The Complete Quin and Satterthwaite. Agatha Christie
‘Well, sir, you’ve been very good in letting me talk to you. I hardly know why – anyway, there it is. I’ve said a lot too much. Forget it.’
‘And tomorrow, when an accident is reported, I am to leave it at that? To make no suggestion of suicide?’
‘That’s as you like. I’m glad you realize one thing – that you can’t prevent me.’
‘My dear young man,’ said Mr Satterthwaite placidly, ‘I can hardly attach myself to you like the proverbial limpet. Sooner or later you would give me the slip and accomplish your purpose. But you are frustrated at any rate for this afternoon. You would hardly like to go to your death leaving me under the possible imputation of having pushed you over.’
‘That is true,’ said Cosden. ‘If you insist on remaining here –’
‘I do,’ said Mr Satterthwaite firmly.
Cosden laughed good-humouredly.
‘Then the plan must be deferred for the moment. In which case I will go back to the hotel. See you later perhaps.’
Mr Satterthwaite was left looking at the sea.
‘And now,’ he said to himself softly, ‘what next? There must be a next. I wonder …’
He got up. For a while he stood at the edge of the plateau looking down on the dancing water beneath. But he found no inspiration there, and turning slowly he walked back along the path between the cypresses and into the quiet garden. He looked at the shuttered, peaceful house and he wondered, as he had often wondered before, who had lived there and what had taken place within those placid walls. On a sudden impulse he walked up some crumbling stone steps and laid a hand on one of the faded green shutters.
To his surprise it swung back at his touch. He hesitated a moment, then pushed it boldly open. The next minute he stepped back with a little exclamation of dismay. A woman stood in the window facing him. She wore black and had a black lace mantilla draped over her head.
Mr Satterthwaite floundered wildly in Italian interspersed with German – the nearest he could get in the hurry of the moment to Spanish. He was desolated and ashamed, he explained haltingly. The Signora must forgive. He thereupon retreated hastily, the woman not having spoken one word.
He was halfway across the courtyard when she spoke – two sharp words like a pistol crack.
‘Come back!’
It was a barked-out command such as might have been addressed to a dog, yet so absolute was the authority it conveyed, that Mr Satterthwaite had swung round hurriedly and trotted back to the window almost automatically before it occurred to him to feel any resentment. He obeyed like a dog. The woman was still standing motionless at the window. She looked him up and down appraising him with perfect calmness.
‘You are English,’ she said. ‘I thought so.’
Mr Satterthwaite started off on a second apology.
‘If I had known you were English,’ he said, ‘I could have expressed myself better just now. I offer my most sincere apologies for my rudeness in trying the shutter. I am afraid I can plead no excuse save curiosity. I had a great wish to see what the inside of this charming house was like.’
She laughed suddenly, a deep, rich laugh.
‘If you really want to see it,’ she said, ‘you had better come in.’
She stood aside, and Mr Satterthwaite, feeling pleasurably excited, stepped into the room. It was dark, since the shutters of the other windows were closed, but he could see that it was scantily and rather shabbily furnished and that the dust lay thick everywhere.
‘Not here,’ she said. ‘I do not use this room.’
She led the way and he followed her, out of the room across a passage and into a room the other side. Here the windows gave on the sea and the sun streamed in. The furniture, like that of the other room, was poor in quality, but there were some worn rugs that had been good in their time, a large screen of Spanish leather and bowls of fresh flowers.
‘You will have tea with me,’ said Mr Satterthwaite’s hostess. She added reassuringly: ‘It is perfectly good tea and will be made with boiling water.’
She went out of the door and called out something in Spanish, then she returned and sat down on a sofa opposite her guest. For the first time, Mr Satterthwaite was able to study her appearance.
The first effect she had upon him was to make him feel even more grey and shrivelled and elderly than usual by contrast with her own forceful personality. She was a tall woman, very sunburnt, dark and handsome though no longer young. When she was in the room the sun seemed to be shining twice as brightly as when she was out of it, and presently a curious feeling of warmth and aliveness began to steal over Mr Satterthwaite. It was as though he stretched out thin, shrivelled hands to a reassuring flame. He thought, ‘She’s so much vitality herself that she’s got a lot left over for other people.’
He recalled the command in her voice when she had stopped him, and wished that his protégée, Olga, could be imbued with a little of that force. He thought: ‘What an Isolde she’d make! And yet she probably hasn’t got the ghost of a singing voice. Life is badly arranged.’ He was, all the same, a little afraid of her. He did not like domineering women.
She had clearly been considering him as she sat with her chin in her hands, making no pretence about it. At last she nodded as though she had made up her mind.
‘I am glad you came,’ she said at last. ‘I needed someone very badly to talk to this afternoon. And you are used to that, aren’t you?’
‘I don’t quite understand.’
‘I meant people tell you things. You knew what I meant! Why pretend?’
‘Well – perhaps –’
She swept on, regardless of anything he had been going to say.
‘One could say anything to you. That is because you are half a woman. You know what we feel – what we think – the queer, queer things we do.’
Her voice died away. Tea was brought by a large, smiling Spanish girl. It was good tea – China – Mr Satterthwaite sipped it appreciatively.
‘You live here?’ he inquired conversationally.
‘Yes.’
‘But not altogether. The house is usually shut up, is it not? At least so I have been told.’
‘I am here a good deal, more than anyone knows. I only use these rooms.’
‘You have had the house long?’
‘It has belonged to me for twenty-two years – and I lived here for a year before that.’
Mr Satterthwaite said rather inanely (or so he felt): ‘That is a very long time.’
‘The year? Or the twenty-two years?’
His interest stirred, Mr Satterthwaite said gravely: ‘That depends.’
She nodded.
‘Yes, it depends. They are two separate periods. They have nothing to do with each other. Which is long? Which is short? Even now I cannot say.’
She was silent for a minute, brooding. Then she said with a little smile:
‘It is such a long time since I have talked with anyone – such a long time! I do not apologize. You came to my shutter. You wished to look through my window. And that is what you are always doing, is it not? Pushing aside the shutter and looking through the window into the truth of people’s lives. If they will let you. And often if they will not let you! It would be difficult to hide anything from you. You would guess – and guess right.’
Mr Satterthwaite had an odd impulse to be perfectly sincere.
‘I am sixty-nine,’ he