The mysterious Mr. Quin
The blinds had been drawn and the whole room had a funereal aspect.
Doris Coles looked frightened and subdued. Every now and then she
dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. Madge was resolute and alert,
her feelings fully under control by now. Mrs. Graham was composed,
as always, her face grave and impassive. The tragedy seemed to have
affected her son more keenly than anyone. He looked a positive wreck
this morning. David Keeley, as usual, had subsided into the background.
The bereaved husband sat alone, a little apart from the others. There
was a queer dazed look about him, as though he could hardly realize
what had taken place.
Mr. Satterthwaite, outwardly composed, was inwardly seething with the
importance of a duty shortly to be performed.
Inspector Winkfield, followed by Doctor Morris, came in and shut
the door behind him. He cleared his throat and spoke. "This is a
very sad occurrence--very sad, I'm sure. It's necessary, under the
circumstances, that I should ask everybody a few questions. You'll
not object, I'm sure. I'll begin with Mr. Annesley. You'll forgive my
asking, sir, but had your good lady ever threatened to take her life?"
Mr. Satterthwaite opened his lips impulsively, then closed them again.
There was plenty of time. Better not speak too soon. "I--no, I don't
think so."
His voice was so hesitating, so peculiar, that everyone shot a covert
glance at him.
"You're not sure, sir?"
"Yes--I'm--quite sure. She didn't."
"Ah! Were you aware that she was unhappy in any way?"
"No, I--No, I wasn't."
"She said nothing to you? About feeling depressed, for instance?"
"I--no, nothing."
Whatever the Inspector thought, he said nothing. Instead he proceeded
to his next point. "Will you describe to me briefly the events of last
night?"
"We--all went up to bed. I fell asleep immediately and heard nothing.
The housemaid's scream aroused me this morning. I rushed into the
adjoining room and found my wife--and found her--"
His voice broke. The Inspector nodded.
"Yes, yes, that's quite enough. We needn't go into that. When did you
last see your wife the night before?"
"I--downstairs."
"Downstairs?"
"Yes, we all left the drawing room together. I went straight up,
leaving the others talking in the hall."
"And did you see your wife again? Didn't she say good night when she
came up to bed?"
"I was asleep when she came up."
"But she only followed you a few minutes later. That's right, isn't it,
sir?" He looked at David Keeley, who nodded.
"She hadn't come up half an hour later."
Annesley spoke stubbornly. The Inspector's eyes strayed gently to Mrs.
Graham. "She didn't stay in your room talking, madam?"
Did Mr. Satterthwaite fancy it, or was there a slight pause before Mrs.
Graham said, with her customary quiet decision of manner, "No, I went
straight into my room and closed the door. I heard nothing."
"And you say, sir," the Inspector had shifted his attention back to
Annesley, "that you slept and heard nothing. The communicating door was
open, was it not?"
"I--I believe so. But my wife would have entered her room by the other
door from the corridor."
"Even so, sir, there would have been certain sounds--a choking noise, a
drumming of heels on the door--"
"_No._"
It was Mr. Satterthwaite who spoke, impetuously, unable to stop
himself. Every eye turned toward him in surprise. He himself became
nervous, stammered, and turned pink.
"I--I beg your pardon, Inspector. But I must speak. You are on the
wrong tack--the wrong tack altogether. Mrs. Annesley did not kill
herself--I am sure of it. She was murdered."
There was a dead silence, then Inspector Winkfield said quietly, "What
leads you to say that, sir?"
"I--it is a feeling. A very strong feeling."
"But I think, sir, there must be more than that to it. There must be
some particular reason."
Well, of course there _was_ a particular reason. There was the
mysterious message from Mr. Quin. But you couldn't tell a police
inspector that. Mr. Satterthwaite cast about desperately, and found
something.
"Last night, when we were talking together, she said she was very
happy. Very happy--just that. That wasn't like a woman thinking of
committing suicide."
He was triumphant. He added, "She went back to the drawing room to
fetch her ukulele, so that she wouldn't forget it in the morning. That
didn't look like suicide either."
"No," admitted the Inspector. "No, perhaps it didn't." He turned to
David Keeley. "Did she take the ukulele upstairs with her?"
The mathematician tried to remember. "I think--yes, she did. She went
upstairs carrying it in her hand. I remember seeing it just as she
turned the corner of the staircase before I turned off the light down
here."
"Oh!" cried Madge. "But it's here now." She pointed dramatically to
where the ukulele lay on a table.
"That's curious," said the Inspector. He stepped swiftly across and
rang the bell.
A brief order sent the butler in search of the housemaid whose business
it was to do the rooms in the morning. She came and was quite positive
in her answer. The ukulele had been there first thing that morning when
she had dusted.
Inspector Winkfield dismissed her and then said curtly, "I would like
to speak to Mr. Satterthwaite in private, please. Everyone else may go.
But no one is to leave the house."
Mr. Satterthwaite twittered into speech as soon as the door had closed
behind the others. "I--I am sure, Inspector, that you have the case
excellently in hand. Excellently. I just felt that--having, as I say, a
very strong feeling--"
The Inspector arrested further speech with an upraised hand. "You're
quite right, Mr. Satterthwaite. The lady was murdered."
"You knew it?" Mr. Satterthwaite was chagrined.
