The judge was finishing his charge to the jury:
"Now, gentlemen, I have almost finished what I want to say to you.
There is evidence for you to consider as to whether this case is
plainly made out against this man so that you may say he is guilty of
the murder of Vivien Barnaby. You have had the evidence of the servants
as to the time the shot was fired. They have one and all agreed upon
it. You have had the evidence of the letter written to the defendant
by Vivien Barnaby on the morning of that same day, Friday, September
23rd, a letter which the defense has not attempted to deny. You have
had evidence that the prisoner first denied having been at Deering
Hill, and later, after evidence had been given by the police, admitted
he had. You will draw your own conclusions from that denial. This
is not a case of direct evidence. You will have to come to your own
conclusions on the subject of motive--of means--of opportunity. The
contention of the defense is that some person unknown entered the music
room after the defendant had left it, and shot Vivien Barnaby with the
gun which by a strange forgetfulness the defendant had left behind him.
You have heard the defendant's story of the reason it took him half
an hour to get home. If you disbelieve the defendant's story and are
satisfied, beyond any reasonable doubt, that the defendant did, upon
Friday, September 23rd, discharge his gun at close quarters to Vivien
Barnaby's head with intent to kill her, then, gentlemen, your verdict
must be guilty. If, on the other hand, you have any reasonable doubt,
it is your duty to acquit the prisoner. I will now ask you to retire
to your room and consider and let me know when you have arrived at a
conclusion."
The jury were absent a little under half an hour. They returned the
verdict that to everyone had seemed a foregone conclusion, the verdict
of "Guilty."
Mr. Satterthwaite left the court after hearing the verdict, with a
thoughtful frown on his face.
A mere murder trial, as such, did not attract him. He was of too
fastidious a temperament to find interest in the sordid details of
the average crime. But the Wylde case had been different. Young
Martin Wylde was what is termed a gentleman--and the victim, Sir
George Barnaby's young wife, had been personally known to the elderly
gentleman.
He was thinking of all this as he walked up Holborn, and then plunged
into a tangle of mean streets leading in the direction of Soho. In
one of these streets there was a small restaurant, known only to the
few, of whom Mr. Satterthwaite was one. It was not cheap--it was, on
the contrary, exceedingly expensive, since it catered exclusively for
the palate of the jaded gourmet. It was quiet--no strains of jazz were
allowed to disturb the hushed atmosphere--it was rather dark; waiters
appeared soft-footed out of the twilight, bearing silver dishes with
the air of participating in some holy rite. The name of the restaurant
was Arlecchino.
Still thoughtful, Mr. Satterthwaite turned into the Arlecchino and made
for his favorite table in a recess in the far corner. Owing to the
twilight before-mentioned, it was not until he was quite close to it
that he saw it was already occupied by a tall, dark man who sat with
his face in shadow, and with a play of color from a stained window
turning his sober garb to a kind of riotous motley.
Mr. Satterthwaite would have turned back, but just at that moment the
stranger moved slightly and the other recognized him.
"God bless my soul," said Mr. Satterthwaite, who was given to
old-fashioned expressions. "Why, it's Mr. Quin!"
Three times before he had met Mr. Quin, and each time the meeting had
resulted in something a little out of the ordinary. A strange person,
this Mr. Quin, with a knack of showing you the things you had known
all along in a totally different light.
At once Mr. Satterthwaite felt excited--pleasurably excited. His role
was that of the looker-on, and he knew it, but sometimes, when in the
company of Mr. Quin, he had the illusion of being an actor--and the
principal actor at that.
"This is very pleasant," he said, beaming all over his dried-up little
face. "Very pleasant indeed. You've no objection to my joining you, I
hope?"
"I shall be delighted," said Mr. Quin. "As you see, I have not yet
begun my meal."
A deferential headwaiter hovered up out of the shadows. Mr.
Satterthwaite, as befitted a man with a seasoned palate, gave his whole
mind to the task of selection. In a few minutes, the headwaiter, a
slight smile of approbation on his lips, retired, and a young satellite
began his ministrations. Mr. Satterthwaite turned to Mr. Quin.
"I have just come from the Old Bailey," he began. "A sad business, I
thought."
"He was found guilty?" said Mr. Quin.
"Yes, the jury were out only half an hour."
Mr. Quin bowed his head. "An inevitable result--on the evidence," he
said.
"And yet--" began Mr. Satterthwaite--and stopped.
Mr. Quin finished the sentence for him. "And yet your sympathies were
with the accused? Is that what you were going to say?"
"I suppose it was. Martin Wylde is a nice-looking young fellow--one can
hardly believe it of him. All the same, there have been a good many
nice-looking young fellows lately who have turned out to be murderers
of a particularly cold-blooded and repellent type."
