The Complete Quin and Satterthwaite. Agatha Christie

stories attached to it.’

      ‘You forget,’ said Mr Satterthwaite, ‘or perhaps you don’t know. The stain comes back.’

      ‘That’s as it may be,’ said Mrs Unkerton. ‘All I can say is if it does, it’s against nature!’

      Mr Satterthwaite raised his eyebrows, but did not reply.

      ‘And what if it does?’ pursued Mrs Unkerton defiantly. ‘We’re not so bankrupt, Ned and I, that we can’t afford a new pane of glass every month – or every week if need be for the matter of that.’

      Mr Satterthwaite did not meet the challenge. He had seen too many things crumple and fall before the power of money to believe that even a Cavalier ghost could put up a successful fight. Nevertheless, he was interested by Mrs Unkerton’s manifest uneasiness. Even she was not exempt from the tension in the atmosphere – only she attributed it to an attenuated ghost story, not to the clash of personalities amongst her guests.

      Mr Sattherwaite was fated to hear yet another scrap of conversation which threw light upon the situation. He was going up the wide staircase to bed, John Porter and Mrs Staverton were sitting together in an alcove of the big hall. She was speaking with a faint irritation in her golden voice.

      ‘I hadn’t the least idea the Scotts were going to be here. I daresay, if I had known, I shouldn’t have come, but I can assure you, my dear John, that now I am here, I’m not going to run away –’

      Mr Satterthwaite passed on up the staircase out of earshot. He thought to himself: ‘I wonder now – How much of that is true? Did she know? I wonder – what’s going to come of it?’

      He shook his head.

      In the clear light of the morning he felt that he had perhaps been a little melodramatic in his imaginings of the evening before. A moment of strain – yes, certainly – inevitable under the circumstances – but nothing more. People adjusted themselves. His fancy that some great catastrophe was pending was nerves – pure nerves – or possibly liver. Yes, that was it, liver. He was due at Carlsbad in another fortnight.

      On his own account he proposed a little stroll that evening just as it was growing dusk. He suggested to Major Porter that they should go up to the clearing and see if Mrs Unkerton had been as good as her word, and had a new pane of glass put in. To himself, he said: ‘Exercise, that’s what I need. Exercise.’

      The two men walked slowly through the woods. Porter, as usual, was taciturn.

      ‘I can’t help feeling,’ said Mr Satterthwaite loquaciously, ‘that we were a little foolish in our imaginings yesterday. Expecting – er – trouble, you know. After all, people have to behave themselves – swallow their feelings and that sort of thing.’

      ‘Perhaps,’ said Porter. After a minute or two he added: ‘Civilized people.’

      ‘You mean –?’

      ‘People who’ve lived outside civilization a good deal sometimes go back. Revert. Whatever you call it.’

      They emerged on to the grassy knoll. Mr Satterthwaite was breathing rather fast. He never enjoyed going up hill.

      He looked towards the window. The face was still there, more life-like than ever.

      ‘Our hostess has repented, I see.’

      Porter threw it only a cursory glance.

      ‘Unkerton cut up rough, I expect,’ he said indifferently. ‘He’s the sort of man who is willing to be proud of another family’s ghost, and who isn’t going to run the risk of having it driven away when he’s paid spot cash for it.’

      He was silent a minute or two, staring, not at the house, but at the thick undergrowth by which they were surrounded.

      ‘Has it ever struck you,’ he said, ‘that civilization’s damned dangerous?’

      ‘Dangerous?’ Such a revolutionary remark shocked Mr Satterthwaite to the core.

      ‘Yes. There are no safety valves, you see.’

      He turned abruptly, and they descended the path by which they had come.

      ‘I really am quite at a loss to understand you,’ said Mr Satterthwaite, pattering along with nimble steps to keep up with the other’s strides. ‘Reasonable people –’

      Porter laughed. A short disconcerting laugh. Then he looked at the correct little gentleman by his side.

      ‘You think it’s all bunkum on my part, Mr Satterthwaite? But there are people, you know, who can tell you when a storm’s coming. They feel it beforehand in the air. And other people can foretell trouble. There’s trouble coming now, Mr Satterthwaite, big trouble. It may come any minute. It may –’

      He stopped dead, clutching Mr Satterthwaite’s arm. And in that tense minute of silence it came – the sound of two shots and following them a cry – a cry in a woman’s voice.

      ‘My god!’ cried Porter, ‘it’s come.’

      He raced down the path, Mr Satterthwaite panting behind him. In a minute they came out on to the lawn, close by the hedge of the Privy Garden. At the same time, Richard Scott and Mr Unkerton came round the opposite corner of the house. They halted, facing each other, to left and right of the entrance to the Privy Garden.

      ‘It – it came from in there,’ said Unkerton, pointing with a flabby hand.

      ‘We must see,’ said Porter. He led the way into the enclosure. As he rounded the last bend of the holly hedge, he stopped dead. Mr Satterthwaite peered over his shoulder. A loud cry burst from Richard Scott.

      There were three people in the Privy Garden. Two of them lay on the grass near the stone seat, a man and a woman. The third was Mrs Staverton. She was standing quite close to them by the holly hedge, gazing with horror-stricken eyes, and holding something in her right hand.

      ‘Iris,’ cried Porter. ‘Iris. For God’s sake! What’s that you’ve got in your hand?’

      She looked down at it then – with a kind of wonder, an unbelievable indifference.

      ‘It’s a pistol,’ she said wonderingly. And then – after what seemed an interminable time, but was in reality only a few seconds, ‘I – picked it up.’

      Mr Satterthwaite had gone forward to where Unkerton and Scott were kneeling on the turf.

      ‘A doctor,’ the latter was murmuring. ‘We must have a doctor.’

      But it was too late for any doctor. Jimmy Allenson who had complained that the sand diviners hedged about the future, and Moira Scott to whom the gypsy had returned a shilling, lay there in the last great stillness.

      It was Richard Scott who completed a brief examination. The iron nerve of the man showed in this crisis. After the first cry of agony, he was himself again.

      He laid his wife gently down again.

      ‘Shot from behind,’ he said briefly. ‘The bullet has passed right through her.’

      Then he handled Jimmy Allenson. The wound here was in the breast and the bullet was lodged in the body.

      John Porter came towards them.

      ‘Nothing should be touched,’ he said sternly. ‘The police must see it all exactly as it is now.’

      ‘The police,’ said Richard Scott. His eyes lit up with a sudden flame as he looked at the woman standing by the holly hedge. He made a step in that direction, but at the same time John Porter also moved, so as to bar his way. For a moment it seemed as though there was a duel of eyes between the two friends.

      Porter very quietly shook his head.

      ‘No, Richard,’ he said. ‘It looks like it – but you’re wrong.’

      Richard Scott spoke with difficulty, moistening his dry lips.

      ‘Then