"There were certain things that puzzled Doctor Morris." He looked
across at the doctor, who had remained, and the doctor assented to his
statement with a nod of the head. "We made a thorough examination. The
rope that was round her neck wasn't the rope that she was strangled
with--it was something much thinner that did the job, something more
like a wire. It had cut right into the flesh. The mark of the rope was
superimposed on it. She was strangled and then hung up on that door
afterward to make it look like suicide."
"But who--?"
"Yes," said the Inspector. "Who? That's the question. What about the
husband sleeping next door, who never said good night to his wife and
who heard nothing? I should say we hadn't far to look. Must find out
what terms they were on. That's where you can be useful to us, Mr.
Satterthwaite. You've the _ongtray_ here, and you can get the hang of
things in a way we can't. Find out what relations there were between
the two."
"I hardly like--" began Mr. Satterthwaite, stiffening.
"It won't be the first murder mystery you've helped us with. I remember
the case of Mrs. Strangeways. You've got a flair for that sort of
thing, sir. An absolute flair."
Yes, it was true--he _had_ a flair. He said quietly, "I will do my
best, Inspector."
Had Gerard Annesley killed his wife? Had he? Mr. Satterthwaite recalled
that look of misery last night. He loved her--and he was suffering.
Suffering will drive a man to strange deeds.
But there was something else--some other factor. Mabelle had spoken
of herself as coming out of a wood--she was looking forward to
happiness--not a quiet, rational happiness--but a happiness that was
irrational--a wild ecstasy--
If Gerard Annesley had spoken the truth, Mabelle had not come to her
room till at least half an hour later than he had done. Yet David
Keeley had seen her going up those stairs. There were two other rooms
occupied in that wing. There was Mrs. Graham's and there was her son's.
Her son's. But he and Madge--
Surely Madge would have guessed. But Madge wasn't the guessing kind.
All the same, no smoke without fire--
Smoke!
Ah! he remembered. _A wisp of smoke curling out through Mrs. Graham's
bedroom door._
He acted on impulse. Straight up the stairs he went and into her room.
It was empty. He closed the door behind him and locked it.
He went across to the grate. A heap of charred fragments. Very gingerly
he raked them over with his finger. His luck was in. In the very center
were some unburned fragments--fragments of letters.
Very disjointed fragments, but they told him something of value:
_Life can be wonderful, Roger darling. I never knew--all my life has
been a dream till I met you, Roger--Gerard knows, I think--I am sorry,
but what can I do? Nothing is real to me but you, Roger. We shall be
together, soon._
_What are you going to tell him at Laidell, Roger? You write
strangely--but I am not afraid--_
Very carefully, Mr. Satterthwaite put the fragments into an envelope
from the writing-table. He went to the door, unlocked it, and opened it
to find himself face to face with Mrs. Graham.
It was an awkward moment, and Mr. Satterthwaite was momentarily out of
countenance. He did what was, perhaps, the best thing, attacked the
situation with simplicity.
"I have been searching your room, Mrs. Graham. I have found
something--a packet of letters imperfectly burned."
A wave of alarm passed over her face. It was gone in a flash but it had
been there.
"Letters from Mrs. Annesley to your son."
She hesitated for a minute, then said quietly, "That is so. I thought
they would be better burned."
"For what reason?"
"My son is engaged to be married. These letters--if they had been
brought into publicity through the poor girl's suicide--might have
caused much pain and trouble."
"Your son could burn his own letters."
She had no answer ready for that. Mr. Satterthwaite pursued his
advantage.
"You found these letters in his room, brought them into your room, and
burned them. Why? You were afraid, Mrs. Graham."
"I am not in the habit of being afraid, Mr. Satterthwaite."
"No--but this was a desperate case."
"Desperate?"
"Your son might have been in danger of arrest--for murder."
"Murder!"
He saw her face go white; he went on quickly: "You heard Mrs. Annesley
go into your son's room last night. Had he told her of his engagement?
No, I see he hadn't. He told her then. They quarreled, and he--"
"That's a lie!"
They had been so absorbed in their duel of words that they had not
heard approaching footsteps. Roger Graham had come up behind them
unperceived by either.
"It's all right, Mother. Don't--worry. Come into my room, Mr.
Satterthwaite."
Mr. Satterthwaite followed him into his room. Mrs. Graham had turned
away and did not attempt to follow them. Roger Graham shut the door.
"Listen, Mr. Satterthwaite. You think I killed Mabelle. You think
I strangled her--here--and took her along and hung her up on that
door--later--when everyone was asleep?"
Mr. Satterthwaite stared at him. Then he said surprisingly, "No, I do
not think so."
"Thank God for that. I couldn't have killed Mabelle. I--I loved her. Or
didn't I? I don't know. It's a tangle that I can't explain. I'm fond
of Madge--I always have been. And she's such a good sort. We suit each
other. But Mabelle was different. It was--I can't explain it--a sort of
enchantment. I was, I think, afraid of her."
Mr. Satterthwaite nodded.
"It was madness--a kind of bewildering ecstasy. But it was impossible.
It wouldn't have worked. That sort of thing--doesn't last. I know what
it means now to have a spell cast over you."
"Yes, it must have been like that," said Mr. Satterthwaite thoughtfully.
"I--I wanted to get out of it all. I was going to tell Mabelle--last
night."
"But you didn't?"
"No, I didn't," said Graham slowly. "I swear to you, Mr. Satterthwaite,
that I never saw her after I said good night downstairs."
"I believe you," said Mr. Satterthwaite.