"Too many," said Mr. Quin quietly.
"I beg your pardon?" said Mr. Satterthwaite, slightly startled.
"Too many for Martin Wylde. There has been a tendency from the
beginning to regard this as just one more of a series of the same type
of crime--a man seeking to free himself from one woman in order to
marry another."
"Well," said Mr. Satterthwaite, doubtfully. "On the evidence--"
"Ah!" said Mr. Quin quickly, "I am afraid I have not followed all the
evidence."
Mr. Satterthwaite's self-confidence came back to him with a rush. He
felt a sudden sense of power. He was tempted to be consciously dramatic.
"Let me try and show it to you. I have met the Barnabys, you
understand. I know the peculiar circumstances. With me you will come
behind the scenes--you will see the thing from inside."
Mr. Quin leaned forward with his quick encouraging smile. "If anyone
can show me that, it will be Mr. Satterthwaite," he murmured.
Mr. Satterthwaite gripped the table with both hands. He was uplifted,
carried out of himself. For the moment he was an artist pure and
simple--an artist whose medium was words.
Swiftly, with a dozen broad strokes, he etched in the picture of life
at Deering Hill. Sir George Barnaby, elderly, obese, purse-proud. A man
perpetually fussing over the little things of life. A man who wound up
his clocks every Friday afternoon, and who paid his own housekeeping
books every Tuesday morning, and who always saw to the locking of his
own front door every night. A careful man.
And from Sir George he went on to Lady Barnaby. Here his touch was
gentler, but none the less sure. He had seen her but once, but
his impression of her was definite and lasting. A vivid, defiant
creature--pitifully young. A trapped child, that was how he described
her.
"She hated him, you understand? She had married him before she knew
what she was doing. And now--"
She was desperate--that was how he put it. Turning this way and that.
She had no money of her own; she was entirely dependent on this
elderly husband. But all the same she was a creature at bay--still
unsure of her own powers, with a beauty that was as yet more promise
than actuality. And she was greedy. Mr. Satterthwaite affirmed that
definitely. Side by side with defiance there ran a greedy streak--a
clasping and a clutching at life.
"I never met Martin Wylde," continued Mr. Satterthwaite. "But I heard
of him. He lived less than a mile away. Farming, that was his line. And
she took an interest in farming--or pretended to. If you ask me, it was
pretending. I think that she saw in him her only way of escape--and she
grabbed at him, greedily, like a child might have done. Well, there
could only be one end to that. We know what that end was, because the
letters were read out in court. He kept her letters--she didn't keep
his, but from the text of hers one can see that he was cooling off. He
admits as much. There was the other girl. She also lived in the village
of Deering Vale. Her father was the doctor there. You saw her in court,
perhaps? No, I remember, you were not there, you said. I shall have
to describe her to you. A fair girl--very fair. Gentle. Perhaps--yes,
perhaps a tiny bit stupid. But very restful, you know. And loyal. Above
all, loyal."
He looked at Mr. Quin for encouragement, and Mr. Quin gave it him by a
slow, appreciative smile. Mr. Satterthwaite went on.
"You heard that last letter read--you must have seen it, in the papers,
I mean. The one written on the morning of Friday, September 13th. It
was full of desperate reproaches and vague threats, and it ended by
begging Martin Wylde to come to Deering Hill that same evening at six
o'clock. '_I will leave the side door open for you, so that no one need
know you have been here. I shall be in the music room._' It was sent by
hand."
Mr. Satterthwaite paused for a minute or two.
"When he was first arrested, you remember, Martin Wylde denied that
he had been to the house at all that evening. His statement was that
he had taken his gun and gone out shooting in the woods. But when the
police brought forward their evidence, that statement broke down. They
had found his fingerprints, you remember, both on the wood of the side
door and on one of the two cocktail glasses on the table in the music
room. He admitted then that he had come to see Lady Barnaby, that they
had had a stormy interview, but that it had ended in his having managed
to soothe her down. He swore that he left his gun outside leaning
against the wall near the door, and that he left Lady Barnaby alive and
well, the time being then a minute or two after a quarter-past six. He
went straight home, he says, but evidence was called to show that he
did not reach his farm until a quarter to seven, and, as I have just
mentioned, it is barely a mile away. It would not take half an hour to
get there. He forgot all about his gun, he declares. Not a very likely
statement--and yet--"
"And yet?" queried Mr. Quin.
"Well," said Mr. Satterthwaite slowly, "it's a possible one, isn't it?
Counsel ridiculed the supposition, of course, but I think he was wrong.
