Mysterious Mr. Quin - Agatha Christie [1]
He observed her now, covertly. Interesting woman–very. So still, and yet so–alive. Alive! That was just it! Not exactly beautiful–no, you wouldn’t call her beautiful, but there was a kind of calamitous magic about her that you couldn’t miss–that no man could miss. The masculine side of Mr Satterthwaite spoke there, but the feminine side (for Mr Satterthwaite had a large share of femininity) was equally interested in another question. Why did Mrs Portal dye her hair?
No other man would probably have known that she dyed her hair, but Mr Satterthwaite knew. He knew all those things. And it puzzled him. Many dark women dye their hair blonde; he had never before come across a fair woman who dyed her hair black.
Everything about her intrigued him. In a queer intuitive way, he felt certain that she was either very happy or very unhappy–but he didn’t know which, and it annoyed him not to know. Furthermore there was the curious effect she had upon her husband.
‘He adores her,’ said Mr Satterthwaite to himself, ‘but sometimes he’s–yes, afraid of her! That’s very interesting. That’s uncommonly interesting.’
Portal drank too much. That was certain. And he had a curious way of watching his wife when she wasn’t looking.
‘Nerves,’ said Mr Satterthwaite. ‘The fellow’s all nerves. She knows it too, but she won’t do anything about it.’
He felt very curious about the pair of them. Something was going on that he couldn’t fathom.
He was roused from his meditations on the subject by the solemn chiming of the big clock in the corner.
‘Twelve o’clock,’ said Evesham. ‘New Year’s Day. Happy New Year–everybody. As a matter of fact that clock’s five minutes fast…I don’t know why the children wouldn’t wait up and see the New Year in?’
‘I don’t suppose for a minute they’ve really gone to bed,’ said his wife placidly. ‘They’re probably putting hairbrushes or something in our beds. That sort of thing does so amuse them. I can’t think why. We should never have been allowed to do such a thing in my young days.’
‘Autre temps, autres moeurs,’ said Conway, smiling.
He was a tall soldierly-looking man. Both he and Evesham were much of the same type–honest upright kindly men with no great pretensions to brains.
‘In my young days we all joined hands in a circle and sang “Auld Lang Syne”,’ continued Lady Laura. ‘“Should auld acquaintance be forgot”–so touching, I always think the words are.’
Evesham moved uneasily.
‘Oh! drop it, Laura,’ he muttered. ‘Not here.’
He strode across the wide hall where they were sitting, and switched on an extra light.
‘Very stupid of me,’ said Lady Laura, sotto voce. ‘Reminds him of poor Mr Capel, of course. My dear, is the fire too hot for you?’
Eleanor Portal made a brusque movement.
‘Thank you. I’ll move my chair back a little.’
What a lovely voice she had–one of those low murmuring echoing voices that stay in your memory, thought Mr Satterthwaite. Her face was in shadow now. What a pity.
From her place in the shadow she spoke again.
‘Mr–Capel?’
‘Yes. The man who originally owned this house. He shot himself you know–oh! very well, Tom dear, I won’t speak of it unless you like. It was a great shock for Tom, of course, because he was here when it happened. So were you, weren’t you, Sir Richard?’
‘Yes, Lady Laura.’
An old grandfather clock in the corner groaned, wheezed, snorted asthmatically, and then struck twelve.
‘Happy New Year, Tom,’ grunted Evesham perfunctorily.
Lady Laura wound up her knitting with some deliberation.
‘Well, we’ve seen the New Year in,’ she observed, and added, looking towards Mrs Portal, ‘What do you think, my dear?’
Eleanor Portal rose quickly to her feet.
‘Bed, by all means,’ she said lightly.
‘She’s very pale,’ thought Mr Satterthwaite, as he too rose, and began busying himself with candlesticks. ‘She’s not usually as pale as that.’
He lighted her candle and handed it to her with a funny little old-fashioned bow. She took it from him with a word of acknowledgment and went