Mysterious Mr. Quin - Agatha Christie [60]
‘But why Clayton?’ he demanded.
‘You don’t like Clayton,’ said Margery slowly.
Roley shrugged his shoulders. ‘Clayton doesn’t like me,’ he said whimsically. ‘In fact she hates me like poison.’ He waited a minute or two, but Margery did not give way. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘have her down.’
The circle was formed.
There was a period of silence broken by the usual coughs and fidgetings. Presently a succession of raps were heard and then the voice of the medium’s control, a Red Indian called Cherokee.
‘Indian Brave says you Good evening ladies and gentlemen. Someone here very anxious speak. Someone here very anxious give message to young lady. I go now. The spirit say what she come to say.’
A pause and then a new voice, that of a woman, said softly:
‘Is Margery here?’
Roley Vavasour took it upon himself to answer.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘she is. Who is that speaking?’
‘I am Beatrice.’
‘Beatrice? Who is Beatrice?’
To everyone’s annoyance the voice of the Red Indian Cherokee was heard once more.
‘I have message for all of you people. Life here very bright and beautiful. We all work very hard. Help those who have not yet passed over.’
Again a silence and then the woman’s voice was heard once more.
‘This is Beatrice speaking.’
‘Beatrice who?’
‘Beatrice Barron.’
Mr Sattherwaite leaned forward. He was very excited.
‘Beatrice Barron who was drowned in the “Uralia”?’
‘Yes, that is right. I remember the “Uralia”. I have a message–for this house–Give back what is not yours.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Margery helplessly. ‘I–oh, are you really Aunt Beatrice?’
‘Yes, I am your aunt.’
‘Of course she is,’ said Mrs Casson reproachfully. ‘How can you be so suspicious? The spirits don’t like it.’
And suddenly Mr Satterthwaite thought of a very simple test. His voice quivered as he spoke.
‘Do you remember Mr Bottacetti?’ he asked.
Immediately there came a ripple of laughter.
‘Poor old Boatsupsetty. Of course.’
Mr Sattherwaite was dumbfounded. The test had succeeded. It was an incident of over forty years ago which had happened when he and the Barron girls had found themselves at the same seaside resort. A young Italian acquaintance of theirs had gone out in a boat and capsized, and Beatrice Barron had jestingly named him Boatsupsetty. It seemed impossible that anyone in the room could know of this incident except himself.
The medium stirred and groaned.
‘She is coming out,’ said Mrs Casson. ‘That is all we will get out of her today, I am afraid.’
The daylight shone once more on the room full of people, two of whom at least were badly scared.
Mr Satterthwaite saw by Margery’s white face that she was deeply perturbed. When they had got rid of Mrs Casson and the medium, he sought a private interview with his hostess.
‘I want to ask you one or two questions, Miss Margery. If you and your mother were to die who succeeds to the title and estates?’
‘Roley Vavasour, I suppose. His mother was Mother’s first cousin.’
Mr Satterthwaite nodded.
‘He seems to have been here a lot this winter,’ he said gently. ‘You will forgive me asking–but is he–fond of you?’
‘He asked me to marry him three weeks ago,’ said Margery quietly. ‘I said No.’
‘Please forgive me, but are you engaged to anyone else?’
He saw the colour sweep over her face.
‘I am,’ she said emphatically. ‘I am going to marry Noel Barton. Mother laughs and says it is absurd. She seems to think it is ridiculous to be engaged to a curate. Why, I should like to know! There are curates and curates! You should see Noel on a horse.’
‘Oh, quite so,’ said Mr Satterthwaite. ‘Oh, undoubtedly.’
A footman entered with a telegram on a salver. Margery tore it open. ‘Mother is arriving home tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Bother. I wish to goodness she would stay away.’
Mr Satterthwaite made no comment on this filial sentiment. Perhaps he thought it justified. ‘In that case,’ he murmured, ‘I think I am returning to London.’
IV
Mr Satterthwaite was not quite pleased with himself. He felt that he had left this particular problem in an unfinished state. True that, on Lady Stranleigh’s