It was an epistle typical of Lady Stranleigh.
_Darling Margery_ [she wrote],
_I am so glad you have that nice little Mr. Satterthwaite there. He is awfully clever and knows all the big-wig spook people. You must have them all down and investigate things thoroughly. I am sure you will have a perfectly marvelous time and I only wish I could be there, but I have really been quite ill the last few days. The hotels are so careless about the food they give one. The doctor says it is some kind of poisoning. I was really very ill._
_Sweet of you to send me the chocolates, darling, but surely just a wee bit silly, wasn't it? I mean, there's such wonderful confectionery out here._
_By-by, darling, and have a lovely time laying the family ghosts. Bimbo says my tennis is coming on marvelously. Oceans of love_,
_Yours, Barbara._
"Mother always wants me to call her Barbara," said Margery. "Simply silly, I think."
Mr. Satterthwaite smiled a little. He realized that the stolid conservatism of her daughter must on occasions be very trying to Lady Stranleigh. The contents of her letter struck him in a way in which obviously they did not strike Margery.
"Did you send your mother a box of chocolates?" he asked.
Margery shook her head. "No, I didn't. It must have been someone else."
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.