He turned his head sharply to the left and looked across at Mr Satterthwaite with an apologetic laugh.
‘I am beginning to get the jimjams, Satterthwaite. I thought for a moment there was someone sitting in that empty chair and that he said something to me.
‘Yes,’ he went on after a minute or two, ‘it was a pretty ghastly shock to Alix Charnley. She was one of the prettiest girls you could see anywhere and cram full of what people call the joy of living, and now they say she is like a ghost herself. Not that I have seen her for years. I believe she lives abroad most of the time.’
‘And the boy?’
‘The boy is at Eton. What he will do when he comes of age I don’t know. I don’t think, somehow, that he will reopen the old place.’
‘It would make a good People’s Pleasure Park,’ said Bristow.
Colonel Monckton looked at him with cold abhorrence.
‘No, no, you don’t really mean that,’ said Mr Satterthwaite. ‘You wouldn’t have painted that picture if you did. Tradition and atmosphere are intangible things. They take centuries to build up and if you destroyed them you couldn’t rebuild them again in twenty-four hours.’
He rose. ‘Let us go into the smoking-room. I have some photographs there of Charnley which I should like to show you.’
One of Mr Satterthwaite’s hobbies was amateur photography. He was also the proud author of a book, ‘Homes of My Friends’. The friends in question were all rather exalted and the book itself showed Mr Satterthwaite forth in rather a more snobbish light than was really fair to him.
‘That is a photograph I took of the Terrace Room last year,’ he said. He handed it to Bristow. ‘You see it is taken at almost the same angle as is shown in your picture. That is rather a wonderful rug–it is a pity that photographs can’t show colouring.’
‘I remember it,’ said Bristow, ‘a marvellous bit of colour. It glowed like a flame. All the same it looked a bit incongruous there. The wrong size for that big room with its black and white squares. There is no rug anywhere else in the room. It spoils the whole effect–it was like a gigantic blood stain.’
‘Perhaps that gave you your idea for your picture?’ said Mr Satterthwaite.
‘Perhaps it did,’ said Bristow thoughtfully. ‘On the face of it, one would naturally stage a tragedy in the little panelled room leading out of it.’
‘The Oak Parlour,’ said Monckton. ‘Yes, that is the haunted room right enough. There is a Priests’ hiding hole there–a movable panel by the fireplace. Tradition has it that Charles I was concealed there once. There were two deaths from duelling in that room. And it was there, as I say, that Reggie Charnley shot himself.’
He took the photograph from Bristow’s hand.
‘Why, that is the Bokhara rug,’ he said, ‘worth a couple of thousand pounds, I believe. When I was there it was in the Oak Parlour–the right place for it. It looks silly on that great expanse of marble flags.’
Mr Satterthwaite was looking at the empty chair which he had drawn up beside his. Then he said thoughtfully: ‘I wonder when it was moved?’
‘It must have been recently. Why, I remember having a conversation about it on the very day of the tragedy. Charnley was saying it really ought to be kept under glass.’
Mr Satterthwaite shook his head. ‘The house was shut up immediately after the tragedy and everything was left exactly as it was.’
Bristow broke in with a question. He had laid aside his aggressive manner.
‘Why did Lord Charnley shoot himself?’ he asked.
Colonel Monckton shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
‘No one ever knew,’ he said vaguely.
‘I suppose,’ said Mr Satterthwaite slowly, ‘that it was suicide.’
The Colonel looked at him in blank astonishment.
‘Suicide,’ he said, ‘why, of course it was suicide. My dear fellow, I was there in the house myself.’
Mr Satterthwaite looked towards the empty chair at his side and, smiling to himself as though at some hidden joke the others could not see, he said quietly:
‘Sometimes one sees things more clearly years afterwards than one could possibly at the time.’
‘Nonsense,’ spluttered Monckton, ‘arrant nonsense! How can you possibly see things better when they are vague in your memory instead of clear and sharp?’
But Mr Satterthwaite was reinforced from an unexpected quarter.
‘I know what you mean,’ said the artist. ‘I should say that possibly you were right. It is a question of proportion, isn’t it? And more than proportion probably. Relativity and all that sort of thing.’
