The Mysterious Mr Quin. Agatha Christie

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 coloured 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 those. The moment that I shall always remember was when I stood alone by the bodies–afterwards–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 ear-ring 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 ear-ring, 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 at which they had arrived so unexpectedly.

      Mr