The Complete Quin and Satterthwaite. Agatha Christie

own maid. They came rushing to the music room. She was lying huddled over the arm of her chair. The gun had been discharged close to the back of her head, so that the shot hadn’t a chance to scatter. At least two of them penetrated the brain.’

      He paused again and Mr Quin asked casually:

      ‘The servants gave evidence, I suppose?’

      Mr Satterthwaite nodded.

      ‘Yes. The butler got there a second or two before the others, but their evidence was practically a repetition of each other’s.’

      ‘So they all gave evidence,’ said Mr Quin musingly. ‘There were no exceptions?’

      ‘Now I remember it,’ said Mr Satterthwaite, ‘the housemaid was only called at the inquest. She’s gone to Canada since, I believe.’

      ‘I see,’ said Mr Quin.

      There was a silence, and somehow the air of the little restaurant seemed to be charged with an uneasy feeling. Mr Satterthwaite felt suddenly as though he were on the defensive.

      ‘Why shouldn’t she?’ he said abruptly.

      ‘Why should she?’ said Mr Quin with a very slight shrug of the shoulders.

      Somehow, the question annoyed Mr Satterthwaite. He wanted to shy away from it – to get back on familiar ground.

      ‘There couldn’t be much doubt who fired the shot. As a matter of fact the servants seemed to have lost their heads a bit. There was no one in the house to take charge. It was some minutes before anyone thought of ringing up the police, and when they did so they found that the telephone was out of order.’

      ‘Oh!’ said Mr Quin. ‘The telephone was out of order.’

      ‘It was,’ said Mr Satterthwaite – and was struck suddenly by the feeling that he had said something tremendously important. ‘It might, of course, have been done on purpose,’ he said slowly. ‘But there seems no point in that. Death was practically instantaneous.’

      Mr Quin said nothing, and Mr Satterthwaite felt that his explanation was unsatisfactory.

      ‘There was absolutely no one to suspect but young Wylde,’ he went on. ‘By his own account, even, he was only out of the house three minutes before the shot was fired. And who else could have fired it? Sir George was at a bridge party a few houses away. He left there at half-past six and was met just outside the gate by a servant bringing him the news. The last rubber finished at half-past six exactly – no doubt about that. Then there was Sir George’s secretary, Henry Thompson. He was in London that day, and actually at a business meeting at the moment the shot was fired. Finally, there is Sylvia Dale, who after all, had a perfectly good motive, impossible as it seems that she should have had anything to do with such a crime. She was at the station of Deering Vale seeing a friend off by the 6.28 train. That lets her out. Then the servants. What earthly motive could any one of them have? Besides they all arrived on the spot practically simultaneously. No, it must have been Martin Wylde.’

      But he said it in a dissatisfied kind of voice.

      They went on with their lunch. Mr Quin was not in a talkative mood, and Mr Satterthwaite had said all he had to say. But the silence was not a barren one. It was filled with the growing dissatisfaction of Mr Satterthwaite, heightened and fostered in some strange way by the mere acquiescence of the other man.

      Mr Satterthwaite suddenly put down his knife and fork with a clatter.

      ‘Supposing that that young man is really innocent,’ he said. ‘He’s going to be hanged.’

      He looked very startled and upset about it. And still Mr Quin said nothing.

      ‘It’s not as though –’ began Mr Satterthwaite, and stopped. ‘Why shouldn’t the woman go to Canada?’ he ended inconsequently.

      Mr Quin shook his head.

      ‘I don’t even know what part of Canada she went to,’ continued Mr Satterthwaite peevishly.

      ‘Could you find out?’ suggested the other.

      ‘I suppose I could. The butler, now. He’d know. Or possibly Thompson, the secretary.’

      He paused again. When he resumed speech, his voice sounded almost pleading.

      ‘It’s not as though it were anything to do with me?’

      ‘That a young man is going to be hanged in a little over three weeks?’

      ‘Well, yes – if you put it that way, I suppose. Yes, I see what you mean. Life and death. And that poor girl, too. It’s not that I’m hard-headed – but, after all – what good will it do? Isn’t the whole thing rather fantastic? Even if I found out where the woman’s gone in Canada – why, it would probably mean that I should have to go out there myself.’

      Mr Satterthwaite looked seriously upset.

      ‘And I was thinking of going to the Riviera next week,’ he said pathetically.

      And his glance towards Mr Quin said as plainly as it could be said, ‘Do let me off, won’t you?’

      ‘You have never been to Canada?’

      ‘Never.’

      ‘A very interesting country.’

      Mr Satterthwaite looked at him undecidedly.

      ‘You think I ought to go?’

      Mr Quin leaned back in his chair and lighted a cigarette. Between puffs of smoke, he spoke deliberately.

      ‘You are, I believe, a rich man, Mr Satterthwaite. Not a millionaire, but a man able to indulge a hobby without counting the expense. You have looked on at the dramas of other people. Have you never contemplated stepping in and playing a part? Have you never seen yourself for a minute as the arbiter of other people’s destinies – standing in the centre of the stage with life and death in your hands?’

      Mr Satterthwaite leant forward. The old eagerness surged over him.

      ‘You mean – if I go on this wild-goose chase to Canada –?’

      Mr Quin smiled.

      ‘Oh! it was your suggestion, going to Canada, not mine,’ he said lightly.

      ‘You can’t put me off like that,’ said Mr Satterthwaite earnestly. ‘Whenever I have come across you –’ He stopped.

      ‘Well?’

      ‘There is something about you I do not understand. Perhaps I never shall. The last time I met you –’

      ‘On Midsummer’s Eve.’

      Mr Satterthwaite was startled, as though the words held a clue that he did not quite understand.

      ‘Was it Midsummer’s Eve?’ he asked confusedly.

      ‘Yes. But let us not dwell on that. It is unimportant, is it not?’

      ‘Since you say so,’ said Mr Satterthwaite courteously. He felt that elusive clue slipping through his fingers. ‘When I come back from Canada’ – he paused a little awkwardly – ‘I – I – should much like to see you again.’

      ‘I am afraid I have no fixed address for the moment,’ said Mr Quin regretfully. ‘But I often come to this place. If you also frequent it, we shall no doubt meet before very long.’

      They parted pleasantly.

      Mr Satterthwaite was very excited. He hurried round to Cook’s and inquired about boat sailings. Then he rang up Deering Hill. The voice of a butler, suave and deferential, answered him.

      ‘My name is Satterthwaite. I am speaking for a – er – firm of solicitors. I wished to make a few inquiries about a young woman who was recently housemaid in your establishment.’

      ‘Would that be Louisa, sir? Louisa Bullard?’

      ‘That