‘If you ask me,’ said the Colonel, ‘all this Einstein business is a lot of dashed nonsense. So are spiritualists and the spook of one’s grandmother!’ He glared round fiercely.
‘Of course it was suicide,’ he went on. ‘Didn’t I practically see the thing happen with my own eyes?’
‘Tell us about it,’ said Mr Satterthwaite, ‘so that we shall see it with our eyes also.’
With a somewhat mollified grunt the Colonel settled himself more comfortably in his chair.
‘The whole thing was extraordinarily unexpected,’ he began. ‘Charnley had been his usual normal self. There was a big party staying in the house for this ball. No one could ever have guessed he would go and shoot himself just as the guests began arriving.’
‘It would have been better taste if he had waited until they had gone,’ said Mr Satterthwaite.
‘Of course it would. Damned bad taste–to do a thing like that.’
‘Uncharacteristic,’ said Mr Satterthwaite.
‘Yes,’ admitted Monckton, ‘it wasn’t like Charnley.’
‘And yet it was suicide?’
‘Of course it was suicide. Why, there were three or four of us there at the top of the stairs. Myself, the Ostrander girl, Algie Darcy–oh, and one or two others. Charnley passed along the hall below and went into the Oak Parlour. The Ostrander girl said there was a ghastly look on his face and his eyes were staring–but, of course, that is nonsense–she couldn’t even see his face from where we were–but he did walk in a hunched way, as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. One of the girls called to him–she was somebody’s governess, I think, whom Lady Charnley had included in the party out of kindness. She was looking for him with a message. She called out “Lord Charnley, Lady Charnley wants to know–” He paid no attention and went into the Oak Parlour and slammed the door and we heard the key turn in the lock. Then, one minute after, we heard the shot.
‘We rushed down to the hall. There is another door from the Oak Parlour leading into the Terrace Room. We tried that but it was locked, too. In the end we had to break the door down. Charnley was lying on the floor–dead–with a pistol close beside his right hand. Now, what could that have been but suicide? Accident? Don’t tell me. There is only one other possibility–murder–and you can’t have murder without a murderer. You admit that, I suppose.’
‘The murderer might have escaped,’ suggested Mr Satterthwaite.
‘That is impossible. If you have a bit of paper and a pencil I will draw you a plan of the place. There are two doors into the Oak Parlour, one into the hall and one into the Terrace Room. Both these doors were locked in the inside and the keys were in the locks.’
‘The window?’
‘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 was coming down from the North. We had the carriage to ourselves. I don’t know why, but we began to talk. I don’t know her name and I don’t suppose I shall ever meet her again. I don’t know that I want to. It might be–a pity.’ He paused, struggling to express himself. ‘She wasn’t quite real, you know. Shadowy. Like one of the people who come out of the hills in Gaelic fairy tales.’
Mr Satterthwaite nodded gently. His imagination pictured the scene easily enough. The very positive and realistic Bristow and a figure that was silvery and ghostly–shadowy, as Bristow had said.
‘I suppose if something very terrible had happened, so terrible as to be almost unbearable, one might get like that. One might run away from reality into a half world of one’s own and then, of course, after a time, one wouldn’t be able to get back.’
‘Was that what had happened to her?’ asked Mr Satterthwaite curiously.
‘I don’t know,’ said Bristow. ‘She didn’t tell me anything, I am only guessing. One has to guess if one is going to get anywhere.’
‘Yes,’ said Mr Satterthwaite slowly. ‘One has to guess.’
He looked up as the door opened. He looked up quickly and expectantly but the butler’s words disappointed him.
‘A lady, sir, has called to see you on very urgent business. Miss Aspasia Glen.’
Mr Satterthwaite rose in some astonishment. He knew the name of Aspasia Glen. Who in London did not? First advertised as the Woman with the Scarf, she had given a series of matinées single-handed that had taken London by storm. With the aid of her scarf she had impersonated rapidly various characters. In turn the scarf had been the coif of a nun, the shawl of a mill-worker, the head-dress of a peasant and a hundred other things, and in each impersonation Aspasia Glen had been totally and utterly different. As an artist, Mr Satterthwaite paid full reverence to her. As it happened, he had never made her acquaintance. A call upon him at this unusual hour intrigued him greatly. With a few words of apology to the others he left the room and crossed the hall to the drawing-room.
