The mysterious Mr. Quin
a match come of it--and sure enough, so it did. A very beautiful young
lady, and well thought of, for all she was a Canadian and a stranger.
Ah! there's some dark mystery there. We'll never know the rights of it.
It broke her heart. It did, sure enough. You've heard as she's sold the
place up and gone abroad; couldn't bear to go on here with everyone
staring and pointing after her--through no fault of her own, poor young
dear? A black mystery, that's what it is."
He shook his head, then, suddenly recollecting his duties, hurried from
the room.
"A black mystery," said Mr. Quin softly.
His voice was provocative in Mr. Satterthwaite's ear.
"Are you pretending that we can solve the mystery where Scotland Yard
failed?" he asked sharply.
The other made a characteristic gesture.
"Why not? Time has passed. Three months. That makes a difference."
"That is a curious idea of yours," said Mr. Satterthwaite slowly. "That
one sees things better afterward than at the time."
"The longer the time that has elapsed, the more things fall into
proportion. One sees them in their true relationship to one another."
There was a silence which lasted for some minutes.
"I am not sure," said Mr. Satterthwaite, in a hesitating voice, "that I
remember the facts clearly by now."
"I think you do," said Mr. Quin quietly.
It was all the encouragement Mr. Satterthwaite needed. His general role
in life was that of listener and looker-on. Only in the company of Mr.
Quin was the position reversed. There Mr. Quin was the appreciative
listener, and Mr. Satterthwaite took the center of the stage.
"It was just over a year ago," he said, "that Ashley Grange passed
into the possession of Miss Eleanor Le Couteau. It is a beautiful old
house, but it had been neglected and allowed to remain empty for many
years. It could not have found a better chatelaine. Miss Le Couteau
was a French Canadian, her forebears were _émigrés_ from the French
Revolution, and had handed down to her a collection of almost priceless
French relics and antiques. She was a buyer and a collector also, with
a very fine and discriminating taste, so much so that, when she decided
to sell Ashley Grange and everything it contained after the tragedy,
Mr. Cyrus G. Bradburn, the American millionaire, made no bones about
paying the fancy price of sixty thousand pounds for the Grange as it
stood."
Mr. Satterthwaite paused.
"I mention these things," he said apologetically, "not because they are
relevant to the story--strictly speaking, they are not--but to convey
an atmosphere, the atmosphere of young Mrs. Harwell."
Mr. Quin nodded. "Atmosphere is always valuable," he said gravely.
"So we get a picture of this girl," continued the other. "Just
twenty-three, dark, beautiful, accomplished, nothing crude and
unfinished about her. And rich--we must not forget that. She was an
orphan. A Mrs. St. Clair, a lady of unimpeachable breeding and social
standing, lived with her as duenna. But Eleanor Le Couteau had complete
control of her own fortune. And fortune hunters are never hard to seek.
At least a dozen impecunious young men were to be found dangling around
her on all occasions, in the hunting-field, in the ballroom, wherever
she went. Young Lord Leccan, the most eligible party in the country, is
reported to have asked her to marry him, but she remained heart-free.
That is, until the coming of Captain Richard Harwell.
"Captain Harwell had put up at the local inn for the hunting. He was a
dashing rider to hounds, a handsome laughing daredevil of a fellow.
You remember the old saying, Mr. Quin? 'Happy the wooing that's not
long doing.' The adage was carried out at least in part. At the end of
two months, Richard Harwell and Eleanor Le Couteau were engaged.
"The marriage followed three months afterward. The happy pair went
abroad for a two weeks' honeymoon, and then returned to take up their
residence at Ashley Grange. The landlord has just told us that it was
on a night of storm such as this that they returned to their home.
An omen, I wonder? Who can tell. Be that as it may, the following
morning very early--about half-past seven--Captain Harwell was seen
walking in the garden by one of the gardeners, John Mathias. He was
bareheaded, and was whistling. We have a picture there, a picture of
lightheartedness, of careless happiness. And yet from that minute, as
far as we know, no one ever set eyes on Captain Richard Harwell again."
Mr. Satterthwaite paused, pleasantly conscious of a dramatic moment.
The admiring glance of Mr. Quin gave him the tribute he needed, and he
went on.
"The disappearance was remarkable--unaccountable. It was not till the
following day that the distracted wife called in the police. As you
know, they have not succeeded in solving the mystery."
"There have, I suppose, been theories?" asked Mr. Quin.
"Oh! theories, I grant you. Theory No. 1, that Captain Harwell had
been murdered, done away with. But if so, where was the body? It could
hardly have been spirited away. And besides, what motive was there? As
far as was known, Captain Harwell had not an enemy in the world."
He paused abruptly, as though uncertain. Mr. Quin leaned forward. "You
are thinking," he said softly, "of young Stephen Grant."
"I am," admitted Mr. Satterthwaite. "Stephen Grant, if I remember
rightly, had been in charge of Captain Harwell's horses, and had been
discharged by his master for some trifling offense. On the morning
after the home-coming, very early, Stephen Grant was seen in the
vicinity of Ashley Grange, and could give no good account of his
presence there. He was detained by the police as being concerned in
the disappearance of Captain Harwell, but nothing could be proved
against him, and he was eventually discharged. It is true that he might
be supposed to bear a grudge against Captain Harwell for his summary
dismissal, but the motive was undeniably of the flimsiest. I suppose
the police felt they must do something. You see, as I said just now,
Captain Harwell had not an enemy in the world."
