Mr. Satterthwaite looked grave. Two things struck him as of
significance. Lady Stranleigh had received a gift of a box of
chocolates and she was suffering from a severe attack of poisoning.
Apparently she had not connected these two things. Was there a
connection? He himself was inclined to think there was.
A tall, dark girl lounged out of the morning room and joined them. She
was introduced to Mr. Satterthwaite as Marcia Keane. She smiled on the
little man in an easy good-humored fashion.
"Have you come down to hunt Margery's pet ghost?" she asked in a
drawling voice. "We all rot her about that ghost. Hello, here's Roley."
A car had just drawn up at the front door. Out of it tumbled a tall
young man with fair hair and an eager, boyish manner.
"Hello, Margery," he cried. "Hello, Marcia! I have brought down
reinforcements." He turned to the two women who were just entering the
hall. Mr. Satterthwaite recognized in the first one of the two the Mrs.
Casson of whom Margery had spoken just now.
"You must forgive me, Margery dear," she drawled, smiling broadly. "Mr.
Vavasour told us that it would be quite all right. It was really his
idea that I should bring down Mrs. Lloyd with me."
She indicated her companion with a slight gesture of the hand. "This is
Mrs. Lloyd," she said in a tone of triumph. "Simply the most wonderful
medium that ever existed."
Mrs. Lloyd uttered no modest protest; she bowed and remained with her
hands crossed in front of her. She was a highly colored young woman
of commonplace appearance. Her clothes were unfashionable but rather
ornate. She wore a chain of moonstones and several rings.
Margery Gale, as Mr. Satterthwaite could see, was not too pleased at
this intrusion. She threw an angry look at Roley Vavasour, who seemed
quite unconscious of the offense he had caused.
"Lunch is ready, I think," said Margery.
"Good," said Mrs. Casson, "we will hold a séance immediately afterward.
Have you got some fruit for Mrs. Lloyd? She never eats a solid meal
before a séance."
They all went into the dining room. The medium ate two bananas and an
apple, and replied cautiously and briefly to the various polite remarks
which Margery addressed to her from time to time. Just before they
rose from table, she flung back her head suddenly and sniffed the air.
"There is something very wrong in this house; I feel it."
"Isn't she wonderful," said Mrs. Casson in a low, delighted voice.
"Oh! undoubtedly," said Mr. Satterthwaite dryly.
The séance was held in the library. The hostess was, as Mr.
Satterthwaite could see, very unwilling; only the obvious delight of
her guests in the proceedings reconciled her to the ordeal.
The arrangements were made with a good deal of care by Mrs. Casson, who
was evidently well up in those matters. The chairs were set round in
a circle, the curtains were drawn, and presently the medium announced
herself ready to begin.
"Six people," she said, looking round the room. "That is bad. We must
have an uneven number. Seven is ideal. I get my best results out of a
circle of seven."
"One of the servants," suggested Roley. He rose. "I will rout out the
butler."
"Let's have Clayton," said Margery.
Mr. Satterthwaite saw a look of annoyance pass over Roley Vavasour's
good-looking face.
"But why Clayton?" he demanded.
"You don't like Clayton," said Margery slowly.
Roley shrugged his shoulders. "Clayton doesn't like me," he said
whimsically; "in fact, she hates me like poison." He waited a minute or
two but Margery did not give way. "All right," he said, "have her down."
The circle was formed. There was a period of silence, broken by the
usual coughs and fidgetings. Presently a succession of raps were
heard and then the voice of the medium's control, a Red Indian called
Cherokee.
"Indian Brave says you good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Someone here
very anxious speak. Someone here very anxious give message to young
lady. I go now. The spirit say what she come to say."
A pause and then a new voice, that of a woman, said softly, "Is Margery
here?"
Roley Vavasour took it upon himself to answer.
"Yes," he said, "she is. Who is that speaking?"
"I am Beatrice."
"Beatrice? Who is Beatrice?"
