Mr. Satterthwaite walked slowly up Bond Street enjoying the sunshine.
He was, as usual, carefully and beautifully dressed, and was bound
for the Harchester Galleries, where there was an exhibition of the
paintings of one Frank Bristow, a new and hitherto unknown artist who
showed signs of suddenly becoming the rage. Mr. Satterthwaite was a
patron of the arts.
As Mr. Satterthwaite entered the Harchester Galleries, he was greeted
at once with a smile of pleased recognition. "Good morning, Mr.
Satterthwaite, I thought we should see you before long. You know
Bristow's work? Fine--very fine indeed. Quite unique of its kind."
Mr. Satterthwaite purchased a catalogue and stepped through the open
archway into the long room where the artist's work was displayed.
They were watercolors, executed with such extraordinary technique and
finish that they resembled colored etchings. Mr. Satterthwaite walked
slowly round the walls, scrutinizing and on the whole approving. He
thought that this young man deserved to arrive. Here were originality,
vision, and a most severe and exacting technique. There were crudities,
of course. That was only to be expected--but there was also something
closely allied to genius. Mr. Satterthwaite paused before a little
masterpiece representing Westminster Bridge with its crowd of buses,
trams, and hurrying pedestrians. A tiny thing and wonderfully perfect.
It was called, he noted, "The Ant Heap." He passed on and quite
suddenly drew in his breath with a gasp, his imagination held and
riveted.
The picture was called "The Dead Harlequin." The fore-front of it
represented a floor of inlaid squares of black and white marble.
In the middle of the floor lay Harlequin on his back with his arms
outstretched in his motley of black and red. Behind him was a window
and outside that window, gazing in at the figure on the floor, was what
appeared to be the same man silhouetted against the red glow of the
setting sun.
The picture excited Mr. Satterthwaite for two reasons. The first reason
was that he recognized, or thought that he recognized, the face of the
man in the picture. It bore a distinct resemblance to a certain Mr.
Quin, an acquaintance whom Mr. Satterthwaite had encountered under
somewhat mystifying circumstances.
"Surely I can't be mistaken," he murmured. "If it _is_ so--what does it
mean?"
For it had been Mr. Satterthwaite's experience that every appearance of
Mr. Quin had some distinct significance attaching to it.
There was, as already mentioned, a second reason for Mr.
Satterthwaite's interest. He recognized the scene of the picture. "The
Terrace Room at Charnley," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "curious--and very
interesting."
He looked with more attention at the picture, wondering what exactly
had been in the artist's mind. One Harlequin dead on the floor, another
Harlequin looking through the window--or was it the same Harlequin? He
moved slowly along the walls, gazing at other pictures with unseeing
eyes, with his mind always busy on the same subject. He was excited.
Life, which had seemed a little drab this morning, was drab no longer.
He knew quite certainly that he was on the threshold of exciting and
interesting events. He crossed to the table where sat Mr. Cobb, a
dignitary of the Harchester Galleries, whom he had known for many years.
"I have a fancy for buying Number Thirty-nine," he said, "if it is not
already sold."
Mr. Cobb consulted a ledger. "The pick of the bunch," he murmured.
"Quite a little gem, isn't it? No, it is not sold." He quoted a price.
"It is a good investment, Mr. Satterthwaite. You will have to pay three
times as much for it this time next year."
"That is always said on these occasions," said Mr. Satterthwaite,
smiling.
"Well, and haven't I been right?" demanded Mr. Cobb. "I don't believe,
if you were to sell your collection, Mr. Satterthwaite, that a single
picture would fetch less than you gave for it."
"I will buy this picture," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "I will give you a
check now."
"You won't regret it. We believe in Bristow."
"He is a young man?"
"Twenty-seven or -eight, I should say."
"I should like to meet him," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "Perhaps he will
come and dine with me one night?"
"I can give you his address. I am sure he would leap at the chance.
Your name stands for a good deal in the artistic world."
"You flatter me," said Mr. Satterthwaite, and was going on when Mr.
Cobb interrupted.
"Here he is now. I will introduce you to him right away."
He rose from behind his table. Mr. Satterthwaite accompanied him to
where a big clumsy young man was leaning against the wall surveying the
world at large from behind the barricade of a ferocious scowl.
Mr. Cobb made the necessary introductions and Mr. Satterthwaite made a
formal and gracious little speech.
