Mysterious Mr. Quin - Agatha Christie [78]
‘Got what?’
‘Got hold of what was puzzling me. There is a likeness, there is a distinct likeness.’ He was staring curiously at Mr Quin. ‘You see it?’–he turned to Mr Satterthwaite–‘don’t you see a distinct likeness to the Harlequin of my picture–the man looking in through the window?’
It was no fancy this time. He distinctly heard Miss Glen draw in her breath sharply and even saw that she stepped back one pace.
‘I told you that I was expecting someone,’ said Mr Satterthwaite. He spoke with an air of triumph. ‘I must tell you that my friend, Mr Quin, is a most extraordinary person. He can unravel mysteries. He can make you see things.’
‘Are you a medium, sir?’ demanded Colonel Monckton, eyeing Mr Quin doubtfully.
The latter smiled and slowly shook his head.
‘Mr Satterthwaite exaggerates,’ he said quietly. ‘Once or twice when I have been with him he has done some extraordinarily good deductive work. Why he puts the credit down to me I can’t say. His modesty, I suppose.’
‘No, no,’ said Mr Satterthwaite excitedly. ‘It isn’t. You make me see things–things that I ought to have seen all along–that I actually have seen–but without knowing that I saw them.’
‘It sounds to me deuced complicated,’ said Colonel Monckton.
‘Not really,’ said Mr Quin. ‘The trouble is that we are not content just to see things–we will tack the wrong interpretation on to the things we see.’
Aspasia Glen turned to Frank Bristow.
‘I want to know,’ she said nervously, ‘what put the idea of painting that picture into your head?’
Bristow shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t quite know,’ he confessed. ‘Something about the place–about Charnley, I mean, took hold of my imagination. The big empty room. The terrace outside, the idea of ghosts and things, I suppose. I have just been hearing the tale of the last Lord Charnley, who shot himself. Supposing you are dead, and your spirit lives on? It must be odd, you know. You might stand outside on the terrace looking in at the window at your own dead body, and you would see everything.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Aspasia Glen. ‘See everything?’
‘Well, you would see what happened. You would see–’
The door opened and the butler announced Lady Charnley.
Mr Satterthwaite went to meet her. He had not seen her for nearly thirteen years. He remembered her as she once was, an eager, glowing girl. And now he saw–a Frozen Lady. Very fair, very pale, with an air of drifting rather than walking, a snowflake driven at random by an icy breeze. Something unreal about her. So cold, so far away.
‘It was very good of you to come,’ said Mr Satterthwaite.
He led her forward. She made a half gesture of recognition towards Miss Glen and then paused as the other made no response.
‘I am so sorry,’ she murmured, ‘but surely I have met you somewhere, haven’t I?’
‘Over the footlights, perhaps,’ said Mr Satterthwaite. ‘This is Miss Aspasia Glen, Lady Charnley.’
‘I am very pleased to meet you, Lady Charnley,’ said Aspasia Glen.
Her voice had suddenly a slight trans-Atlantic tinge to it. Mr Satterthwaite was reminded of one of her various stage impersonations.
‘Colonel Monckton you know,’ continued Mr Satterthwaite, ‘and this is Mr Bristow.’
He saw a sudden faint tinge of colour in her cheeks.
‘Mr Bristow and I have met too,’ she said, and smiled a little. ‘In a train.’
‘And Mr Harley Quin.’
He watched her closely, but this time there was no flicker of recognition. He set a chair for her, and then, seating himself, he cleared his throat and spoke a little nervously. ‘I–this is rather an unusual little gathering. It centres round this picture. I–I think that if we liked we could–clear things up.’
‘You are not going to hold a séance, Satterthwaite?’ asked Colonel Monckton. ‘You are very odd this evening.’
‘No,’ said Mr Satterthwaite, ‘not exactly a séance. But my friend, Mr Quin, believes, and I agree, that one can, by looking back over the past, see things as they were and not as they appeared to be.’
‘The past?’ said Lady Charnley.
‘I am speaking of your husband’s suicide, Alix. I know it hurts you–’
‘No,