You see, I've known a good many young men, and these emotional scenes
upset them very much--especially the dark nervous type like Martin
Wylde. Women, now, can go through a scene like that and feel positively
better for it afterward, with all their wits about them. It acts like
a safety valve for them, steadies their nerves down and all that. But
I can see Martin Wylde going away with his head in a whirl, sick and
miserable, and without a thought of the gun he had left leaning up
against the wall."
He was silent for some minutes before he went on:
"Not that it matters. For the next part is only too clear,
unfortunately. It was exactly twenty minutes past six when the shot
was heard. All the servants heard it, the cook, the kitchen-maid, the
butler, the housemaid, and Lady Barnaby's own maid. They came rushing
to the music room. She was lying huddled over the arm of her chair. The
gun had been discharged close to the back of her head, so that the shot
hadn't a chance to scatter. At least two of them penetrated the brain."
He paused again and Mr. Quin asked casually, "The servants gave
evidence, I suppose?"
Mr. Satterthwaite nodded. "Yes. The butler got there a second or two
before the others, but their evidence was practically a repetition of
each other's."
"So they _all_ gave evidence," said Mr. Quin musingly. "There were no
exceptions?"
"Now I remember it," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "the housemaid was only
called at the inquest. She's gone to Canada since, I believe."
"I see," said Mr. Quin.
There was a silence, and somehow the air of the little restaurant
seemed to be charged with an uneasy feeling. Mr. Satterthwaite felt
suddenly as though he were on the defensive.
"Why shouldn't she?" he said abruptly.
"Why should she?" said Mr. Quin with a very slight shrug of the
shoulders.
Somehow the question annoyed Mr. Satterthwaite. He wanted to shy away
from it--to get back on familiar ground.
"There couldn't be much doubt who fired the shot. As a matter of fact,
the servants seemed to have lost their heads a bit. There was no one
in the house to take charge. It was some minutes before anyone thought
of ringing up the police, and when they did so, they found that the
telephone was out of order."
"Oh," said Mr. Quin. "The telephone was out of order."
"It was," said Mr. Satterthwaite--and was struck suddenly by the
feeling that he had said something tremendously important. "It might,
of course, have been done on purpose," he said slowly. "But there seems
no point in that. Death was practically instantaneous."
Mr. Quin said nothing, and Mr. Satterthwaite felt that his explanation
was unsatisfactory.
"There was absolutely no one to suspect but young Wylde," he went on.
"By his own account, even, he was only out of the house three minutes
before the shot was fired. And who else could have fired it? Sir George
was at a bridge party a few houses away. He left there at half-past six
and was met just outside the gate by a servant bringing him the news.
The last rubber finished at half-past six exactly--no doubt about that.
Then there was Sir George's secretary, Henry Thompson. He was in London
that day, and actually at a business meeting at the moment the shot was
fired. Finally there is Sylvia Dale, who, after all, had a perfectly
good motive, impossible as it seems that she should have had anything
to do with such a crime. She was at the station of Deering Vale seeing
a friend off by the 6:28 train. That lets her out. Then the servants.
What earthly motive could any one of them have? Besides, they all
arrived on the spot practically simultaneously. No, it must have been
Martin Wylde."
But he said it in a dissatisfied kind of voice.
They went on with their lunch. Mr. Quin was not in a talkative mood,
and Mr. Satterthwaite had said all he had to say. But the silence was
not a barren one. It was filled with the growing dissatisfaction of Mr.
Satterthwaite, heightened and fostered in some strange way by the mere
quiescence of the other man.
Mr. Satterthwaite suddenly put down his knife and fork with a clatter.
"Supposing that that young man is really innocent," he said. "He's
going to be hanged."
He looked very startled and upset about it. And still Mr. Quin said
nothing.
"It's not as though--" began Mr. Satterthwaite, and stopped. "Why
shouldn't the woman go to Canada?" he ended inconsequently.
Mr. Quin shook his head.
"I don't even know what part of Canada she went to," continued Mr.
Satterthwaite peevishly.
"Could you find out?" suggested the other.
"I suppose I could. The butler, now. He'd know. Or possibly Thompson,
the secretary."
He paused again. When he resumed speech, his voice sounded almost
pleading. "It's not as though it were anything to do with me?"
"That a young man is going to be hanged in a little over three weeks?"
"Well, yes--if you put it that way, I suppose. Yes, I see what you
mean. Life and death. And that poor girl, too. It's not that I'm
hard-hearted--but, after all--what good will it do? Isn't the whole
thing rather fantastic? Even if I found out where the woman's gone to
in Canada--why, it would probably mean that I should have to go out
there myself."
Mr. Satterthwaite looked seriously upset. "And I was thinking of going
to the Riviera next week," he said pathetically.
And his glance toward Mr. Quin said as plainly as it could be said: _Do
let me off, won't you?_
"You have never been to Canada?"
"Never."
"A very interesting country."