He hesitated, then asked if he might see--if, that is--
His host comprehended the stammering request. "If you want to--I'd forgotten you have a penchant for human tragedies."
He led the way up the broad staircase. Mr. Satterthwaite followed him. At the head of the stairs was the room occupied by Roger Graham, and opposite it, on the other side of the passage, his mother's room. The latter door was ajar and a faint wisp of smoke floated through it.
A momentary surprise invaded Mr. Satterthwaite's mind. He had not judged Mrs. Graham to be a woman who smoked so early in the day. Indeed, he had had the idea that she did not smoke at all.
They went along the passage to the end door but one. David Keeley entered the room and Mr. Satterthwaite followed him.
The room was not a very large one and showed signs of a man's occupation. A door in the wall led into a second room. A bit of cut rope still dangled from a hook high up on the door. On the bed--
Mr. Satterthwaite stood for a minute looking down on the heap of huddled chiffon. He noticed that it was ruched and pleated like the plumage of a bird. At the face, after one glance, he did not look again.
He glanced from the door with its dangling rope to the communicating door through which they had come.
"Was that open?"
"Yes. At least the maid says so."
"Annesley slept in there? Didn't he hear anything?"
"He says--nothing."
"Almost incredible," murmured Mr. Satterthwaite. He looked back at the form on the bed.
"Where is he?"
"Annesley? He's downstairs with the doctor."
They went downstairs to find an inspector of police had arrived. Mr. Satterthwaite was agreeably surprised to recognize in him an old acquaintance, Inspector Winkfield. The Inspector went upstairs with the doctor and a few minutes later a request came that all members of the house party should assemble in the drawing room.
The blinds had been drawn and the whole room had a funereal aspect. Doris Coles looked frightened and subdued. Every now and then she dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. Madge was resolute and alert, her feelings fully under control by now. Mrs. Graham was composed, as always, her face grave and impassive. The tragedy seemed to have affected her son more keenly than anyone. He looked a positive wreck this morning. David Keeley, as usual, had subsided into the background.
The bereaved husband sat alone, a little apart from the others. There was a queer dazed look about him, as though he could hardly realize what had taken place.
Mr. Satterthwaite, outwardly composed, was inwardly seething with the importance of a duty shortly to be performed.
Inspector Winkfield, followed by Doctor Morris, came in and shut the door behind him. He cleared his throat and spoke. "This is a very sad occurrence--very sad, I'm sure. It's necessary, under the circumstances, that I should ask everybody a few questions. You'll not object, I'm sure. I'll begin with Mr. Annesley. You'll forgive my asking, sir, but had your good lady ever threatened to take her life?"
Mr. Satterthwaite opened his lips impulsively, then closed them again. There was plenty of time. Better not speak too soon. "I--no, I don't think so."
His voice was so hesitating, so peculiar, that everyone shot a covert glance at him.
"You're not sure, sir?"
"Yes--I'm--quite sure. She didn't."
"Ah! Were you aware that she was unhappy in any way?"
"No, I--No, I wasn't."
"She said nothing to you? About feeling depressed, for instance?"
"I--no, nothing."
Whatever the Inspector thought, he said nothing. Instead he proceeded to his next point. "Will you describe to me briefly the events of last night?"
"We--all went up to bed. I fell asleep immediately and heard nothing. The housemaid's scream aroused me this morning. I rushed into the adjoining room and found my wife--and found her--"
His voice broke. The Inspector nodded.
"Yes, yes, that's quite enough. We needn't go into that. When did you last see your wife the night before?"
"I--downstairs."
"Downstairs?"
"Yes, we all left the drawing room together. I went straight up, leaving the others talking in the hall."
"And did you see your wife again? Didn't she say good night when she came up to bed?"
"I was asleep when she came up."
"But she only followed you a few minutes later. That's right, isn't it, sir?" He looked at David Keeley, who nodded.
"She hadn't come up half an hour later."
Annesley spoke stubbornly. The Inspector's eyes strayed gently to Mrs. Graham. "She didn't stay in your room talking, madam?"
