The Coming of Mr. Quin by Agatha Christie Page A

fathom.
    He was roused from his meditations on the subject by the solemn chiming of the big clock in the corner.
    â€˜Twelve o’clock,’ said Evesham. ‘New Year’s Day. Happy New Year – everybody. As a matter of fact that clock’s five minutes fast … I don’t know why the children wouldn’t wait up and see the New Year in?’
    â€˜I don’t suppose for a minute they’ve really gone to bed,’ said his wife placidly. ‘They’re probably putting hairbrushes or something in our beds. That sort of thing does so amuse them. I can’t think why. We should never have been allowed to do such a thing in my young days.’
    â€˜ Autre temps, autres moeurs ,’ said Conway, smiling.
    He was a tall soldierly-looking man. Both he and Evesham were much of the same type – honest upright kindly men with no great pretensions to brains.
    â€˜In my young days we all joined hands in a circle and sang “Auld Lang Syne”,’ continued Lady Laura. ‘“Should auld acquaintance be forgot” – so touching, I always think the words are.’
    Evesham moved uneasily.
    â€˜Oh! drop it, Laura,’ he muttered. ‘ Not here .’
    He strode across the wide hall where they were sitting, and switched on an extra light.
    â€˜Very stupid of me,’ said Lady Laura, sotto voce . ‘Reminds him of poor Mr Capel, of course. My dear, is the fire too hot for you?’
    Eleanor Portal made a brusque movement.
    â€˜Thank you. I’ll move my chair back a little.’
    What a lovely voice she had – one of those low murmuring echoing voices that stay in your memory, thought Mr Satterthwaite. Her face was in shadow now. What a pity.
    From her place in the shadow she spoke again.
    â€˜Mr – Capel?’
    â€˜Yes. The man who originally owned this house. He shot himself you know – oh! very well, Tom dear, I won’t speak of it unless you like. It was a great shock for Tom, of course, because he was here when it happened. So were you, weren’t you, Sir Richard?’
    â€˜Yes, Lady Laura.’
    An old grandfather clock in the corner groaned, wheezed, snorted asthmatically, and then struck twelve.
    â€˜Happy New Year, Tom,’ grunted Evesham perfunctorily.
    Lady Laura wound up her knitting with some deliberation.
    â€˜Well, we’ve seen the New Year in,’ she observed, and added, looking towards Mrs Portal, ‘What do you think, my dear?’
    Eleanor Portal rose quickly to her feet.
    â€˜Bed, by all means,’ she said lightly.
    â€˜She’s very pale,’ thought Mr Satterthwaite, as he too rose, and began busying himself with candlesticks. ‘She’s not usually as pale as that.’
    He lighted her candle and handed it to her with a funny little old-fashioned bow. She took it from him with a word of acknowledgment and went slowly up the stairs.
    Suddenly a very odd impulse swept over Mr Satterthwaite. He wanted to go after her – to reassure her – he had the strangest feeling that she was in danger of some kind. The impulse died down, and he felt ashamed. He was getting nervy too.
    She hadn’t looked at her husband as she went up the stairs, but now she turned her head over her shoulder and gave him a long searching glance which had a queer intensity in it. It affected Mr Satterthwaite very oddly.
    He found himself saying goodnight to his hostess in quite a flustered manner.
    â€˜I’m sure I hope it will be a happy New Year,’ Lady Laura was saying. ‘But the political situation seems to me to be fraught with grave uncertainty.’
    â€˜I’m sure it is,’ said Mr Satterthwaite earnestly. ‘I’m sure it is.’
    â€˜I only hope,’ continued Lady Laura, without the least change of manner, ‘that it will be a dark man who first crosses the threshold. You know that superstition, I suppose, Mr Satterthwaite? No? You surprise