Agatha Christie

“ Quin. "A conjuring trick. That describes it exactly. Atmosphere again, you see. And wherein does the essence of a conjuring trick lie?"
" 'The quickness of the hand deceives the eye,' " Mr. Satterthwaite glibly quoted.
"That is everything, is it not? To deceive the eye? Sometimes by the quickness of the eye, sometimes-by other means. There are many devices, the pistol shot, the waving of a red handkerchief, something that seems important, but in reality is not. The eye is diverted from the real business, it is caught by the spectacular action that means nothing-nothing at all." ”

“ When the police came to look into his antecedents they were confronted with a singular paucity of material. Who was Richard Harwell? Where did he come from? He had appeared, literally out of the blue, as it seemed. He was a magnificent rider, and apparently well off. Nobody in Kirtlington Mallet had bothered to inquire further. Miss Le Couteau had had no parents or guardians to make inquiries into the prospects and standing of her fiancé. She was her own mistress. The police theory at this point was clear enough. A rich girl and an impudent impostor. ”

“ Mr. Satterthwaite helped himself to steak. Mr. Quin followed suit. The landlord seemed disposed to linger and chat. Mr. Satterthwaite had no objection; on the contrary.
"This Mathias now," he said. "What kind of a man was he?"
"Middle-aged chap, must have been a powerful fellow once, but bent and crippled with rheumatism. He had that mortal bad, was laid up many a time with it, unable to do any work. For my part, I think it was sheer kindness on Miss Eleanor's part to keep him on. He'd outgrown his usefulness as a gardener, though his wife managed to make herself useful up at the house. ”

“ One says things so often without even seeing what they really mean. You have the knack of showing one. But it is still not quite clear to me. It must have been most difficult for Harwell to disappear as he did. After all, the police all over England were looking for him."
"They were probably looking," said Mr. Quin, "all over England."
"It would have been simplest to remain hidden at the Grange," mused Mr. Satterthwaite. "If it could be managed."
"He was, I think, very near the Grange," said Mr. Quin. His look of significance was not lost on Mr. Satterthwaite. "Mathias' cottage?" he exclaimed. ”

“ Satterthwaite kindly.
"Afraid of thunder? Not me! There's little that I'm afraid of. No, but the storm sets them off. Talking, talking, the same thing over and over again, like a lot of parrots. Father begins it: 'It reminds me, this does, of the night poor Captan Harwell' And so on, and so on." She turned on Mr. Quin, "You've heard how he goes on. What's the sense of it? Can't anyone let past things be?"
"A thing is only past when it is done with," said Mr. Quin. ”

“ Quin. "The idea is absurd. What next?"
"Let us imagine ourselves back on the fatal day. The disappearance has taken place, let us say, this very morning."
"No, no," said Mr. Quin, smiling. "Since, in our imagination at least, we have power over time, let us turn it the other way. Let us say the disappearance of Captain Harwell took place a hundred years ago. That we, in the year two thousand and twenty-five, are looking back."
"You are a strange man," said Mr. Satterthwaite slowly. "You believe in the past, not the present. Why?" ”

“ Satterthwaite, "the police were quite satisfied of his innocence."
"The police! What do the police matter? When Stephen comes into the bar of an evening, every man looks at him queer like. They don't really believe he murdered Harwell, but they're not sure, and so they look at him sideways and edge away. Nice life for a man, to see people shrink away from you, as though you were something different from the rest of folks. Why won't Father hear of our getting married, Stephen and I? 'You can take your pigs to a better market, my girl. ”

“ Quin approvingly.
"The effect in this case is that Miss Le Couteau-Mrs. Harwell, I mean-is a wife and yet not a wife. She is not free-she cannot marry again. And look at it as we will, we see Richard Harwell as a sinister figure, a man from nowhere with a mysterious past."
"I agree," said Mr. Quin. "You see what all are bound to see, what cannot be missed, Captain Harwell in the limelight, a suspicious figure."
Mr. Satterthwaite looked at him doubtfully. ”

“ Satterthwaite paused.
"I mention these things," he said apologetically, "not because they are relevant to the story-strictly speaking, they are not, but to convey an atmosphere the atmosphere of young Mrs. Harwell."
Mr. Quin nodded.
"Atmosphere is always valuable," he said gravely.
"So we get a picture of this girl," continued the other. "Just twenty-three, dark, beautiful, accomplished, nothing crude and unfinished about her. And rich-we must not forget that. She was an orphan. A Mrs. St. Clair, a lady of unimpeachable breeding and social standing, lived with her as duenna. ”

“ There's no need to be hurrying over this job. You'll not be wanted 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. ”

“ Quin's face, as though something in it was drawing this outburst from her.
"Can nothing be done?" said Mr. Satterthwaite.
He was genuinely distressed. The thing was, he saw, inevitable. The very vagueness and unsatisfactoriness of the evidence against Stephen Grant made it the more difficult for him to disprove the accusation.
The girl whirled round on him.
"Nothing but the truth can help him," she cried. "If Captain Harwell were to be found, if he was to come back. ”

“ A clever man could have doubled the parts of Harwell and Mathias. When Harwell was at Kirtlington Mallet, Mathias was conveniently laid up with rheumatism, with Mrs. Mathias to sustain the fiction. Her part was very necessary. Without her, someone might have suspected the truth. As you say, Harwell was hidden in Mathias' cottage. He was Mathias. When at last the plans matured, and Ashley Grange was sold, he and his wife gave out that they were taking a place in Essex. Exit John Mathias and his wife-for ever. ”

“ But Eleanor Le Couteau had complete control of her own fortune. And fortune hunters are never hard to seek. At least a dozen impecunious young men were to be found dangling round her on all occasions, in the hunting field, in the ballroom, wherever she went. ”