The Mysterious Mr. Quin

  ‘It is better for me not to know, you say. Better for me? But you are not a very considerate woman. You would not shrink from putting a stranger to a little temporary inconvenience. It is more than that, then? If you tell me you make me an accomplice before the fact. That sounds like crime. Fantastic! I could not associate crime with you. Or only one sort of crime. A crime against yourself.’

  Her lids drooped in spite of herself, veiled her eyes. He leaned forward and caught her wrist.

  ‘It is that, then! You are thinking of taking your life.’

  She gave a low cry.

  ‘How did you know? How did you know?’

  ‘But why? You are not tired of life. I never saw a woman less tired of it–more radiantly alive.’

  She got up, went to the window, pushing back a strand of her dark hair as she did so.

  ‘Since you have guessed so much I might as well tell you the truth. I should not have let you in this evening. I might have known that you would see too much. You are that kind of man. You were right about the cause. It’s the boy. He knows nothing. But last time he was home, he spoke tragically of a friend of his, and I discovered something. If he finds out that he is illegitimate it will break his heart. He is proud–horribly proud! There is a girl. Oh! I won’t go into details. But he is coming very soon–and he wants to know all about his father–he wants details. The girl’s parents, naturally, want to know. When he discovers the truth, he will break with her, exile himself, ruin his life. Oh! I know the things you would say. He is young, foolish, wrong-headed to take it like that! All true, perhaps. But does it matter what people ought to be? They are what they are. It will break his heart…But if, before he comes, there has been an accident, everything will be swallowed up in grief for me. He will look through my papers, find nothing, and be annoyed that I told him so little. But he will not suspect the truth. It is the best way. One must pay for happiness, and I have had so much–oh! so much happiness. And in reality the price will be easy, too. A little courage–to take the leap–perhaps a moment or so of anguish.’

  ‘But, my dear child–’

  ‘Don’t argue with me.’ She flared round on him. ‘I won’t listen to conventional arguments. My life is my own. Up to now, it has been needed–for John. But he needs it no longer. He wants a mate–a companion–he will turn to her all the more willingly because I am no longer there. My life is useless, but my death will be of use. And I have the right to do what I like with my own life.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  The sternness of his tone surprised her. She stammered slightly.

  ‘If it is no good to anyone–and I am the best judge of that–’

  He interrupted her again.

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Listen. I will put a case to you. A man comes to a certain place–to commit suicide, shall we say? But by chance he finds another man there, so he fails in his purpose and goes away–to live. The second man has saved the first man’s life, not by being necessary to him or prominent in his life, but just by the mere physical fact of having been in a certain place at a certain moment. You take your life today and perhaps, some five, six, seven years hence, someone will go to death or disaster simply for lack of your presence in a given spot or place. It may be a runaway horse coming down a street that swerved aside at sight of you and so fails to trample a child that is playing in the gutter. That child may live to grow up and be a great musician, or discover a cure for cancer. Or it may be less melodramatic than that. He may just grow up to ordinary everyday happiness…’

  She stared at him.

  ‘You are a strange man. These things you say–I have never thought of them…’

  ‘You say your life is your own,’ went on Mr Satterthwaite. ‘But can you dare to ignore the chance that you are taking part in a gigantic drama under the orders of a divine Producer? Your cue may not come till the end of the play–it may be totally unimportant, a mere walking-on part, but upon it may hang the issues of the play if you do not give the cue to another player. The whole edifice may crumple. You as you, may not matter to anyone in the world, but you as a person in a particular place may matter unimaginably.’

  She sat down, still staring.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ she said simply.

  It was Mr Satterthwaite’s moment of triumph. He issued orders.

  ‘I want you at least to promise me one thing–to do nothing rash for twenty-four hours.’

  She was silent for a moment or two and then she said: ‘I promise.’

  ‘There is one other thing–a favour.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Leave the shutter of the room I came in by unfastened, and keep vigil there tonight.’

  She looked at him curiously, but nodded assent.

  ‘And now,’ said Mr Satterthwaite, slightly conscious of anticlimax, ‘I really must be going. God bless you, my dear.’

