The mysterious Mr. Quin
why--has she got that in her hand?"
And again Iris Staverton said in the same lifeless tone, "I--picked it
up."
"The police," said Unkerton, rising. "We must send for the police--at
once. You will telephone perhaps, Scott? Someone should stay here--yes,
I am sure someone should stay here."
In his quiet, gentlemanly manner, Mr. Satterthwaite offered to do so.
His host accepted the offer with manifest relief. "The ladies," he
explained. "I must break the news to the ladies, Lady Cynthia and my
dear wife."
Mr. Satterthwaite stayed in the Privy Garden looking down on the body
of that which had once been Moira Scott. _Poor child_, he said to
himself. _Poor child._
He quoted to himself the tag about the evil men do living after them.
For was not Richard Scott in a way responsible for his innocent wife's
death? They would hang Iris Staverton, he supposed, not that he liked
to think of it, but was not it at least a part of the blame he laid at
the man's door? The evil that men do--
And the girl, the innocent girl, had paid.
He looked down at her with a very deep pity. Her small face, so white
and wistful, a half smile on the lips still. The ruffled golden hair,
the delicate ear. There was a spot of blood on the lobe of it. With
an inner feeling of being something of a detective, Mr. Satterthwaite
deduced an earring, torn away in her fall. He craned his neck forward.
Yes, he was right, there was a small pearl drop hanging from the other
ear.
_Poor child, poor child._
* * * * *
"And now, sir," said Inspector Winkfield.
They were in the library. The Inspector, a shrewd-looking, forceful man
of forty-odd, was concluding his investigations. He had questioned most
of the guests, and had by now pretty well made up his mind on the case.
He was listening to what Major Porter and Mr. Satterthwaite had to say.
Mr. Unkerton sat heavily in a chair, staring with protruding eyes at
the opposite wall.
"As I understand it, gentlemen," said the Inspector, "you'd been for a
walk. You were returning to the house by a path that winds round the
left side of what they call the Privy Garden. Is that correct?"
"Quite correct, Inspector."
"You heard two shots, and a woman's scream?"
"Yes."
"You then ran as fast as you could, emerged from the woods, and made
your way to the entrance of the Privy Garden. If anybody had left that
garden, they could only do so by the one entrance. The holly hedges
are impassable. If anyone had run out of the garden and turned to the
right, he would have been met by Mr. Unkerton and Mr. Scott. If he had
turned to the left, he could not have done so without being seen by
you. Is that right?"
"That is so," said Major Porter. His face was very white.
"That seems to settle it," said the Inspector. "Mr. and Mrs. Unkerton
and Lady Cynthia Drage were sitting on the lawn, Mr. Scott was in the
billiard room, which opens onto that lawn. At ten minutes past six,
Mrs. Staverton came out of the house, spoke a word or two to those
sitting there, and went round the corner of the house toward the Privy
Garden. Two minutes later the shots were heard. Mr. Scott rushed out of
the house and, together with Mr. Unkerton, ran to the Privy Garden. At
the same time, you and Mr.--er Satterthwaite arrived from the opposite
direction. Mrs. Staverton was in the Privy Garden with a pistol in her
hand from which two shots had been fired. As I see it, she shot the
lady first from behind, as she was sitting on the bench. Then Captain
Allenson sprang up and went for her, and she shot him in the chest as
he came toward her. I understand that there had been a--er--previous
attachment between her and Mr. Richard Scott--"
"That's a damned lie," said Porter.
His voice rang out hoarse and defiant. The Inspector said nothing,
merely shook his head.
"What is her own story?" asked Mr. Satterthwaite.
"She says that she went into the Privy Garden to be quiet for a little.
Just before she rounded the last hedge, she heard the shots. She
came round the corner, saw the pistol lying at her feet, and picked
it up. No one passed her, and she saw no one in the garden but the
two victims." The Inspector gave an eloquent pause. "That's what she
says--and although I cautioned her, she insisted on making a statement."
"If she said that," said Major Porter, and his face was still deadly
white, "she was speaking the truth. I know Iris Staverton."
"Well, sir," said the Inspector, "there'll be plenty of time to go into
all that later. In the meantime, I've got my duty to do."
With an abrupt movement, Porter turned to Mr. Satterthwaite. "You!
Can't you help? Can't _you_ do something?"
Mr. Satterthwaite could not help feeling immensely flattered. He had
been appealed to, he, most insignificant of men, and by a man like John
Porter.
He was just about to flutter out a regretful reply when the butler,
Thompson, entered, with a card upon a salver which he took to his
master with an apologetic cough. Mr. Unkerton was still sitting huddled
up in a chair, taking no part in the proceedings.
"I told the gentleman you would probably not be able to see him, sir,"
said Thompson, "but he insisted that he had an appointment and that it
was most urgent."
Unkerton took the card. "Mr. Harley Quin," he read. "I remember, he was
to see me about a picture. I did make an appointment, but as things
are--"
But Mr. Satterthwaite had started forward. "Mr. Harley Quin, did you
say?" he cried. "How extraordinary, how very extraordinary. Major
Porter, you asked me if I could help you. I think I can. This Mr. Quin
is a friend--or I should say, an acquaintance of mine. He is a most
remarkable man."
"One of these amateur solvers of crime, I suppose," remarked the
Inspector disparagingly.
