The Mysterious Mr Quin. Agatha Christie

Quin acknowledged the introductions, and dropped into the chair that Evesham had hospitably pulled forward. As he sat, some effect of the firelight threw a bar of shadow across his face which gave almost the impression of a mask.

      Evesham threw a couple more logs on the fire.

      ‘A drink?’

      ‘Thanks.’

      Evesham brought it to him and asked as he did so:

      ‘So you know this part of the world well, Mr Quin?’

      ‘I passed through it some years ago.’

      ‘Really?’

      ‘Yes. This house belonged then to a man called Capel.’

      ‘Ah! yes,’ said Evesham. ‘Poor Derek Capel. You knew him?’

      ‘Yes, I knew him.’

      Evesham’s manner underwent a faint change, almost imperceptible to one who had not studied the English character. Before, it had contained a subtle reserve, now this was laid aside. Mr Quin had known Derek Capel. He was the friend of a friend, and, as such, was vouched for and fully accredited.

      ‘Astounding affair, that,’ he said confidentially. ‘We were just talking about it. I can tell you, it went against the grain, buying this place. If there had been anything else suitable, but there wasn’t you see. I was in the house the night he shot himself–so was Conway, and upon my word, I’ve always expected his ghost to walk.’

      ‘A very inexplicable business,’ said Mr Quin, slowly and deliberately, and he paused with the air of an actor who has just spoken an important cue.

      ‘You may well say inexplicable,’ burst in Conway. ‘The thing’s a black mystery–always will be.’

      ‘I wonder,’ said Mr Quin, non-committally. ‘Yes, Sir Richard, you were saying?’

      ‘Astounding–that’s what it was. Here’s a man in the prime of life, gay, light-hearted, without a care in the world. Five or six old pals staying with him. Top of his spirits at dinner, full of plans for the future. And from the dinner table he goes straight upstairs to his room, takes a revolver from a drawer and shoots himself. Why? Nobody ever knew. Nobody ever will know.’

      ‘Isn’t that rather a sweeping statement, Sir Richard?’ asked Mr Quin, smiling.

      Conway stared at him.

      ‘What d’you mean? I don’t understand.’

      ‘A problem is not necessarily unsolvable because it has remained unsolved.’

      ‘Oh! Come, man, if nothing came out at the time, it’s not likely to come out now–ten years afterwards?’

      Mr Quin shook his head gently.

      ‘I disagree with you. The evidence of history is against you. The contemporary historian never writes such a true history as the historian of a later generation. It is a question of getting the true perspective, of seeing things in proportion. If you like to call it so, it is, like everything else, a question of relativity.’

      Alex Portal leant forward, his face twitching painfully.

      ‘You are right, Mr Quin,’ he cried, ‘you are right. Time does not dispose of a question–it only presents it anew in a different guise.’

      Evesham was smiling tolerantly.

      ‘Then you mean to say, Mr Quin, that if we were to hold, let us say, a Court of Inquiry tonight, into the circumstances of Derek Capel’s death, we are as likely to arrive at the truth as we should have been at the time?’

      ‘More likely, Mr Evesham. The personal equation has largely dropped out, and you will remember facts as facts without seeking to put your own interpretation upon them.’

      Evesham frowned doubtfully.

      ‘One must have a starting point, of course,’ said Mr Quin in his quiet level voice. ‘A starting point is usually a theory. One of you must have a theory, I am sure. How about you, Sir Richard?’

      Conway frowned thoughtfully.

      ‘Well, of course,’ he said apologetically, ‘we thought–naturally we all thought–that there must be a woman in it somewhere. It’s usually either that or money, isn’t it? And it certainly wasn’t money. No trouble of that description. So–what else could it have been?’

      Mr Satterthwaite started. He had leant forward to contribute a small remark of his own and in the act of doing so, he had caught sight of a woman’s figure crouched against the balustrade of the gallery above. She was huddled down against it, invisible from everywhere but where he himself sat, and she was evidently listening with strained attention to what was going on below. So immovable was she that he hardly believed the evidence of his own eyes.

      But he recognized the pattern of the dress easily enough–an old-world brocade. It was Eleanor Portal.

      And suddenly all the events of the night seemed to fall into pattern–Mr Quin’s arrival, no fortuitous chance, but the appearance of an actor when his cue was given. There was a drama being played in the big hall at Royston tonight–a drama none the less real in that one of the actors was dead. Oh! yes, Derek Capel had a part in the play. Mr Satterthwaite was sure of that.

      And, again suddenly, a new illumination came to him. This was Mr Quin’s doing. It was he who was staging the play–was giving the actors their cues. He was at the heart of the mystery pulling the strings, making the puppets work. He knew everything, even to the presence of the woman crouched against the woodwork upstairs. Yes, he knew.

      Sitting well back in his chair, secure in his role of audience, Mr Satterthwaite watched the drama unfold before his eyes. Quietly and naturally, Mr Quin was pulling the strings, setting his puppets in motion.

      ‘A woman–yes,’ he murmured thoughtfully. ‘There was no mention of any woman at dinner?’

      ‘Why, of course,’ cried Evesham. ‘He announced his engagement. That’s just what made it seem so absolutely mad. Very bucked about it he was. Said it wasn’t to be announced just yet–but gave us the hint that he was in the running for the Benedick stakes.’

      ‘Of course we all guessed who the lady was,’ said Conway. ‘Marjorie Dilke. Nice girl.’

      It seemed to be Mr Quin’s turn to speak, but he did not do so, and something about his silence seemed oddly provocative. It was as though he challenged the last statement. It had the effect of putting Conway in a defensive position.

      ‘Who else could it have been? Eh, Evesham?’

      ‘I don’t know,’ said Tom Evesham slowly. ‘What did he say exactly now? Something about being in the running for the Benedick stakes–that he couldn’t tell us the lady’s name till he had her permission–it wasn’t to be announced yet. He said, I remember, that he was a damned lucky fellow. That he wanted his two old friends to know that by that time next year he’d be a happy married man. Of course, we assumed it was Marjorie. They were great friends and he’d been about with her a lot.’

      ‘The only thing–’ began Conway and stopped.

      ‘What were you going to say, Dick?’

      ‘Well, I mean, it was odd in a way, if it were Marjorie, that the engagement shouldn’t be announced at once. I mean, why the secrecy? Sounds more as though it were a married woman–you know, someone whose husband had just died, or who was divorcing him.’

      ‘That’s true,’ said Evesham. ‘If that were the case, of course, the engagement couldn’t be announced at once. And you know, thinking back about it, I don’t believe he had been seeing much of Marjorie. All that was the year before. I remember thinking things seemed to have cooled off between them.’

      ‘Curious,’ said Mr Quin.

      ‘Yes–looked almost as though someone had come between them.’