The Mysterious Mr Quin (17 page)

Such was Mr Satterthwaite’s romance–a rather tepid early Victorian one, but it had left him with a romantic attachment to Kew Gardens, and he would
often go there to see the bluebells, or, if he had been abroad later than usual, the rhododendrons, and would sigh to himself, and feel rather sentimental, and really enjoy himself very much indeed in an old-fashioned, romantic way.

This particular afternoon he was strolling back past the tea houses when he recognized a couple sitting at one of the small tables on the grass. They were Gillian West and the fair young man, and at that same moment they recognized him. He saw the girl flush and speak eagerly to her companion. In another minute he was shaking hands with them both in his correct, rather prim fashion, and had accepted the shy invitation proffered him to have tea with them.

‘I can’t tell you, sir,’ said Mr Burns, ‘how grateful I am to you for looking after Gillian the other night. She told me all about it.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ said the girl. ‘It was ever so kind of you.’

Mr Satterthwaite felt pleased and interested in the pair. Their naïveté and sincerity touched him. Also, it was to him a peep into a world with which he was not well acquainted. These people were of a class unknown to him.

In his little dried-up way, Mr Satterthwaite could be very sympathetic. Very soon he was hearing all about his new friends. He noted that Mr Burns had become
Charlie, and he was not unprepared for the statement that the two were engaged.

‘As a matter of fact,’ said Mr Burns with refreshing candour, ‘it just happened this afternoon, didn’t it, Gil?’

Burns was a clerk in a shipping firm. He was making a fair salary, had a little money of his own, and the two proposed to be married quite soon.

Mr Satterthwaite listened, and nodded, and congratulated.

‘An ordinary young man,’ he thought to himself, ‘a very ordinary young man. Nice, straightforward young chap, plenty to say for himself, good opinion of himself without being conceited, nice-looking without being unduly handsome. Nothing remarkable about him and will never set the Thames on fire. And the girl loves him…’

Aloud he said: ‘And Mr Eastney–’

He purposely broke off, but he had said enough to produce an effect for which he was not unprepared. Charlie Burns’s face darkened, and Gillian looked troubled. More than troubled, he thought. She looked afraid.

‘I don’t like it,’ she said in a low voice. Her words were addressed to Mr Satterthwaite, as though she knew by instinct that he would understand a feeling incomprehensible to her lover. ‘You see–he’s done
a lot for me. He’s encouraged me to take up singing, and–and helped me with it. But I’ve known all the time that my voice wasn’t really good–not first-class. Of course, I’ve had engagements–’

She stopped.

‘You’ve had a bit of trouble too,’ said Burns. ‘A girl wants someone to look after her. Gillian’s had a lot of unpleasantness, Mr Satterthwaite. Altogether she’s had a lot of unpleasantness. She’s a good-looker, as you can see, and–well, that often leads to trouble for a girl.’

Between them, Mr Satterthwaite became enlightened as to various happenings which were vaguely classed by Burns under the heading of ‘unpleasantness’. A young man who had shot himself, the extraordinary conduct of a Bank Manager (who was a married man!), a violent stranger (who must have been balmy!), the wild behaviour of an elderly artist. A trail of violence and tragedy that Gillian West had left in her wake, recited in the commonplace tones of Charles Burns. ‘And it’s my opinion,’ he ended, ‘that this fellow Eastney is a bit cracked. Gillian would have had trouble with him if I hadn’t turned up to look after her.’

His laugh sounded a little fatuous to Mr Satterthwaite, and no responsive smile came to the girl’s face. She was looking earnestly at Mr Satterthwaite.

‘Phil’s all right,’ she said slowly. ‘He cares for me, I know, and I care for him like a friend–but–but
not anything more. I don’t know how he’ll take the news about Charlie, I’m sure. He–I’m so afraid he’ll be–’

She stopped, inarticulate in face of the dangers she vaguely sensed.

‘If I can help you in any way,’ said Mr Satterthwaite warmly, ‘pray command me.’

He fancied Charlie Burns looked vaguely resentful, but Gillian said at once: ‘Thank you.’

Mr Satterthwaite left his new friends after having promised to take tea with Gillian on the following Thursday.

When Thursday came, Mr Satterthwaite felt a little thrill of pleasurable anticipation. He thought: ‘I’m an old man–but not too old to be thrilled by a face. A face…’ Then he shook his head with a sense of foreboding.

