The Mysterious Mr. Quin

"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. Quin rose to his feet.

"You see," he said, "what Mr. Satterthwaite's impression has done for us." he turned to Unkerton, "It is your turn now."

"Eh? I don't understand you."

"You were very thoughtful when I came into this room. I should like to know exactly what thought it was that obsessed you. Never mind if it has nothing to do with the tragedy. Never mind if it seems to you--superstitious------"

Mr. Unkerton started, ever so slightly. "Tell us."

"I don't mind telling you," said Unkerton. "Though it's nothing to do with the business, and you'll probably laugh at me into the bargain. I was wishing that my Missus had left well alone and not replaced that pane of glass in the haunted window. I feel as though doing that has maybe brought a curse upon us."

He was unable to understand why the two men opposite him stared so.

"But she hasn't replaced it yet," said Mr. Satterthwaite at last.

"Yes, she has. Man came first thing this morning."

"My God!" said Porter, "I begin to understand. That room, it's panelled, I supposed, not papered?"

"Yes, but what does that------?"

But Porter had swung out of the room. The other followed him. He went straight upstairs to the Scotts' bedroom It was a charming room, panelled in cream with two windows facing south. Porter felt with his hands along the panels on the western wall.

"There's a spring somewhere--must be. Ah!" There was a click, and a section of the panelling rolled back. It disclosed the grimy panes of the haunted window. One pane of glass was clean and new. Porter stooped quickly and picked up something. He held it out on the palm of his hand. It was a fragment of ostrich feather. Then he looked at Mr. Quin. Mr. Quin nodded.

He went across to the hat cupboard in the bedroom. There were several hats in it--the dead woman's hats. He took out one with a large brim and curling feathers--an elaborate Ascot hat.

Mr. Quin began speaking in a gentle, reflective voice. "Let us suppose," said Mr. Quin, "a man who is by nature intensely jealous. A man who has stayed here in bygone years and knows the secret of the spring in the panelling. To amuse himself he opens it one day, and looks out over the Privy Garden. There, secure as they think from being overlooked, he sees his wife and another man. There can be no possible doubt in his mind as to the relations between them. He is mad with rage. What shall he do? An idea comes to him. He goes to the cupboard and puts on the hat with the brim and feathers. It is growing dusk, and he remembers the story of the stain on the glass. Anyone looking up at the window will see as they think the Watching Cavalier. Thus secure he watches them, and at the moment they are clasped in each other's arms, he shoots. He is a good shot--a wonderful shot. As they fall, he fires once more--that shot carries away the earring. He flings the pistol out of the window into the Privy Garden, rushes downstairs and out through the billiard room." Porter took a step towards him.

"But he let her be accused!" he cried. "He stood by and let her be accused. Why? Why?"

"I think I know why," said Mr. Quin. "I should guess--it's only guess-work on my part, mind--that Richard Scott was once madly in love with Iris Staverton--so madly that even meeting her years afterwards stirred up the embers of jealousy again. I should say that Iris Staverton once fancied that she might love him, that she went on a hunting trip with him and another--and that she came back in love with the better man."

"The better man," muttered Porter, dazed. "You mean------?"

"Yes," said Mr. Quin, with a faint smile. "I mean you." He paused a minute, and then said: "If I were you--I should go to her now."

"I will," said Porter.

He turned and left the room.

CHAPTER THREE

AT THE "BELLS AND MOTLEY"

MR. SATTERTHWAITE was annoyed. Altogether it had been an unfortunate day. They had started late, there had been two punctures already, finally, they had taken the wrong turning and lost themselves amidst the wilds of Salisbury Plain. Now it was close on eight o'clock, they were still a matter of forty miles from Marswick Manor whither they were bound, and a third puncture had supervened to render matters still more trying.

Mr. Satterthwaite, looking like some small bird whose plumage had been ruffled, walked up and down in front of the village garage whilst his chauffeur conversed in hoarse undertones with the local expert.

"Half an hour at least" said that worthy pronouncing judgment.

"And lucky at that," supplemented Masters, the chauffeur. "More like three quarters if you ask me."

"What is this--place, anyway?" demanded Mr. Satterthwaite fretfully. Being a little gentleman considerate of the feelings of others, he substituted the word "place" for "God-forsaken hole" which had first risen to his lips.

"Kirtlington Mallet."