash it deliberately. That set them talking, of course. They all
knew she had been perfectly wretched with him. Rumor grew and grew,
and in the end, months later, some of his relatives applied for an
exhumation order. And sure enough, the old fellow had been poisoned.
Arsenic, wasn't it?"
"No--strychnine, I think. It doesn't much matter. Well, of course,
there it was. Only one person was likely to have done it. Mrs. Appleton
stood her trial. She was acquitted more through the lack of evidence
against her than from any overwhelming proof of innocence. In other
words, she was lucky. Yes, I don't suppose there's much doubt she did
it right enough. What happened to her afterward?"
"Went out to Canada, I believe. Or was it Australia? She had an uncle
or something of the sort out there who offered her a home. Best thing
she could do under the circumstances."
Mr. Satterthwaite was fascinated by Alec Portal's right hand as it
clasped his glass. How tightly he was gripping it.
_You'll smash that in a minute or two, if you're not careful_, thought
Mr. Satterthwaite. _Dear me, how interesting all this is._
Evesham rose and helped himself to a drink. "Well, we're not much
nearer to knowing why poor Derek Capel shot himself," he remarked. "The
court of inquiry hasn't been a great success, has it, Mr. Quin?"
Mr. Quin laughed. It was a strange laugh, mocking--yet sad. It made
everyone jump.
"I beg your pardon," he said. "You are still living in the past, Mr.
Evesham. You are still hampered by your preconceived notion. But I, the
man from outside, the stranger passing by, see only--facts!"
"Facts?"
"Yes--facts."
"What do you mean?" said Evesham.
"I see a clear sequence of facts, outlined by yourselves, but of which
you have not seen the significance. Let us go back ten years and look
at what we see--untrammeled by ideas or sentiment."
Mr. Quin had risen. He looked very tall. The fire leaped fitfully
behind him. He spoke in a low compelling voice. "You are at dinner.
Derek Capel announces his engagement. You think then it was to Marjorie
Dilke. You are not so sure now. He has the restlessly excited manner
of a man who has successfully defied Fate--who, in your own words,
has pulled off a big coup against overwhelming odds. Then comes the
clanging of the bell. He goes out to get the long overdue mail. He
doesn't open his letters, but you mention yourselves that _he opened
the paper to glance at the news_. It is ten years ago--so we cannot
know what the news was that day--a far-off earthquake, a near-at-hand
political crisis? The only thing we do know about the contents of that
paper is that it contained one small paragraph--_a paragraph stating
that the Home Office had given permission to exhume the body of Mr.
Appleton three days ago_."
"What?"
Mr. Quin went on: "Derek Capel goes up to his room, and there he sees
something out of the window. Sir Richard Conway has told us that the
curtain was not drawn across it and further that it gave on the drive.
What did he see? What could he have seen that forced him to take his
life?"
"What do you mean? What did he see?"
"I think," said Mr. Quin, "that he saw a policeman. A policeman who
had come about a dog. But Derek Capel didn't know that--he just saw--a
policeman."
There was a long silence--as though it took some time to drive the
inference home.
"My God!" whispered Evesham at last. "You can't mean that? Appleton?
But he wasn't there at the time Appleton died. The old man was alone
with his wife--"
"But he may have been there a week earlier. Strychnine is not very
soluble unless it is in the form of the hydrochloride. The greater part
of it, put into the port, would be taken in the last glass, perhaps a
week after he left."
Portal sprang forward. His voice was hoarse and his eyes bloodshot.
"Why did she break the decanter?" he cried. "Why did she break the
decanter? Tell me that."
For the first time that evening, Mr. Quin addressed himself to Mr.
Satterthwaite. "You have a wide experience of life, Mr. Satterthwaite.
Perhaps you can tell us that."
Mr. Satterthwaite's voice trembled a little. His cue had come at last.
He was to speak some of the most important lines in the play. He was an
actor now--not a looker-on.
"As I see it," he murmured modestly, "she--cared for Derek Capel.
