The Mysterious Mr Quin by Agatha Christie

still a matter of forty miles from Marswick Manor whither they were bound, and a third puncture had supervened to render matters still more trying.
    Mr Satterthwaite, looking like some small bird whose plumage had been ruffled, walked up and down in front of the village garage whilst his chauffeur conversed in hoarse undertones with the local expert.
    ‘Half an hour at least ,’ said that worthy pronouncing judgment.
    ‘And lucky at that,’ supplemented Masters, the chauffeur. ‘More like three quarters if you ask me.’
    ‘What is this–place, anyway?’ demanded Mr Satterthwaite fretfully. Being a little gentleman considerate of the feelings of others, he substituted the word ‘place’ for ‘God-forsaken hole’ which had first risen to his lips.
    ‘Kirtlington Mallet.’
    Mr Satterthwaite was not much wiser, and yet a faint familiarity seemed to linger round the name. He looked round him disparagingly. Kirtlington Mallet seemed to consist of one straggling street, the garage and the post office on one side of it balanced by three indeterminate shops on the other side. Farther down the road, however, Mr Satterthwaite perceived something that creaked and swung in the wind, and his spirits rose ever so slightly.
    ‘There’s an Inn here, I see,’ he remarked.
    ‘“Bells and Motley”,’ said the garage man. ‘That’s it–yonder.’
    ‘If I might make a suggestion, sir,’ said Masters, ‘why not try it? They would be able to give you some sort of a meal, no doubt–not, of course, what you are accustomed to.’ He paused apologetically, for Mr Satterthwaite was accustomed to the best cooking of continental chefs, and had in his own service a cordon bleu to whom he paid a fabulous salary.
    ‘We shan’t be able to take the road again for another three quarters of an hour, sir. I’m sure of that. Andit’s already past eight o’clock. You could ring up Sir George Foster, sir, from the Inn, and acquaint him with the cause of our delay.’
    ‘You seem to think you can arrange everything, Masters,’ said Mr Satterthwaite snappily.
    Masters, who did think so, maintained a respectful silence.
    Mr Satterthwaite, in spite of his earnest wish to discountenance any suggestion that might possibly be made to him–he was in that mood–nevertheless looked down the road towards the creaking Inn sign with faint inward approval. He was a man of birdlike appetite, an epicure, but even such men can be hungry.
    ‘The “Bells and Motley”,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘That’s an odd name for an Inn. I don’t know that I ever heard it before.’
    ‘There’s odd folks come to it by all account,’ said the local man.
    He was bending over the wheel, and his voice came muffled and indistinct.
    ‘Odd folks?’ queried Mr Satterthwaite. ‘Now what do you mean by that?’
    The other hardly seemed to know what he meant.
    ‘Folks that come and go. That kind,’ he said vaguely.
    Mr Satterthwaite reflected that people who come to an Inn are almost of necessity those who ‘come andgo’. The definition seemed to him to lack precision. But nevertheless his curiosity was stimulated. Somehow or other he had got to put in three quarters of an hour. The ‘Bells and Motley’ would be as good as anywhere else.
    With his usual small mincing steps he walked away down the road. From afar there came a rumble of thunder. The mechanic looked up and spoke to Masters.
    ‘There’s a storm coming over. Thought I could feel it in the air.’
    ‘Crikey,’ said Masters. ‘And forty miles to go.’
    ‘Ah!’ said the other. ‘There’s no need to be hurrying over this job. You’ll not be wanting to take the road till the storm’s passed over. That little boss of yours doesn’t look as though he’d relish being out in thunder and lightning.’
    ‘Hope they’ll do him well at that place,’ muttered the chauffeur. ‘I’ll be pushing along there for a bite myself presently.’
    ‘Billy Jones is all right,’ said the garage