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“Ah, Mr. Satterthwaite, it was good of you to come! Go on to the drawing room. Dinner will be soon, we are only waiting for one more guest.” Mrs. Brown said a woman with a warm disposition. Before Mr. Satterthwaite could so much as take off his coat there was a knock at the door. “There he is now,” Mrs. Brown said as she opened the door and standing in the doorway was Mr. Quin.
Mr. Satterthwaite instantly brightened and rushed over to greet his friend, “Dear me it has been some years since I last saw you! I didn’t know you knew the Browns.”
“We became acquainted rather recently.” Mr. Quin said smoothly.
“Yes, Mr. Quin’s car broke down in the same spot as my husband's last week, funny coincidence that.” Mrs. Brown said.
Mr. Satterthwaite privately doubted it was a coincidence,“Odd coincidences do tend to happen around my friend Mr. Quin.” Once all the dinner party guests had made their way to the dining room and dinner had been served the conversation flowed freely. It was a party of seven. There was of course Mr. Satterthwaite and Mr. Quin, and Mr. and Mrs. Brown who were charming hosts. Mrs. Brown’s brother John Brown was also in attendance along with Mrs. Brown dear friend Susan Baker who was in high spirits. Mr. Brown's friend Henry Walker, who had gone on many hunting expeditions with Mr. Brown was quietly playing with his food but not eating it. The conversation naturally turned to the house as the Brown’s had recently purchased it.
“This is a charming place, I think. Much nicer than your old place.” John Brown said.
“The old place was charming.” Henry Walker cut in suddenly contrarian, “This place is creepy.”
“One can often recognize a place of tragedy long after the tragedy has occurred.” Mr. Quin said.
Mr. Satterthwaite leaned in, intrigued as it seemed the drama had finally started, “Tragedy? What has happened here?”
Mrs. Brown had the face of someone who had suddenly remembered something, “Oh! Do you mean about the Evans? Nasty business that.”
“Yes.” Mr. Quin said, compelling her to continue.
“When we bought the house we were told about what happened to the Evans. The seller was superstitious and warned us about buying this house because of what happened here. It was 1831 when the Evans moved in-”
“Wasn’t it 1832?” Mr. Brown interjected.
“1833.” Mr. Quin said.
“Anyway,” Mrs. Brown continued, annoyed, “The Evans moved into this house after they got married. Apparently they had fallen in love at first sight.The first thing they did as a married couple was get a painting done.”
“That one there.” Mr. Brown said pointing at the painting above the mantelpiece, “We know it is a bit strange to keep the painting but the house feels incomplete without it.” It was a lovely painting. It was well painted, the brushwork delicate but the most beautiful part of the painting was the Evans. The painter had captured their love in their posture and their faces. Mr. Satterthwaite felt drawn to Mrs. Evan. It was like he had met someone who looked like her before but he couldn’t quite place her face.
“The sad thing is their happiness didn’t last long. A week after they had been married a jealous man who was in love with Mrs. Evans killed her. Mr. Evans died soon after they say it was of heartbreak.” Mrs. Brown said and then there was a sudden somber silence.
“See! I told you this house was creepy.” Henry Walker said joyfully his mood improved.
“What a bunch of superstitious nonsense. The house isn’t creepier than any other just because there was a murder-” John Brown said irritated.
Before a fight could break out between John and Henry, Susan Baker cut in, “Speaking of marriage there is something I wish to tell everyone.” She took John’s hand and said cheerfully, “We are engaged!”
“Oh how wonderful!” Mrs. Brown said, getting up to give Susan a hug. Mrs. Brown was very affectionate with her friends.
Mr. Brown was more restrained. He said to John, “Only a matter of time.”
The evening had passed on pleasantly. After dinner everyone had moved into the drawing room for cards before everyone had gone to bed. The pleasantness of the evening, however, did not last for Mr. Satterthwaite as he found himself restless. He checked the clock on his bedside table and found it quite irritating that it was nearing midnight and he still could not sleep. He couldn’t get the painting out of his mind. It felt as if he had missed something important but couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Agitated, he left his bed and walked down the stairs to the dining room. He was startled to find Mr. Quin was already standing before the painting.
“It is beautiful isn’t it.” Mr. Satterthwaite said, “Very good brushwork.” Mr. Satterthwaite did not say this lightly as he was passionate about the arts.
“It is not the brushwork that makes it beautiful Mr. Satterthwaite.” Mr. Quin replied.
“No, it is the subjects. You can tell they loved each other.” Mr. Satterthwaite said. Mr. Quin was silent and Mr. Satterthwaite suddenly felt as if he had missed his cue, “It is strange, I feel as though I somehow recognize Mrs. Evans.”
“That is not strange.” Mr. Quin said his voice provocative, “What of Mr. Evans?”
Mr. Satterthwaite looked back at the man in the painting. “It’s funny I was so focused Mrs. Evans I barely noticed him. He almost looks-” Mr. Satterthwaite was interrupted by a sudden sense of unease. “The story!” Mr. Satterthwaite took off in a brisk walk towards Susan Baker’s bedroom. It was as he feared Henry Walker was standing over Susan with a knife, “Wait!” Mr. Satterthwaite yelled, waking up Susan. Susan screamed and Henry froze, panicked.
Susan’s scream awoke John and he came rushing into the room, “What the devil is going on in here?” He said before he saw Henry and quickly tackled him to the ground.
“Come, we must phone the police!” Mr. Satterthwaite said to Susan and they rushed down to the phone.
****
After the police had arrived and taken Henry away Mr. Satterthwaite found himself quite rattled. He had taken to pacing in front of the painting. Mr. Quin walked into the dining room. “You're still here?” Mr. Satterthwaite said surprised, “You don’t stay long after we have solved everything.” Mr. Quin just looked at Mr. Satterthwaite and Mr. Satterthwaite understood. “There’s something I haven’t solved yet. Dear me, I hope it’s not another murder.” Mr. Quin again stayed silent urging Mr. Satterthwaite to continue. “Ah,” Mr. Satterthwaite said turning to the painting, “There is something I do not understand about this painting.” A thought struck him, “Was Henry related to the Evans?”
“Was he?” Mr. Quin asked.
“She looks so familiar I must be confusing her with someone I have met. No, that is not right. It is more than similarity. I feel as if I knew her.” Mr. Satterthwaite said, then suddenly flustered, “That is impossible she died before I was born.”
“There is more than one way to know someone.” Mr. Quin said quietly.
“And Mr. Evans, he looks so much like you.” Mr. Satterthwaite said. Mr. Quin stayed silent as if Mr. Satterthwaite had just delivered an important line. “That’s not possible.”
“Is it?” Mr. Quin asked. Mr. Satterthwaite suddenly felt very small just as he had when he was standing next to Anna Denman’s body on a rubbish heap. Mr. Satterthwaite found he couldn’t meet Mr. Quin’s eye.
“That doesn’t explain how I know Mrs. Evans.” Mr. Satterthwaite.
“Doesn’t it?” Mr. Quin said.
“I-you are speaking of reincarnation.” Mr. Satterthwaite said.
“For Mrs. Evans, yes. Mr. Evans, however, is very dead.” Mr. Quin said. Mr. Satterthwaite looked back at Mrs. Evans, and let the familiarity wash over him before he turned to Mr. Quin and took his hands in his.