Did Mr. Satterthwaite fancy it, or was there a slight pause before Mrs. Graham said, with her customary quiet decision of manner, "No, I went straight into my room and closed the door. I heard nothing."
"And you say, sir," the Inspector had shifted his attention back to Annesley, "that you slept and heard nothing. The communicating door was open, was it not?"
"I--I believe so. But my wife would have entered her room by the other door from the corridor."
"Even so, sir, there would have been certain sounds--a choking noise, a drumming of heels on the door--"
"_No._"
It was Mr. Satterthwaite who spoke, impetuously, unable to stop himself. Every eye turned toward him in surprise. He himself became nervous, stammered, and turned pink.
"I--I beg your pardon, Inspector. But I must speak. You are on the wrong tack--the wrong tack altogether. Mrs. Annesley did not kill herself--I am sure of it. She was murdered."
There was a dead silence, then Inspector Winkfield said quietly, "What leads you to say that, sir?"
"I--it is a feeling. A very strong feeling."
"But I think, sir, there must be more than that to it. There must be some particular reason."
Well, of course there _was_ a particular reason. There was the mysterious message from Mr. Quin. But you couldn't tell a police inspector that. Mr. Satterthwaite cast about desperately, and found something.
"Last night, when we were talking together, she said she was very happy. Very happy--just that. That wasn't like a woman thinking of committing suicide."
He was triumphant. He added, "She went back to the drawing room to fetch her ukulele, so that she wouldn't forget it in the morning. That didn't look like suicide either."
"No," admitted the Inspector. "No, perhaps it didn't." He turned to David Keeley. "Did she take the ukulele upstairs with her?"
The mathematician tried to remember. "I think--yes, she did. She went upstairs carrying it in her hand. I remember seeing it just as she turned the corner of the staircase before I turned off the light down here."
"Oh!" cried Madge. "But it's here now." She pointed dramatically to where the ukulele lay on a table.
"That's curious," said the Inspector. He stepped swiftly across and rang the bell.
A brief order sent the butler in search of the housemaid whose business it was to do the rooms in the morning. She came and was quite positive in her answer. The ukulele had been there first thing that morning when she had dusted.
Inspector Winkfield dismissed her and then said curtly, "I would like to speak to Mr. Satterthwaite in private, please. Everyone else may go. But no one is to leave the house."
Mr. Satterthwaite twittered into speech as soon as the door had closed behind the others. "I--I am sure, Inspector, that you have the case excellently in hand. Excellently. I just felt that--having, as I say, a very strong feeling--"
The Inspector arrested further speech with an upraised hand. "You're quite right, Mr. Satterthwaite. The lady was murdered."
"You knew it?" Mr. Satterthwaite was chagrined.
"There were certain things that puzzled Doctor Morris." He looked across at the doctor, who had remained, and the doctor assented to his statement with a nod of the head. "We made a thorough examination. The rope that was round her neck wasn't the rope that she was strangled with--it was something much thinner that did the job, something more like a wire. It had cut right into the flesh. The mark of the rope was superimposed on it. She was strangled and then hung up on that door afterward to make it look like suicide."
"But who--?"
"Yes," said the Inspector. "Who? That's the question. What about the husband sleeping next door, who never said good night to his wife and who heard nothing? I should say we hadn't far to look. Must find out what terms they were on. That's where you can be useful to us, Mr. Satterthwaite. You've the _ongtray_ here, and you can get the hang of things in a way we can't. Find out what relations there were between the two."
"I hardly like--" began Mr. Satterthwaite, stiffening.
"It won't be the first murder mystery you've helped us with. I remember the case of Mrs. Strangeways. You've got a flair for that sort of thing, sir. An absolute flair."
Yes, it was true--he _had_ a flair. He said quietly, "I will do my best, Inspector."
Had Gerard Annesley killed his wife? Had he? Mr. Satterthwaite recalled that look of misery last night. He loved her--and he was suffering. Suffering will drive a man to strange deeds.
But there was something else--some other factor. Mabelle had spoken of herself as coming out of a wood--she was looking forward to happiness--not a quiet, rational happiness--but a happiness that was irrational--a wild ecstasy--