To everyone's annoyance the voice of the Red Indian Cherokee was heard
once more: "I have message for all of you people. Life here very bright
and beautiful. We all work very hard. Help those who have not yet
passed over."
Again a silence and then the woman's voice was heard once more: "This
is Beatrice speaking."
"Beatrice who?"
"Beatrice Barron."
Mr. Satterthwaite leaned forward. He was very excited. "Beatrice Barron
who was drowned in the _Uralia_?"
"Yes, that is right. I remember the _Uralia_. I have a message--for
this house--_Give back what is not yours_."
"I don't understand," said Margery helplessly. "I--oh, are you really
Aunt Beatrice?"
"Yes, I am your aunt."
"Of course she is," said Mrs. Casson reproachfully. "How can you be so
suspicious? The spirits don't like it."
And suddenly Mr. Satterthwaite thought of a very simple test. His voice
quivered a little as he spoke. "Do you remember Mr. Bottacetti?" he
asked.
Immediately there came a ripple of laughter.
"Poor old Boatupsetty. Of course."
Mr. Satterthwaite was dumbfounded. The test had succeeded. It was an
incident of over forty years ago, which had happened when he and the
Barron girls had found themselves at the same seaside resort. A young
Italian acquaintance of theirs had gone out in a boat and capsized,
and Beatrice Barron had jestingly named him Boatupsetty. It seemed
impossible that anyone in the room could know of this incident except
himself.
The medium stirred and groaned.
"She is coming out," said Mrs. Casson; "that is all we will get out of
her today, I am afraid."
The daylight shone once more on the room full of people, two of whom at
least were badly scared.
Mr. Satterthwaite saw by Margery's white face that she was deeply
perturbed. When they had got rid of Mrs. Casson and the medium, he
sought a private interview with his hostess.
"I want to ask you one or two questions, Miss Margery. If you and your
mother were to die, who succeeds to the title and estates?"
"Roley Vavasour, I suppose. His mother was Mother's first cousin."
Mr. Satterthwaite nodded. "He seems to have been here a lot this
winter," he said gently. "You will forgive me asking--but is he--fond
of you?"
"He asked me to marry him three weeks ago," said Margery quietly. "I
said no."
"Please forgive me, but are you engaged to anyone else?"
He saw the color sweep over her face.
"I am," she said emphatically. "I am going to marry Noel Barton. Mother
laughs and says it is absurd. She seems to think it is ridiculous to be
engaged to a curate. Why, I should like to know? There are curates and
curates! You should see Noel on a horse."
"Oh, quite so," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "Oh, undoubtedly."
A footman entered with a telegram on a salver. Margery tore it open.
"Mother is arriving home tomorrow," she said. "Bother. I wish to
goodness she would stay away."
Mr. Satterthwaite made no comment on this filial sentiment. Perhaps
he thought it justified. "In that case," he murmured, "I think I am
returning to London."
* * * * *
Mr. Satterthwaite was not quite pleased with himself. He felt that he
had left this particular problem in an unfinished state. True that, on
Lady Stranleigh's return, his responsibility was ended; yet he felt
assured that he had not heard the last of the Abbot's Mede mystery.
But the next development, when it came, was so serious in its character
that it found him totally unprepared. He learned of it in the pages
of his morning paper: _Baroness Dies in Her Bath_, as the _Daily
Megaphone_ had it. The other papers were more restrained and delicate
in their language, but the fact was the same. Lady Stranleigh had been
found dead in her bath, and her death was due to drowning. She had, it
was assumed, lost consciousness and while in that state her head had
slipped below the water.
But Mr. Satterthwaite was not satisfied with that explanation. Calling
for his valet, he made his toilet with less than his usual care and ten
minutes later his big Rolls Royce was carrying him out of London as
fast as it could travel.
But strangely enough it was not for Abbot's Mede he was bound, but for
a small inn some fifteen miles distant which bore the rather unusual
name of The Bells and Motley. It was with great relief that he heard
that Mr. Harley Quin was still staying there. In another minute he was
face to face with his friend.