Miss Glen was sitting in the very centre of a large settee upholstered in gold brocade. So poised she dominated the room. Mr Satterthwaite perceived at once that she meant to dominate the situation. Curiously enough, his first feeling was one of repulsion. He had been a sincere admirer of Aspasia Glen’s art. Her personality, as conveyed to him over the footlights, had been appealing and sympathetic. Her effects there had been wistful and suggestive rather than commanding. But now, face to face with the woman herself, he received a totally different impression. There was something hard–bold–forceful about her. She was tall and dark, possibly about thirty-five years of age. She was undoubtedly very good-looking and she clearly relied upon the fact.
‘You must forgive this unconventional call, Mr Satterthwaite,’ she said. Her voice was full and rich and seductive.
‘I won’t say that I have wanted to know you for a long time, but I am glad of the excuse. As for coming tonight’–she laughed–‘well, when I want a thing, I simply can’t wait. When I want a thing, I simply must have it.’
‘Any excuse that has brought me such a charming lady guest must be welcomed by me,’ said Mr Satterthwaite in an old-fashioned gallant manner.
‘How nice you are to me,’ said Aspasia Glen.
‘My dear lady,’ said Mr Satterthwaite, ‘may I thank you here and now for the pleasure you have so often given me–in my seat in the stalls.’
She smiled delightfully at him.
‘I am coming straight to the point. I was at the Harchester Galleries today. I saw a picture there I simply couldn’t live without. I wanted to buy it and I couldn’t because you had already bought it. So’–she paused–‘I do want it so,’ she went on. ‘Dear Mr Satterthwaite, I simply must have it. I brought my cheque book.’ She looked at him hopefully. ‘Everyone tells me you are so frightfully kind. People are kind to me, you know. It is very bad for me–but there it is.’
So these were Aspasia Glen’s methods. Mr Satterthwaite was inwardly coldly critical of this ultra-femininity and of this spoilt child pose. It ought to appeal to him, he supposed, but it didn’t. Aspasia Glen had made a mistake. She had judged him as an elderly dilettante, easily flattered by a pretty woman. But Mr Sat
terthwaite behind his gallant manner had a shrewd and critical mind. He saw people pretty well as they were, not as they wished to appear to him. He saw before him, not a charming woman pleading for a whim, but a ruthless egoist determined to get her own way for some reason which was obscure to him. And he knew quite certainly that Aspasia Glen was not going to get her own way. He was not going to give up the picture of the Dead Harlequin to her. He sought rapidly in his mind for the best way of circumventing her without overt rudeness.
‘I am sure,’ he said, ‘that everyone gives you your own way as often as they can and is only too delighted to do so.’
‘Then you are really going to let me have the picture?’
Mr Satterthwaite shook his head slowly and regretfully.
‘I am afraid that is impossible. You see’–he paused–‘I bought that picture for a lady. It is a present.’
‘Oh! but surely–’
The telephone on the table rang sharply. With a murmured word of excuse Mr Satterthwaite took up the receiver. A voice spoke to him, a small, cold voice that sounded very far away.
‘Can I speak to Mr Satterthwaite, please?’
‘It is Mr Satterthwaite speaking.’
‘I am Lady Charnley, Alix Charnley. I daresay you don’t remember me Mr Satterthwaite, it is a great many years since we met.’
‘My dear Alix. Of course, I remember you.’
‘There is something I wanted to ask you. I was at the Harchester Galleries at an exhibition of pictures today, there was one called The Dead Harlequin, perhaps you recognized it–it was the Terrace Room at Charnley. I–I want to have that picture. It was sold to you.’ She paused. ‘Mr Satterthwaite, for reasons of my own I want that picture. Will you resell it to me?’
Mr Satterthwaite thought to himself: ‘Why, this is a miracle.’ As he spoke into the receiver he was thankful that Aspasia Glen could only hear one side of the conversation. ‘If you will accept my gift, dear lady, it will make me very happy.’ He heard a sharp exclamation behind him and hurried on. ‘I bought it for you. I did indeed. But listen, my dear Alix, I want to ask you to do me a great favour, if you will.’