  He made a rather embarrassed exit. The stalwart Spanish girl met him in the passage and opened a side door for him, staring curiously at him the while.

  It was just growing dark as he reached the hotel. There was a solitary figure sitting on the terrace. Mr Satterthwaite made straight for it. He was excited and his heart was beating quite fast. He felt that tremendous issues lay in his hands. One false move–

  But he tried to conceal his agitation and to speak naturally and casually to Anthony Cosden.

  ‘A warm evening,’ he observed. ‘I quite lost count of time sitting up there on the cliff.’

  ‘Have you been up there all this time?’

  Mr Satterthwaite nodded. The swing door into the hotel opened to let someone through, and a beam of light fell suddenly on the other’s face, illuminating its look of dull suffering, of uncomprehending dumb endurance.

  Mr Satterthwaite thought to himself: ‘It’s worse for him than it would be for me. Imagination, conjecture, speculation–they can do a lot for you. You can, as it were, ring the changes upon pain. The uncomprehending blind suffering of an animal–that’s terrible…’

  Cosden spoke suddenly in a harsh voice.

  ‘I’m going for a stroll after dinner. You–you understand? The third time’s lucky. For God’s sake don’t interfere. I know your interference will be well-meaning and all that–but take it from me, it’s useless.’

  Mr Satterthwaite drew himself up.

  ‘I never interfere,’ he said, thereby giving the lie to the whole purpose and object of his existence.

  ‘I know what you think–’ went on Cosden, but he was interrupted.

  ‘You must excuse me, but there I beg to differ from you,’ said Mr Satterthwaite. ‘Nobody knows what another person is thinking. They may imagine they do, but they are nearly always wrong.’

  ‘Well, perhaps that’s so.’ Cosden was doubtful, slightly taken aback.

  ‘Thought is yours only,’ said his companion. ‘Nobody can alter or influence the use you mean to make of it. Let us talk of a less painful subject. That old villa, for instance. It has a curious charm, withdrawn, sheltered from the world, shielding heaven knows what mystery. It tempted me to do a doubtful action. I tried one of the shutters.’

  ‘You did?’ Cosden turned his head sharply. ‘But it was fastened, of course?’

  ‘No,’ said Mr Satterthwaite. ‘It was open.’ He added gently: ‘The third shutter from the end.’

  ‘Why,’ Cosden burst out, ‘that was the one–’

  He broke off suddenly, but Mr Satterthwaite had seen the light that had sprung up in his eyes. He rose–satisfied.

  Some slight tinge of anxiety still remained with him. Using his favourite metaphor of a drama, he hoped that he had spoken his few lines correctly. For they were very important lines.

  But thinking it over, his artistic judgment was satisfied. On his way up to the cliff, Cosden would try that shutter. It was not in human nature to resist. A memory of twenty odd years ago had brought him to this spot, the same memory would take him to
the shutter. And afterwards?

  ‘I shall know in the morning,’ said Mr Satterthwaite, and proceeded to change methodically for his evening meal.

  It was somewhere round ten o’clock that Mr Satterthwaite set foot once more in the garden of La Paz. Manuel bade him a smiling ‘Good morning,’ and handed him a single rosebud which Mr Satterthwaite put carefully into his buttonhole. Then he went on to the house. He stood there for some minutes looking up at the peaceful white walls, the trailing orange creeper, and the faded green shutters. So silent, so peaceful. Had the whole thing been a dream?

  But at that moment one of the windows opened and the lady who occupied Mr Satterthwaite’s thoughts came out. She came straight to him with a buoyant swaying walk, like someone carried on a great wave of exultation. Her eyes were shining, her colour high. She looked like a figure of joy on a frieze. There was no hesitation about her, no doubts or tremors. Straight to Mr Satterthwaite she came, put her hands on his shoulders and kissed him–not once but many times. Large, dark, red roses, very velvety–that is how he thought of it afterwards. Sunshine, summer, birds singing–that was the atmosphere into which he felt himself caught up. Warmth, joy and tremendous vigour.