Gillian was alone. Charlie Burns was to come in later. She looked much happier, Mr Satterthwaite thought, as though a load had been lifted from her mind. Indeed, she frankly admitted as much.

‘I dreaded telling Phil about Charles. It was silly of me. I ought to have known Phil better. He was upset, of course, but no one could have been sweeter. Really sweet he was. Look what he sent me this morning–a wedding present. Isn’t it magnificent?’

It was indeed rather magnificient for a young man
in Philip Eastney’s circumstances. A four-valve wireless set, of the latest type.

‘We both love music so much, you see,’ explained the girl. ‘Phil said that when I was listening to a concert on this, I should always think of him a little. And I’m sure I shall. Because we have been such friends.’

‘You must be proud of your friend,’ said Mr Satterthwaite gently. ‘He seems to have taken the blow like a true sportsman.’

Gillian nodded. He saw the quick tears come into her eyes.

‘He asked me to do one thing for him. Tonight is the anniversary of the day we first met. He asked me if I would stay at home quietly this evening and listen to the wireless programme–not to go out with Charlie anywhere. I said, of course I would, and that I was very touched, and that I would think of him with a lot of gratitude and affection.’

Mr Satterthwaite nodded, but he was puzzled. He was seldom at fault in his delineation of character, and he would have judged Philip Eastney quite incapable of such a sentimental request. The young man must be of a more banal order than he supposed. Gillian evidently thought the idea quite in keeping with her rejected lover’s character. Mr Satterthwaite was a little–just a little–disappointed. He was sentimental himself, and
knew it, but he expected better things of the rest of the world. Besides sentiment belonged to his age. It had no part to play in the modern world.

He asked Gillian to sing and she complied. He told her her voice was charming, but he knew quite well in his own mind that it was distinctly second-class. Any success that could have come to her in the profession she had adopted would have been won by her face, not her voice.

He was not particularly anxious to see young Burns again, so presently he rose to go. It was at that moment that his attention was attracted by an ornament on the mantelpiece which stood out among the other rather gimcrack objects like a jewel on a dust heap.

It was a curving beaker of thin green glass, long-stemmed and graceful, and poised on the edge of it was what looked like a gigantic soap-bubble, a ball of iridescent glass. Gillian noticed his absorption.

‘That’s an extra wedding present from Phil. It’s rather pretty, I think. He works in a sort of glass factory.’

‘It is a beautiful thing,’ said Mr Satterthwaite reverently. ‘The glass blowers of Murano might have been proud of that.’

He went away with his interest in Philip Eastney strangely stimulated. An extraordinarily interesting young
man. And yet the girl with the wonderful face preferred Charlie Burns. What a strange and inscrutable universe!

It had just occurred to Mr Satterthwaite that, owing to the remarkable beauty of Gillian West, his evening with Mr Quin had somehow missed fire. As a rule, every meeting with that mysterious individual had resulted in some strange and unforeseen happening. It was with the hope of perhaps running against the man of mystery that Mr Satterthwaite bent his steps towards the
Arlecchino
Restaurant where once, in the days gone by, he had met Mr Quin, and which Mr Quin had said he often frequented.

Mr Satterthwaite went from room to room at the
Arlecchino
, looking hopefully about him, but there was no sign of Mr Quin’s dark, smiling face. There was, however, somebody else. Sitting at a small table alone was Philip Eastney.

The place was crowded and Mr Satterthwaite took his seat opposite the young man. He felt a sudden strange sense of exultation, as though he were caught up and made part of a shimmering pattern of events. He was in this thing–whatever it was. He knew now what Mr Quin had meant that evening at the Opera. There was a drama going on, and in it was a part, an important part, for Mr Satterthwaite. He must not fail to take his cue and speak his lines.

He sat down opposite Philip Eastney with the sense of accomplishing the inevitable. It was easy enough to get into conversation. Eastney seemed anxious to talk. Mr Satterthwaite was, as always, an encouraging and sympathetic listener. They talked of the war, of explosives, of poison gases. Eastney had a lot to say about these last, for during the greater part of the war he had been engaged in their manufacture. Mr Satterthwaite found him really interesting.

There was one gas, Eastney said, that had never been tried. The Armistice had come too soon. Great things had been hoped for it. One whiff of it was deadly. He warmed to animation as he spoke.