"No," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "He is not that kind of man at all. But
he has a power--an almost uncanny power--of showing you what you have
seen with your own eyes, of making clear to you what you have heard
with your own ears. Let us, at any rate, give him an outline of the
case, and hear what he has to say."
Mr. Unkerton glanced at the Inspector, who merely snorted and looked at
the ceiling. Then the former gave a short nod to Thompson, who left the
room and returned ushering in a tall, slim stranger.
"Mr. Unkerton?" The stranger shook him by the hand. "I am sorry to
intrude upon you at such a time. We must leave our little picture chat
until another time. Ah! my friend, Mr. Satterthwaite. Still as fond of
the drama as ever?"
A faint smile played for a minute round the stranger's lips as he said
these last words.
"Mr. Quin," said Mr. Satterthwaite impressively, "we have a drama here;
we are in the midst of one. I should like, and my friend Major Porter
would like, to have your opinion of it."
Mr. Quin sat down. The red-shaded lamp threw a broad band of colored
light over the checked pattern of his overcoat, and left his face in
shadow almost as though he wore a mask.
Succinctly, Mr. Satterthwaite recited the main points of the tragedy.
Then he paused, breathlessly awaiting the words of the oracle.
But Mr. Quin merely shook his head. "A sad story," he said. "A very sad
and shocking tragedy. The lack of motive makes it very intriguing."
Unkerton stared at him. "You don't understand," he said. "Mrs.
Staverton was heard to threaten Richard Scott. She was bitterly jealous
of his wife. Jealousy--"
"I agree," said Mr. Quin. "Jealousy or demoniac possession. It's all
the same. But you misunderstand me. I was not referring to the murder
of Mrs. Scott, but to that of Captain Allenson."
"You're right," cried Porter, springing forward. "There's a flaw there.
If Iris had ever contemplated shooting Mrs. Scott, she'd have got her
alone somewhere. No, we're on the wrong tack. And I think I see another
solution. Only those three people went into the Privy Garden. That is
indisputable, and I don't intend to dispute it. But I reconstruct the
tragedy differently. Supposing Jimmy Allenson shoots first Mrs. Scott
and then himself. That's possible, isn't it? He flings the pistol from
him as he falls--Mrs. Staverton finds it lying on the ground and picks
it up just as she said. How's that?"
The Inspector shook his head. "Won't wash, Major Porter. If Captain
Allenson had fired that shot close to his body, the cloth would have
been singed."
"He might have held the pistol at arm's length."
"Why should he? No sense in it. Besides, there's no motive."
"Might have gone off his head suddenly," muttered Porter, but without
any great conviction. He fell to silence again, suddenly rousing
himself to say defiantly, "Well, Mr. Quin?"
The latter shook his head. "I'm not a magician. I'm not even a
criminologist. But I will tell you one thing--I believe in the value
of impressions. In any time of crisis there is always one moment that
stands out from all the others, one picture that remains when all else
has faded. Mr. Satterthwaite is, I think, likely to have been the
most unprejudiced observer of those present. Will you cast your mind
back, Mr. Satterthwaite, and tell us the moment that made the strongest
impression on you? Was it when you heard the shots? Was it when you
first saw the dead bodies? Was it when you first observed the pistol in
Mrs. Staverton's hand? Clear your mind of any preconceived standard of
values and tell us."
Mr. Satterthwaite fixed his eyes on Mr. Quin's face, rather as a
schoolboy might repeat a lesson of which he was not sure.
"No," he said, slowly. "It was not any of these. The moment
that I shall always remember was when I stood alone by the
bodies--afterward--looking down on Mrs. Scott. She was lying on her
side. Her hair was ruffled. There was a spot of blood on her little
ear."
And instantly, as he said it, he felt that he had said a terrific, a
significant thing.
"Blood on her ear? Yes, I remember," said Unkerton slowly.
"Her earring must have been torn out when she fell," explained Mr.
Satterthwaite.
But it sounded a little improbable as he said it.
"She was lying on her left side," said Porter. "I suppose it was that
ear?"
"No," said Mr. Satterthwaite quickly. "It was her right ear."
The Inspector coughed. "I found this in the grass," he vouchsafed. He
held up a loop of gold wire.
"But, my God, man," cried Porter. "The thing can't have been wrenched
to pieces by a mere fall. It's more as though it had been shot away by
a bullet."
"So it was," cried Mr. Satterthwaite. "It was a bullet. It must have
been."
"There were only two shots," said the Inspector. "A shot can't have
grazed her ear and shot her in the back as well. And if one shot
carried away the earring, and the second shot killed her, it can't have
killed Captain Allenson as well--not unless he was standing close in
front of her--very close--facing her as it might be. Oh! no, not even
then, unless, that is--"
"Unless she was in his arms, you were going to say," said Mr. Quin,
with a queer little smile. "Well, why not?"
Everyone stared at each other. The idea was so vitally strange to
them--Allenson and Mrs. Scott. Mr. Unkerton voiced the same feeling.
"But they hardly knew each other," he said.
"I don't know," said Mr. Satterthwaite thoughtfully. "They might have
known each other better than we thought. Lady Cynthia said he saved
her from being bored in Egypt last winter, and you"--he turned to
Porter--"you told me that Richard Scott met his wife in Cairo last
winter. They might have known each other very well indeed out there."
"They didn't seem to be together much," said Unkerton.
"No--they rather avoided each other. It was almost unnatural, now I
come to think of it--"
They all looked at Mr. Quin, as if a little startled at the conclusions