  ‘I’m so happy,’ she said. ‘You darling! How did you know? How could you know? You’re like the good magician in the fairy tales.’

  She paused, a sort of breathlessness of happiness upon her.

  ‘We’re going over today–to the Consul–to get married. When John comes, his father will be there. We’ll tell him there was some misunderstanding in the past. Oh! he won’t ask questions. Oh! I’m so happy–so happy–so happy.’

  Happiness did indeed surge from her like a tide. It lapped round Mr Satterthwaite in a warm exhilarating flood.

  ‘It’s so wonderful to Anthony to find he has a son. I never dreamt he’d mind or care.’ She looked confidently into Mr Satterthwaite’s eyes. ‘Isn’t it strange how things come right and end all beautifully?’

  He had his clearest vision of her yet. A child–still a child–with her love of make believe–her fairy tales that ended beautifully with two people ‘living happily ever afterwards’.

  He said gently:

  ‘If you bring this man of yours happiness in these last months, you will indeed have done a very beautiful thing.’

  Her eyes opened wide–surprised.

  ‘Oh!’ she said. ‘You don’t think I’d let him die, do you? After all these years–when he’s come to me. I’ve known lots of people whom doctors have given up and who are alive today. Die? Of course he’s not going to die!’

  He looked at her–her strength, her beauty, her vitality–her indomitable courage and will. He, too, had known doctors to be mistaken…The personal factor–you never knew how much and how little it counted.

  She said again, with scorn and amusement in her voice:

  ‘You don’t think I’d let him die, do you?’

  ‘No,’ said Mr Satterthwaite at last very gently. ‘Somehow, my dear, I don’t think you will…’

  Then at last he walked down the cypress path to the bench overlooking the sea and found there the person he was expecting to see. Mr Quin rose and greeted him–the same as ever, dark, saturnine, smiling and sad.

  ‘You expected me?’ he asked.

  And Mr Satterthwaite answered: ‘Yes, I expected you.’

  They sat together on the bench.

  ‘I have an idea that you have been playing Providence once more, to judge by your expression,’ said Mr Quin presently.

  Mr Satterthwaite looked at him reproachfully.

  ‘As if you didn’t know all about it.’

  ‘You always accuse me of omniscience,’ said Mr Quin, smiling.

  ‘If you know nothing, why were you here the night before last–waiting?’ countered Mr Satterthwaite.

  ‘Oh, that–?’

  ‘Yes, that.’

  ‘I had a–commission to perform.’

  ‘For whom?’

  ‘You have sometimes fancifully named me an advocate for the dead.’

  ‘The dead?’ said Mr Satterthwaite, a little puzzled. ‘I don’t understand.’

  Mr Quin pointed a long, lean finger down at the blue depths below.

  ‘A man was drowned down there twenty-two years ago.’

  ‘I know–but I don’t see–’

  ‘Supposing that, after all, that man loved his young wife. Love can make devils of men as well as angels. She had a girlish adoration for him, but he could never touch the womanhood in her–and that drove him mad. He tortured her because he loved her. Such things happen. You know that as well as I do.’

  ‘Yes,’ admitted Mr Satterthwaite, ‘I have seen such things–but rarely–very rarely…’

  ‘And you have also seen, more commonly, that there is such a thing as remorse–the desire to make amends–at all costs to make amends.’

  ‘Yes, but death came too soon…’

  ‘Death!’ There was contempt in Mr Quin’s voice. ‘You believe in a life after death, do you not? And who are you to say that the same wishes, the same desires, may not operate in that other life? If the desire is strong enough–a messenger may be found.’

  His voice tailed away.

  Mr Satterthwaite got up, trembling a little.

  ‘I must get back to the hotel,’ he said. ‘If you are going that way.’

  But Mr Quin shook his head.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I shall go back the way I came.’

  When Mr Satterthwaite looked back over his shoulder, he saw his friend walking towards the edge of the cliff.

  Chapter 7

  The Voice in the Dark

  I

  ‘I am a little worried about Margery,’ said Lady Stranleigh.

  ‘My girl, you know,’ she added.

  She sighed pensively.

  ‘It makes one feel terribly old to have a grown-up daughter.’

