Mysterious Mr. Quin - Agatha Christie [57]
He went on to describe the mission with which he had been entrusted by Lady Stranleigh.
‘I thought of running down to Abbot’s Mede to see the young lady,’ he explained. ‘I–I feel that something ought to be done about the matter. It is impossible to think of Lady Stranleigh as an ordinary mother.’ He stopped, looking across the table at Mr Quin.
‘I wish you would come with me,’ he said wistfully. ‘Would it not be possible?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ said Mr Quin. ‘But let me see, Abbot’s Mede is in Wiltshire, is it not?’
Mr Satterthwaite nodded.
‘I thought as much. As it happens, I shall be staying not far from Abbot’s Mede, at a place you and I both know.’ He smiled. ‘You remember that little inn, the “Bells and Motley”?’
‘Of course,’ cried Mr Satterthwaite; ‘you will be there?’
Mr Quin nodded. ‘For a week or ten days. Possibly longer. If you will come and look me up one day, I shall be delighted to see you.’
And somehow or other Mr Satterthwaite felt strangely comforted by the assurance.
III
‘My dear Miss–er–Margery,’ said Mr Satterthwaite, ‘I assure you that I should not dream of laughing at you.’
Margery Gale frowned a little. They were sitting in the large comfortable hall of Abbot’s Mede. Margery Gale was a big squarely built girl. She bore no resemblance to her mother, but took entirely after her father’s side of the family, a line of hard-riding country squires. She looked fresh and wholesome and the picture of sanity. Nevertheless, Mr Satterthwaite was reflecting to himself that the Barrons as a family were all inclined to mental instability. Margery might have inherited her physical appearance from her father and at the same time have inherited some mental kink from her mother’s side of the family.
‘I wish,’ said Margery, ‘that I could get rid of that Casson woman. I don’t believe in spiritualism, and I don’t like it. She is one of these silly women that run a craze to death. She is always bothering me to have a medium down here.’
Mr Satterthwaite coughed, fidgeted a little in his chair and then said in a judicial manner:
‘Let me be quite sure that I have all the facts. The first of the–er–phenomena occurred two months ago, I understand?’
‘About that,’ agreed the girl. ‘Sometimes it was a whisper and sometimes it was quite a clear voice but it always said much the same thing.’
‘Which was?’
‘Give back what is not yours. Give back what you have stolen. On each occasion I switched on the light, but the room was quite empty and there was no one there. In the end I got so nervous that I got Clayton, mother’s maid, to sleep on the sofa in my room.’
‘And the voice came just the same?’
‘Yes–and this is what frightens me–Clayton did not hear it.’
Mr Satterthwaite reflected for a minute or two.
‘Did it come loudly or softly that evening?’
‘It was almost a whisper,’ admitted Margery. ‘If Clayton was sound asleep I suppose she would not really have heard it. She wanted me to see a doctor.’ The girl laughed bitterly.
‘But since last night even Clayton believes,’ she continued.
‘What happened last night?’
‘I am just going to tell you. I have told no one as yet. I had been out hunting yesterday and we had had a long run. I was dead tired, and slept very heavily. I dreamt–a horrible dream–that I had fallen over some iron railings and that one of the spikes was entering slowly into my throat. I woke to find that it was true –there was some sharp point pressing into the side of my neck, and at the same time a voice was murmuring softly: “You have stolen what is mine. This is death.”
‘I screamed,’ continued Margery, ‘and clutched at the air, but there was nothing there. Clayton heard me scream from the room next door where she was sleeping. She came rushing in, and she distinctly felt something brushing past her in the darkness, but she says that whatever that something