The Mysterious Mr Quin. Agatha Christie

little distance from the house. With again something of the pride of the showman, Mr Satterthwaite stretched out his arm.

      ‘Look,’ he said.

      It was fast growing dusk. The window could still be plainly descried, and apparently pressed against one of the panes was a man’s face surmounted by a plumed Cavalier’s hat.

      ‘Very curious,’ said Porter. ‘Really very curious. What will happen when that pane of glass gets smashed some day?’

      Mr Satterthwaite smiled.

      ‘That is one of the most interesting parts of the story. That pane of glass has been replaced to my certain knowledge at least eleven times, perhaps oftener. The last time was twelve years ago when the then owner of the house determined to destroy the myth. But it’s always the same. The stain reappears–not all at once, the discolouration spreads gradually. It takes a month or two as a rule.’

      For the first time, Porter showed signs of real interest. He gave a sudden quick shiver.

      ‘Damned odd, these things. No accounting for them. What’s the real reason of having the room boarded up inside?’

      ‘Well, an idea got about that the room was–unlucky. The Eveshams were in it just before the divorce. Then Stanley and his wife were staying here, and had that room when he ran off with his chorus girl.’

      Porter raised his eyebrows.

      ‘I see. Danger, not to life, but to morals.’

      ‘And now,’ thought Mr Satterthwaite to himself, ‘the Scotts have it…I wonder…’

      They retraced their steps in silence to the house. Walking almost noiselessly on the soft turf, each absorbed in his own thoughts, they became unwittingly eavesdroppers.

      They were rounding the corner of the holly hedge when they heard Iris Staverton’s voice raised fierce and clear from the depths of the Privy Garden.

      ‘You shall be sorry–sorry–for this!’

      Scott’s voice answered low and uncertain, so that the words could not be distinguished, and then the woman’s voice rose again, speaking words that they were to remember later.

      ‘Jealousy–it drives one to the Devil–it is the Devil! It can drive one to black murder. Be careful, Richard, for God’s sake, be careful!’

      And then on that she had come out of the Privy Garden ahead of them, and on round the corner of the house without seeing them, walking swiftly, almost running, like a woman hag-ridden and pursued.

      Mr Satterthwaite thought again of Lady Cynthia’s words. A dangerous woman. For the first time, he had a premonition of tragedy, coming swift and inexorable, not to be gainsaid.

      Yet that evening he felt ashamed of his fears. Everything seemed normal and pleasant. Mrs Staverton, with her easy insouciance, showed no sign of strain. Moira Scott was her charming, unaffected self. The two women appeared to be getting on very well. Richard Scott himself seemed to be in boisterous spirits.

      The most worried looking person was stout Mrs Unkerton. She confided at length in Mr Satterthwaite.

      ‘Think it silly or not, as you like, there’s something giving me the creeps. And I’ll tell you frankly, I’ve sent for the glazier unbeknown to Ned.’

      ‘The glazier?’

      ‘To put a new pane of glass in that window. It’s all very well. Ned’s proud of it–says it gives the house a tone. I don’t like it. I tell you flat. We’ll have a nice plain modern pane of glass, with no nasty 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 words. 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