She was, I think, a good woman--and she had sent him away. When her
husband--died, she suspected the truth. And so, to save the man she
loved, she tried to destroy the evidence against him. Later, I think,
he persuaded her that her suspicions were unfounded, and she consented
to marry him. But even then, she hung back--women, I fancy, have a lot
of instinct."
Mr. Satterthwaite had spoken his part.
Suddenly a long trembling sigh filled the air.
"My God!" cried Evesham, starting, "what was that?"
Mr. Satterthwaite could have told him that it was Eleanor Portal in the
gallery above, but he was too artistic to spoil a good effect.
Mr. Quin was smiling. "My car will be ready by now. Thank you for your
hospitality, Mr. Evesham. I have, I hope, done something for my friend."
They stared at him in blank amazement.
"That aspect of the matter has not struck you? He loved this woman, you
know. Loved her enough to commit murder for her sake. When retribution
overtook him, as he mistakenly thought, he took his own life. But,
unwittingly, he left her to face the music."
"She was acquitted," muttered Evesham.
"Because the case against her could not be proved. I fancy--it may be
only a fancy--that she is still--facing the music."
Portal had sunk into a chair, his face buried in his hands.
Quin turned to Satterthwaite. "Good-by, Mr. Satterthwaite. You are
interested in the drama, are you not?"
Mr. Satterthwaite nodded--surprised.
"I must recommend the harlequinade to your attention. It is dying out
nowadays--but it repays attention, I assure you. Its symbolism is a
little difficult to follow--but the immortals are always immortal, you
know. I wish you all good night."
They saw him stride out into the dark. As before, the colored glass
gave the effect of motley.
Mr. Satterthwaite went upstairs. He went to draw down his window, for
the air was cold. The figure of Mr. Quin moved down the drive, and from
a side door came a woman's figure, running. For a moment they spoke
together, then she retraced her steps to the house. She passed just
below the window, and Mr. Satterthwaite was struck anew by the vitality
of her face. She moved now like a woman in a happy dream.
"Eleanor!"
Alec Portal had joined her.
"Eleanor, forgive me--forgive me. You told me the truth, but God
forgive me--I did not quite believe--"
Mr. Satterthwaite was intensely interested in other people's affairs,
but he was also a gentleman. It was borne in upon him that he must shut
the window. He did so.
But he shut it very slowly.
He heard her voice, exquisite and indescribable. "I know--I know. You
have been in hell. So was I once. Loving--yet alternately believing
and suspecting--thrusting aside one's doubts and having them spring
up again with leering faces. I know, Alec, I know. But there is a
worse hell than that, the hell I have lived in with you. I have seen
your doubt--your fear of me--poisoning all our love. That man, that
chance passer-by, saved me. I could bear it no longer, you understand.
Tonight--tonight I was going to kill myself--Alec--Alec!"
THE SHADOW ON THE GLASS
"Listen to this," said Lady Cynthia Drage.
She read aloud from the journal she held in her hand. "'Mr. and Mrs.
Unkerton are entertaining a party at Greenways House this week.
Among the guests are Lady Cynthia Drage, Mr. and Mrs. Richard Scott,
Major Porter, D.S.O., Mrs. Staverton, Captain Allenson, and Mr.
Satterthwaite.'"
"It's as well," remarked Lady Cynthia, casting away the paper, "to know
what we're in for. But they _have_ made a mess of things!"
Her companion, that same Mr. Satterthwaite whose name figured at the
end of the list of guests, looked at her interrogatively. It had
been said that if Mr. Satterthwaite was found at the houses of those
rich who had newly arrived, it was a sign either that the cooking
was unusually good, or that a drama of human life was to be enacted
there. Mr. Satterthwaite was abnormally interested in the comedies and
tragedies of his fellow men.
Lady Cynthia, who was a middle-aged woman, with a hard face and a
liberal allowance of makeup, tapped him smartly with the newest thing
in parasols which lay rakishly across her knee.
"Don't pretend you don't understand me. You do perfectly. What's more,
I believe you're here on purpose to see the fur fly!"
Mr. Satterthwaite protested vigorously. He didn't know what she was
talking about.