Mr. Satterthwaite clasped him by the hand and began to speak at once
in an agitated manner. "I am terribly upset. You must help me. Already
I have a dreadful feeling that it may be too late--that that nice
girl may be the next to go; for she is a nice girl, nice through and
through."
"If you will tell me," said Mr. Quin, smiling, "what it is all about?"
Mr. Satterthwaite looked at him reproachfully. "You know. I am
perfectly certain that you know. But I will tell you."
He poured out the story of his stay at Abbot's Mede and, as always with
Mr. Quin, he found himself taking pleasure in his narrative. He was
eloquent and subtle and meticulous as to detail.
"So you see," he ended, "there must be an explanation."
He looked hopefully at Mr. Quin, as a dog looks at his master.
"But it is you who must solve the problem, not I," said Mr. Quin. "I do
not know these people. You do."
"I knew the Barron girls forty years ago," said Mr. Satterthwaite with
pride.
Mr. Quin nodded and looked sympathetic, so much so that the other went
on dreamily:
"That time at Brighton now, Bottacetti-Boatupsetty; quite a silly joke
but how we laughed. Dear, dear, I was young then. Did a lot of foolish
things. I remember the maid they had with them. Alice, her name was, a
little bit of a thing--very ingenuous. I kissed her in the passage of
the hotel, I remember, and one of the girls nearly caught me doing it.
Dear, dear, how long ago that all was."
He shook his head again and sighed. Then he looked at Mr. Quin. "So you
can't help me?" he said wistfully. "On other occasions--"
"On other occasions you have proved successful owing entirely to your
own efforts," said Mr. Quin gravely. "I think it will be the same this
time. If I were you, I should go to Abbot's Mede now."
"Quite so, quite so," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "As a matter of fact,
that is what I thought of doing. I can't persuade you to come with me?"
Mr. Quin shook his head. "No," he said, "my work here is done. I am
leaving almost immediately."
At Abbot's Mede, Mr. Satterthwaite was taken at once to Margery Gale.
She was sitting dry-eyed at a desk in the morning room on which were
strewn various papers. Something in her greeting touched him. She
seemed so very pleased to see him.
"Roley and Marcia have just left. Mr. Satterthwaite, it is not as the
doctors think. I am convinced, absolutely convinced, that Mother was
pushed under the water and held there. She was murdered, and whoever
murdered her wants to murder me too. I am sure of that. That is why--"
She indicated the document in front of her.
"I have been making my will," she explained. "A lot of the money and
some of the property does not go with the title, and there is my
father's money as well. I am leaving everything I can to Noel. I know
he will make a good use of it, and I do not trust Roley; he has always
been out for what he can get. Will you sign it as a witness?"
"My dear young lady," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "you should sign a will
in the presence of two witnesses, and they should then sign themselves
at the same time."
Margery brushed aside this legal pronouncement.
"I don't see that it matters in the least," she declared. "Clayton
saw me sign and then she signed her name. I was going to ring for the
butler, but you will do instead."
Mr. Satterthwaite uttered no fresh protest; he unscrewed his fountain
pen and then, as he was about to append his signature, he paused
suddenly. The name, written just above his own recalled a flow of
memories. Alice Clayton.
Something seemed to be struggling very hard to get through to him.
Alice Clayton; there was some significance about that. Something to do
with Mr. Quin was mixed up with it. Something he had said to Mr. Quin
only a very short time ago.
Ah, he had it now. Alice Clayton, that was her name. _The little bit
of a thing._ People changed--yes, _but not like that_. And the Alice
Clayton he knew had had brown eyes. The room seemed whirling round him.
He felt for a chair and presently, as though from a great distance, he
heard Margery's voice speaking to him anxiously.
"Are you ill? Oh, what is it? I am sure you are ill!"
He was himself again. He took her hand.
"My dear, I see it all now. You must prepare yourself for a great
shock. The woman upstairs whom you call Clayton is not Clayton at all.
The real Alice Clayton was drowned on the _Uralia_."