you’ve done it, Satterthwaite,’ said Richard Scott sardonically. ‘That hint of reluctance clinches it.’
In response to popular clamour, Mr Satterthwaite was forced to speak.
‘It’s really very uninteresting,’ he said apologetically. ‘I believe the original story centres round a Cavalier ancestor of the Elliot family. His wife had a Roundhead lover. The husband was killed by the lover in an upstairs room, and the guilty pair fled, but as they fled, they looked back at the house, and saw the face of the dead husband at the window, watching them. That is the legend, but the ghost story is only concerned with a pane of glass in the window of that particular room on which is an irregular stain, almost imperceptible from near at hand, but which from far away certainly gives the effect of a man’s face looking out.’
‘Which window is it?’ asked Mrs Scott, looking up at the house.
‘You can’t see it from here,’ said Mr Satterthwaite. ‘It is round the other side but was boarded up from the inside some years ago–forty years ago, I think, to be accurate.’
‘What did they do that for? I thought you said the ghost didn’t walk.’
‘It doesn’t,’ Mr Satterthwaite assured her. ‘I suppose–well, I suppose there grew to be a superstitious feeling about it, that’s all.’
Then, deftly enough, he succeeded in turning the conversation. Jimmy Allenson was perfectly ready to hold forth upon Egyptian sand diviners.
‘Frauds, most of them. Ready enough to tell you vague things about the past, but won’t commit themselves as to the future.’
‘I should have thought it was usually the other way about,’ remarked John Porter.
‘It’s illegal to tell the future in this country, isn’t it?’ said Richard Scott. ‘Moira persuaded a gypsy into telling her fortune, but the woman gave her her shilling back, and said there was nothing doing, or words to that effect.’
‘Perhaps she saw something so frightful that she didn’t like to tell it me,’ said Moira.
‘Don’t pile on the agony, Mrs Scott,’ said Allenson lightly. ‘I, for one, refuse to believe that an unlucky fate is hanging over you.’
‘I wonder,’ thought Mr Satterthwaite to himself. ‘I wonder…’
Then he looked up sharply. Two women were coming from the house, a short stout woman with black hair, inappropriately dressed in jade green, and a tall slim figure in creamy white. The first woman was his hostess, Mrs Unkerton, the second was a woman he had often heard of, but never met.
‘Here’s Mrs Staverton,’ announced Mrs Unkerton, in a tone of great satisfaction. ‘All friends here, I think.’
‘These people have an uncanny gift for saying just the most awful things they can,’ murmured Lady Cynthia, but Mr Satterthwaite was not listening. He was watching Mrs Staverton.
Very easy–very natural. Her careless ‘Hullo! Richard, ages since we met. Sorry I couldn’t come to the wedding. Is this your wife? You must be tired of meeting all your husband’s weather-beaten old friends.’ Moira’s response–suitable, rather shy. The elder woman’s swift appraising glance that went on lightly to another old friend.
‘Hullo, John!’ The same easy tone, but with a subtle difference in it–a warming quality that had been absent before.
And then that sudden smile. It transformed her. Lady Cynthia had been quite right. A dangerous woman! Very fair–deep blue eyes–not the traditional colouring of the siren–a face almost haggard in repose. A woman with a slow dragging voice and a sudden dazzling smile.
Iris Staverton sat down. She became naturally and inevitably the centre of the group. So you felt it would always be.
Mr Satterthwaite was recalled from his thoughts by Major Porter’s suggesting a stroll. Mr Satterthwaite, who was not as a general rule much given to strolling, acquiesced. The two men sauntered off together across the lawn.
‘Very interesting story of yours just now,’ said the Major.
‘I will show you the window,’ said Mr Satterthwaite.
He led the way round to the west side of the house. Here there was a small formal garden–the Privy Garden, it was always called, and there was some point in the name, for it was surrounded by high holly hedges, and even the entrance to it ran zigzag between the same high prickly hedges.
Once inside, it was very charming with an old-world charm of formal flower beds, flagged paths and a low stone seat, exquisitely carved. When they had reached the centre of the garden, Mr Satterthwaite turned and pointed up at the house. The length of Greenways House ran north and south. In this narrow west wall there was only one window, a window on the first floor, almost overgrown by ivy, with grimy panes, and which you could just see was boarded up on the inside.
‘There you are,’ said Mr Satterthwaite.
Craning his neck a little, Porter looked up.
‘H’m I can see a kind of discolouration on one of the panes, nothing more.’
‘We’re too near,’ said Mr Satterthwaite. ‘There’s a clearing higher up in the woods where you get a really good view.’
He led the way out of the Privy Garden, and turning sharply to the left, struck into the woods. A certain enthusiasm of showmanship possessed him, and he hardly noticed that the man at his side was absent and inattentive.
‘They had, of course, to make another window, when they boarded up this one,’ he explained. ‘The new one faces south overlooking the lawn where we were sitting just now. I rather fancy the Scotts have the room in question. That is why I didn’t want to pursue the subject. Mrs Scott might have felt nervous if she had realized that she was sleeping in what might be called the haunted room.’
‘Yes. I see,’ said Porter.
Mr Satterthwaite looked at him sharply, and realized that the other had not heard a word of what he was saying.
‘Very interesting,’ said Porter. He slashed with his stick at some tall foxgloves, and, frowning, he said: ‘She ought not to have come. She ought never to have come.’
People often spoke after this fashion to Mr Satterthwaite. He seemed to matter so little, to have so negative a personality. He was merely a glorified listener.
‘No,’ said Porter, ‘she ought never to have come.’
Mr Satterthwaite knew instinctively that it was not of Mrs Scott he spoke.
‘You think not?’ he asked.
Porter shook his head as though in foreboding.
‘I was on that trip,’ he said abruptly. ‘The three of us went. Scott and I and Iris. She’s a wonderful woman–and a damned fine shot.’ He paused. ‘What made them ask her?’ he finished abruptly.
Mr Satterthwaite shrugged his shoulders.
‘Ignorance,’ he said.
‘There’s going to be trouble,’ said the other. ‘We must stand by–and do what we can.’
‘But surely Mrs Staverton–?’
‘I’m talking of Scott.’ He paused. ‘You see–there’s Mrs Scott to consider.’
Mr Satterthwaite had been considering her all along, but he did not think it necessary to say so, since the other man had so clearly forgotten her until this minute.
‘How did Scott meet his wife?’ he asked.
‘Last winter, in Cairo. A quick business. They were engaged in three weeks, and married in six.’
‘She seems to me very charming.’
‘She is, no doubt about it. And he adores her–but that