  Mr Satterthwaite, who was the recipient of these confidences, rose to the occasion gallantly.

  ‘No one could believe it possible,’ he declared with a little bow.

  ‘Flatterer,’ said Lady Stranleigh, but she said it vaguely and it was clear that her mind was elsewhere.

  Mr Satterthwaite looked at the slender white-clad figure in some admiration. The Cannes sunshine was searching, but Lady Stranleigh came through the test very well. At a distance the youthful effect was really extraordinary. One almost wondered if she were grownup or not. Mr Satterthwaite, who knew everything, knew that it was perfectly possible for Lady Stranleigh to have grown-up grandchildren. She represented the extreme triumph of art over nature. Her figure was marvellous, her complexion was marvellous. She had enriched many beauty parlours and certainly the results were astounding.

  Lady Stranleigh lit a cigarette, crossed her beautiful legs encased in the finest of nude silk stockings and murmured: ‘Yes, I really am rather worried about Margery.’

  ‘Dear me,’ said Mr Satterthwaite, ‘what is the trouble?’

  Lady Stranleigh turned her beautiful blue eyes upon him

  ‘You have never met her, have you? She is Charles’ daughter,’ she added helpfully.

  If entries in ‘Who’s Who’ were strictly truthful, the entries concerning Lady Stranleigh might have ended as follows: hobbies: getting married. She had floated through life shedding husbands as she went. She had lost three by divorce and one by death.

  ‘If she had been Rudolph’s child I could have understood it,’ mused Lady Stranleigh. ‘You remember Rudolf? He was always temperamental. Six months after we married I had to apply for those queer things–what do they call them? Conjugal what nots, you know what I mean. Thank goodness it is all much simpler nowadays. I remember I had to write him the silliest kind of letter–my lawyer practically dictated it to me. Asking him to come back, you know, and that I would do all I could, etc., etc., but you never could count on Rudolf, he was so temperamental. He came rushing home at once, which was quite the wrong thing to do, and not at all what the lawy
ers meant.’

  She sighed.

  ‘About Margery?’ suggested Mr Satterthwaite, tactfully leading her back to the subject under discussion.

  ‘Of course. I was just going to tell you, wasn’t I? Margery has been seeing things, or hearing them. Ghosts, you know, and all that. I should never have thought that Margery could be so imaginative. She is a dear good girl, always has been, but just a shade–dull.’

  ‘Impossible,’ murmured Mr Satterthwaite with a confused idea of being complimentary.

  ‘In fact, very dull,’ said Lady Stranleigh. ‘Doesn’t care for dancing, or cocktails or any of the things a young girl ought to care about. She much prefers staying at home to hunt instead of coming out here with me.’

  ‘Dear, dear,’ said Mr Satterthwaite, ‘she wouldn’t come out with you, you say?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t exactly press her. Daughters have a depressing effect upon one, I find.’

  Mr Satterthwaite tried to think of Lady Stranleigh accompanied by a serious-minded daughter and failed.

  ‘I can’t help wondering if Margery is going off her head,’ continued Margery’s mother in a cheerful voice. ‘Hearing voices is a very bad sign, so they tell me. It is not as though Abbot’s Mede were haunted. The old building was burnt to the ground in 1836, and they put up a kind of early Victorian château which simply cannot be haunted. It is much too ugly and commonplace.’

  Mr Satterthwaite coughed. He was wondering why he was being told all this.

  ‘I thought perhaps,’ said Lady Stranleigh, smiling brilliantly upon him, ‘that you might be able to help me.’ ‘I?’

  ‘Yes. You are going back to England tomorrow, aren’t you?’ ‘I am. Yes, that is so,’ admitted Mr Satterthwaite cautiously.

  ‘And you know all these psychical research people. Of course you do, you know everybody.’

  Mr Satterthwaite smiled a little. It was one of his weaknesses to know everybody.

  ‘So what can be simpler?’ continued Lady Stranleigh. ‘I never get on with that sort of person. You know–earnest men with beards and usually spectacles. They bore me terribly and I am quite at my worst with them.’