"As far as was known," said Mr. Quin reflectively.
Mr. Satterthwaite nodded appreciatively.
"We are coming to that. What, after all, _was_ known of Captain
Harwell? When the police came to look into his antecedents they were
confronted with a singular paucity of material. Who was Richard
Harwell? Where did he come from? He had appeared literally out of the
blue, as it seemed. He was a magnificent rider, and apparently well
off. Nobody in Kirtlington Mallet had bothered to inquire further.
Miss Le Couteau had had no parents or guardians to make inquiries into
the prospects and standing of her fiancé. She was her own mistress.
The police theory at this point was clear enough. A rich girl and an
impudent impostor. The old story!
"But it was not quite that. True, Miss Le Couteau had no parents or
guardians, but she had an excellent firm of solicitors in London
who acted for her. Their evidence made the mystery deeper. Eleanor
Le Couteau had wished to settle a sum outright upon her prospective
husband, but he had refused. He himself was well off, he declared. It
was proved conclusively that Harwell never had a penny of his wife's
money. Her fortune was absolutely intact.
"He was, therefore, no common swindler; but was his object a refinement
of the art? Did he propose blackmail at some future date if Eleanor
Harwell should wish to marry some other man? I will admit that
something of that kind seemed to me the most likely solution. It has
always seemed so to me--until tonight."
Mr. Quin leaned forward, prompting him.
"Tonight?"
"Tonight--I am not satisfied with that. How did he manage to disappear
so suddenly and completely--at that hour in the morning, with every
laborer bestirring himself and tramping to work? Bareheaded, too."
"There is no doubt about that latter point--since the gardener saw him?"
"Yes--the gardener--John Mathias. Was there anything there, I wonder?"
"The police would not overlook him," said Mr. Quin.
"They questioned him closely. He never wavered in his statement. His
wife bore him out. He left his cottage at seven to attend to the
greenhouses; he returned at twenty minutes to eight. The servants in
the house heard the front door slam at about a quarter after seven.
That fixes the time when Captain Harwell left the house. Ah! yes, I
know what you are thinking."
"Do you, I wonder?" said Mr. Quin.
"I fancy so. Time enough for Mathias to have made away with his master.
But why, man, why? And if so, where did he hide the body?"
The landlord came in bearing a tray.
"Sorry to have kept you so long, gentlemen."
The odor from the dishes was pleasant to Mr. Satterthwaite's nostrils.
He felt gracious. "This looks excellent," he said. "Most excellent. We
have been discussing the disappearance of Captain Harwell. What became
of the gardener Mathias?"
"Took a place in Essex, I believe. Didn't care to stay hereabouts.
There were some as looked askance at him, you understand. Not that I
ever believed he had anything to do with it."
Mr. Satterthwaite helped himself. Mr. Quin followed suit. The landlord
seemed disposed to linger and chat. Mr. Satterthwaite had no objection;
on the contrary. "This Mathias now," he said. "What kind of a man was
he?"
"Middle-aged chap, must have been a powerful fellow once, but bent and
crippled with rheumatism. He had that mortal bad, was laid up many
a time with it, unable to do any work. For my part, I think it was
sheer kindness on Miss Eleanor's part to keep him on. He'd outgrown
his usefulness as a gardener, though his wife managed to make herself
useful up at the house. Been a cook, she had, and always willing to
lend a hand."
"What sort of a woman was she?" asked Mr. Satterthwaite, quickly.
The landlord's answer disappointed him. "A plain body. Middle-aged,
and dour-like in manner. Deaf, too. Not that I ever knew much of them.
They'd only been here a month, you understand, when the thing happened.
They say he'd been a rare good gardener in his time, though. Wonderful
testimonials Miss Eleanor had with him."
"Was she interested in gardening?" asked Mr. Quin softly.
"No, sir, I couldn't say that she was, not like some of the ladies
round here who pay good money to gardeners and spend the whole of their
time grubbing about on their knees as well. Foolishness I call it. You
see, Miss Le Couteau wasn't here very much except in the winter for the
hunting. The rest of the time she was up in London and away in those
foreign seaside places where they say the French ladies don't so much
as put a toe into the water for fear of spoiling their costumes, or so
I've heard."
Mr. Satterthwaite smiled. "There was no--er--woman of any kind mixed up
with Captain Harwell?" he asked. Though his first theory was disposed
of, he nevertheless clung to his idea.
Mr. William Jones shook his head. "Nothing of that sort. Never a
whisper of it. No, it's a dark mystery, that's what it is."
"And your theory? What do you yourself think?" persisted Mr.
Satterthwaite.
"What do I think?"
"Yes."
"Don't know what to think. It's my belief as how he was done in, but
who by I can't say. I'll fetch you gentlemen the cheese."
He stumped from the room bearing empty dishes. The storm, which had
been quieting down, suddenly broke out with redoubled vigor. A flash
of forked lightning and a great clap of thunder close upon each other
made little Mr. Satterthwaite jump, and before the last echoes of
the thunder had died away, a girl came into the room carrying the
advertised cheese.
She was tall and dark, and handsome in a sullen fashion of her own.
Her likeness to the landlord of the Bells and Motley was apparent
enough to proclaim her his daughter.