Mysterious Mr. Quin - Agatha Christie [75]
‘Shut, and the shutters fastened across it.’
There was a pause.
‘So that is that,’ said Colonel Monckton triumphantly.
‘It certainly seems to be,’ said Mr Satterthwaite sadly.
‘Mind you,’ said the Colonel, ‘although I was laughing just now at the spiritualists, I don’t mind admitting that there was a deuced rummy atmosphere about the place–about that room in particular. There are several bullet holes in the panels of the walls, the results of the duels that took place in that room, and there is a queer stain on the floor, that always comes back though they have replaced the wood several times. I suppose there will be another blood stain on the floor now–poor Charnley’s blood.’
‘Was there much blood?’ asked Mr Satterthwaite.
‘Very little–curiously little–so the doctor said.’
‘Where did he shoot himself, through the head?’
‘No, through the heart.’
‘That is not the easy way to do it,’ said Bristow. ‘Frightfully difficult to know where one’s heart is. I should never do it that way myself.’
Mr Satterthwaite shook his head. He was vaguely dissatisfied. He had hoped to get at something–he hardly knew what. Colonel Monckton went on.
‘It is a spooky place, Charnley. Of course, I didn’t see anything.’
‘You didn’t see the Weeping Lady with the Silver Ewer?’
‘No, I did not, sir,’ said the Colonel emphatically. ‘But I expect every servant in the place swore they did.’
‘Superstition was the curse of the Middle Ages,’ said Bristow. ‘There are still traces of it here and there, but thank goodness, we are getting free from it.’
‘Superstition,’ mused Mr Satterthwaite, his eyes turned again to the empty chair. ‘Sometimes, don’t you think–it might be useful?’
‘Bristow stared at him.
‘Useful, that’s a queer word.’
‘Well, I hope you are convinced now, Satterthwaite,’ said the Colonel.
‘Oh, quite,’ said Mr Satterthwaite. ‘On the face of it, it seems odd–so purposeless for a newly-married man, young, rich, happy, celebrating his home-coming–curious–but I agree there is no getting away from the facts.’ He repeated softly, ‘The facts,’ and frowned.
‘I suppose the interesting thing is a thing we none of us will ever know,’ said Monckton, ‘the story behind it all. Of course there were rumours–all sorts of rumours. You know the kind of things people say.’
‘But no one knew anything,’ said Mr Satterthwaite thoughtfully.
‘It’s not a best seller mystery, is it?’ remarked Bristow. ‘No one gained by the man’s death.’
‘No one except an unborn child,’ said Mr Satterthwaite.
Monckton gave a sharp chuckle. ‘Rather a blow to poor Hugo Charnley,’ he observed. ‘As soon as it was known that there was going to be a child he had the graceful task of sitting tight and waiting to see if it would be a girl or boy. Rather an anxious wait for his creditors, too. In the end a boy it was and a disappointment for the lot of them.’
‘Was the widow very disconsolate?’ asked Bristow.
‘Poor child,’ said Monckton, ‘I shall never forget her. She didn’t cry or break down or anything. She was like something–frozen. As I say, she shut up the house shortly afterwards and, as far as I know, it has never been reopened since.’
‘So we are left in the dark as to motive,’ said Bristow with a slight laugh. ‘Another man or another woman, it must have been one or the other, eh?’
‘It seems like it,’ said Mr Satterthwaite.
‘And the betting is strongly on another woman,’ continued Bristow, ‘since the fair widow has not married again. I hate women,’ he added dispassionately.
Mr Satterthwaite smiled a little and Frank Bristow saw the smile and pounced upon it.
‘You may smile,’ he said, ‘but I do. They upset everything. They interfere. They get between you and your work. They–I only once met a woman who was–well, interesting.’
‘I thought there would be one,’ said Mr Satterthwaite.
‘Not in the way you mean. I–I just met her casually. As a matter of fact–it was in a train. After all,’ he added defiantly, ‘why shouldn’t one meet people in trains?’
‘Certainly, certainly,’ said Mr Satterthwaite soothingly, ‘a train is as good a place as anywhere else.’
‘It