"I have just had the pleasure of acquiring one of your pictures, 'The
Dead Harlequin.'"
"Oh! Well! You won't lose by it," said Mr. Bristow, ungraciously. "It's
a bit of damned good work, although I say it."
"I can see that," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "Your work interests me very
much, Mr. Bristow. It is extraordinarily mature for so young a man. I
wonder if you would give me the pleasure of dining with me one night?
Are you engaged this evening?"
"As a matter of fact, I am not," said Mr. Bristow, still with no
overdone appearance of graciousness.
"Then shall we say eight o'clock?" said Mr. Satterthwaite. "Here is my
card with the address on it."
"Oh, all right," said Mr. Bristow. "Thanks," he added, as a somewhat
obvious afterthought.
_A young man who has a poor opinion of himself and is afraid that the
world should share it._ Such was Mr. Satterthwaite's summing up as he
stepped out into the sunshine of Bond Street, and Mr. Satterthwaite's
judgment of his fellowmen was seldom far astray.
Frank Bristow arrived about five minutes past eight to find his host
and another guest awaiting him. The other guest was introduced as
Colonel Monckton. They went into dinner almost immediately. There was
a fourth place laid at the oval mahogany table and Mr. Satterthwaite
uttered a word of explanation.
"I half expected my friend Mr. Quin might drop in," he said. "I wonder
if you have ever met him. Mr. Harley Quin?"
"I never meet people," growled Bristow.
Colonel Monckton stared at the artist with the detached interest he
might have accorded to a new species of jellyfish. Mr. Satterthwaite
exerted himself to keep the ball of conversation rolling amicably.
"I took a special interest in that picture of yours because I thought I
recognized the scene of it as being the Terrace Room at Charnley. Was I
right?" As the artist nodded, he went on: "That is very interesting. I
have stayed at Charnley several times myself in the past. Perhaps you
know some of the family."
"No, I don't!" said Bristow. "That sort of family wouldn't care to know
me. I went there in a charabanc."
"Dear me," said Colonel Monckton for the sake of saying something. "In
a charabanc! Dear me!"
Frank Bristow scowled at him. "Why not?" he demanded ferociously.
Poor Colonel Monckton was taken aback. He looked reproachfully at Mr.
Satterthwaite as though to say, "These primitive forms of life may be
interesting to you as a naturalist, but why drag _me_ in?"
"Oh, beastly things, charabancs!" he said. "They jolt you so going over
the bumps."
"If you can't afford a Rolls Royce you have got to go in charabancs,"
said Bristow fiercely.
Colonel Monckton stared at him. Mr. Satterthwaite thought, _Unless I
can soon manage to put this young man at his ease we are going to have
a very distressing evening._
"Charnley always fascinated me," he said. "I have been there only once
since the tragedy. A grim house--and a ghostly one."
"That's true," said Bristow.
"There are actually two authentic ghosts," said Monckton. "They say
that Charles I walks up and down the terrace with his head under his
arm--I have forgotten why, I'm sure. Then there is the Weeping Lady
with the Silver Ewer who is always seen after one of the Charnleys
dies."
"Tosh," said Bristow scornfully.
"They have certainly been a very ill-fated family," said Mr.
Satterthwaite hurriedly. "Four holders of the title have died a violent
death, and the late Lord Charnley committed suicide."
"A ghastly business," said Monckton. "I was there when it happened."
"Let me see, that must be fourteen years ago," said Mr. Satterthwaite.
"The house has been shut up ever since."
"I don't wonder at that," said Monckton. "It must have been a terrible
shock for a young girl. They had been married a month, just home from
their honeymoon. Big fancy dress ball to celebrate their home-coming.
Just as the guests were starting to arrive Charnley locked himself into
the Oak Parlor and shot himself. That sort of thing isn't done. I beg
your pardon?"
He turned his head sharply to the left and then 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 the photograph doesn't show coloring."
"I remember it," said Bristow, "a marvelous bit of color. 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 bloodstain."
"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 paneled room leading out
of it."
"The Oak Parlor," 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 dueling 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 Parlor--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 him. 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 toward 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
afterward 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 Parlor. 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-up 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
Parlor 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 Parlor
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 a plan of the place. There are two doors into the Oak Parlor, one
into the hall and one into the Terrace Room. Both these doors were
locked on 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 result 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 bloodstain 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?"