Having broken the ice, Mr Satterthwaite gently turned the conversation to music. Eastney’s thin face lit up. He spoke with the passion and abandon of the real music lover. They discussed Yoaschbim, and the young man was enthusiastic. Both he and Mr Satterthwaite agreed that nothing on earth could surpass a really fine tenor voice. Eastney as a boy had heard Caruso and he had never forgotten it.

‘Do you know that he could sing to a wine-glass and shatter it?’ he demanded.

‘I always thought that was a fable,’ said Mr Satterthwaite smiling.

‘No, it’s gospel truth, I believe. The thing’s quite possible. It’s a question of resonance.’

He went off into technical details. His face was flushed and his eyes shone. The subject seemed to fascinate him, and Mr Satterthwaite noted that he seemed to have a thorough grasp of what he was talking about. The elder man realized that he was talking to an exceptional brain, a brain that might almost be described as that of a genius. Brilliant, erratic, undecided as yet as to the true channel to give it outlet, but undoubtedly genius.

And he thought of Charlie Burns and wondered at Gillian West.

It was with quite a start that he realized how late it was getting, and he called for his bill. Eastney looked slightly apologetic.

‘I’m ashamed of myself–running on so,’ he said. ‘But it was a lucky chance sent you along here tonight. I–I needed someone to talk to this evening.’

He ended his speech with a curious little laugh. His eyes were still blazing with some subdued excitement. Yet there was something tragic about him.

‘It has been quite a pleasure,’ said Mr Satterthwaite. ‘Our conversation has been most interesting and instructive to me.’

He then made his funny, courteous little bow and passed out of the restaurant. The night was a warm one and as he walked slowly down the street a very odd fancy came to him. He had the feeling that he
was not alone–that someone was walking by his side. In vain he told himself that the idea was a delusion–it persisted. Someone was walking beside him down that dark, quiet street, someone whom he could not see. He wondered what it was that brought the figure of Mr Quin so clearly before his mind. He felt exactly as though Mr Quin were there walking beside him, and yet he had only to use his eyes to assure himself that it was not so, that he was alone.

But the thought of Mr Quin persisted, and with it came something else: a need, an urgency of some kind, an oppressive foreboding of calamity. There was something he must do–and do quickly. There was something very wrong, and it lay in his hands to put it right.

So strong was the feeling that Mr Satterthwaite forebore to fight against it. Instead, he shut his eyes and tried to bring that mental image of Mr Quin nearer. If he could only have asked Mr Quin–but even as the thought flashed through his mind he knew it was wrong. It was never any use asking Mr Quin anything. ‘The threads are all in your hands’–that was the kind of thing Mr Quin would say.

The threads. Threads of what? He analysed his own feeling and impressions carefully. That presentiment of danger, now. Whom did it threaten?

At once a picture rose up before his eyes, the picture
of Gillian West sitting alone listening to the wireless.

Mr Satterthwaite flung a penny to a passing newspaper boy, and snatched at a paper. He turned at once to the London Radio programme. Yoaschbim was broadcasting tonight, he noted with interest. He was singing ‘Salve Dimora’, from Faust and, afterwards, a selection of his folk songs. ‘The Shepherd’s Song’, ‘The Fish’, ‘The Little Deer’, etc.

Mr Satterthwaite crumpled the paper together. The knowledge of what Gillian was listening to seemed to make the picture of her clearer. Sitting there alone…

An odd request, that, of Philip Eastney’s. Not like the man, not like him at all. There was no sentimentality in Eastney. He was a man of violent feeling, a dangerous man, perhaps–

Again his thought brought up with a jerk. A dangerous man–that meant something. ‘
The threads are all in your hands
.’ That meeting with Philip Eastney tonight–rather odd. A lucky chance, Eastney had said. Was it chance? Or was it part of that interwoven design of which Mr Satterthwaite had once or twice been conscious this evening?

He cast his mind back. There must be
something
in Eastney’s conversation, some clue there. There must, or else why this strange feeling of urgency? What had he talked about? Singing, war work, Caruso.

Caruso–Mr Satterthwaite’s thoughts went off at a tangent. Yoaschbim’s voice was very nearly equal to that of Caruso. Gillian would be sitting listening to it now as it rang out true and powerful, echoing round the room, setting glasses ringing–