{"id":13327,"date":"2024-04-23T19:22:14","date_gmt":"2024-04-23T23:22:14","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/?p=13327"},"modified":"2024-04-23T19:22:17","modified_gmt":"2024-04-23T23:22:17","slug":"agatha-christie-the-sign-in-the-sky","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/short-stories\/agatha-christie-the-sign-in-the-sky\/13327\/","title":{"rendered":"Agatha Christie: The Sign in the Sky"},"content":{"rendered":"
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“The Sign in the Sky” is a story by Agatha Christie selected by Jorge Luis Borges and Adolfo Bioy Casares for their anthology “The Best Police Stories” (1962). The plot revolves around Mr. Satterthwaite, who, after witnessing a trial in which Martin Wylde is convicted of the murder of Vivian Barnaby, harbors doubts about the guilt of the accused. Despite the compelling evidence, Wylde’s personality and character make Satterthwaite suspicious. At a casual dinner in a restaurant, he encounters Harley Quin, an enigmatic character whose insight into the events inspires Satterthwaite to investigate further and search for evidence that might clear Wylde of the executioner.<\/p>\n\n<\/div>\n\n

\n
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\"Agatha<\/figure>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n

The Sign in the Sky<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

Agatha Christie
(Full story)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Judge was finishing his charge to the jury.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNow, gentlemen, I have almost finished what I want to say to you. There is evidence for you to consider as to whether this case is plainly made out against this man so that you may say he is guilty of the murder of Vivien Barnaby. You have had the evidence of the servants as to the time the shot was fired. They have one and all agreed upon it. You have had the evidence of the letter written to the defendant by Vivien Barnaby on the morning of that same day, Friday, September 13th\u2014a letter which the defence has not attempted to deny. You have had evidence that the prisoner first denied having been at Deering Hill, and later, after evidence had been given by the police, admitted he had. You will draw your own conclusions from that denial. This is not a case of direct evidence. You will have to come to your own conclusions on the subject of motive\u2014of means, of opportunity. The contention of the defence is that some person unknown entered the music room after the defendant had left it, and shot Vivien Barnaby with the gun which, by strange forgetfulness, the defendant had left behind him. You have heard the defendant\u2019s story of the reason it took him half an hour to get home. If you disbelieve the defendant\u2019s story and are satisfied, beyond any reasonable doubt, that the defendant did, upon Friday, September 13th, discharge his gun at close quarters to Vivien Barnaby\u2019s head with intent to kill her, then, gentlemen, your verdict must be Guilty. If, on the other hand, you have any reasonable doubt, it is your duty to acquit the prisoner. I will now ask you to retire to your room and consider and let me know when you have arrived at a conclusion.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The jury were absent a little under half an hour. They returned the verdict that to everyone had seemed a foregone conclusion, the verdict of \u201cGuilty.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr. Satterthwaite left the court after hearing the verdict, with a thoughtful frown on his face.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A mere murder trial as such did not attract him. He was of too fastidious a temperament to find interest in the sordid details of the average crime. But the Wylde case had been different. Young Martin Wylde was what is termed a gentleman\u2014and the victim, Sir George Barnaby\u2019s young wife, had been personally known to the elderly gentleman.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He was thinking of all this as he walked up Holborn, and then plunged into a tangle of mean streets leading in the direction of Soho. In one of these streets there was a small restaurant, known only to the few, of whom Mr. Satterthwaite was one. It was not cheap\u2014it was, on the contrary, exceedingly expensive, since it catered exclusively for the palate of the jaded gourmet.<\/em> It was quiet\u2014no strains of jazz were allowed to disturb the hushed atmosphere\u2014it was rather dark, waiters appeared soft-footed out of the twilight, bearing silver dishes with the air of participating in some holy rite. The name of the restaurant was Arlecchino.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Still thoughtful, Mr. Satterthwaite turned into the Arlecchino and made for his favourite table in a recess in the far corner. Owing to the twilight before mentioned, it was not until he was quite close to it that he saw it was already occupied by a tall dark man who sat with his face in shadow, and with a play of colour from a stained window turning his sober garb into a kind of riotous motley.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr. Satterthwaite would have turned back, but just at that moment the stranger moved slightly and the other recognized him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGod bless my soul,\u201d said Mr. Satterthwaite, who was given to old-fashioned expressions. \u201cWhy, it\u2019s Mr. Quin!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Three times before he had met Mr. Quin, and each time the meeting had resulted in something a little out of the ordinary. A strange person, this Mr. Quin, with a knack of showing you the things you had known all along in a totally different light.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At once Mr. Satterthwaite felt excited\u2014pleasurably excited. His role was that of the looker-on, and he knew it, but sometimes when in the company of Mr. Quin he had the illusion of being an actor\u2014and the principal actor at that.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThis is very pleasant,\u201d he said, beaming all over his dried-up little face. \u201cVery pleasant indeed. You\u2019ve no objection to my joining you, I hope?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI shall be delighted,\u201d said Mr. Quin. \u201cAs you see, I have not yet begun my meal.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A deferential head waiter hovered up out of the shadows. Mr. Satterthwaite, as befitted a man with a seasoned palate, gave his whole mind to the task of selection. In a few minutes, the head waiter, a slight smile of approbation on his lips, retired, and a young satellite began his ministrations. Mr. Satterthwaite turned to Mr. Quin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI have just come from the Old Bailey,\u201d he began. \u201cA sad business, I thought.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe was found guilty?\u201d said Mr. Quin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes, the jury were out only half an hour.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr. Quin bowed his head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAn inevitable result\u2014on the evidence,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd yet,\u201d began Mr. Satterthwaite\u2014and stopped.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr. Quin finished the sentence for him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd yet your sympathies were with the accused? Is that what you were going to say?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI suppose it was. Martin Wylde is a nice-looking young fellow\u2014one can hardly believe it of him. All the same, there have been a good many nice-looking young fellows lately who have turned out to be murderers of a particularly cold-blooded and repellent type.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cToo many,\u201d said Mr. Quin quietly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI beg your pardon?\u201d said Mr. Satterthwaite, slightly startled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cToo many for Martin Wylde. There has been a tendency from the beginning to regard this as just one more of a series of the same type of crime\u2014a man seeking to free himself from one woman in order to marry another.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell,\u201d said Mr. Satterthwasite doubtfully. \u201cOn the evidence\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAh!\u201d said Mr. Quin quickly. \u201cI am afraid I have not followed all the evidence.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr. Satterthwaite\u2019s self-confidence came back to him with a rush. He felt a sudden sense of power. He was tempted to be consciously dramatic.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLet me try and show it to you. I have met the Barnabys, you understand. I know the peculiar circumstances. With me, you will come behind the scenes\u2014you will see the thing from inside.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr. Quin leant forward with his quick encouraging smile.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIf anyone can show me that, it will be Mr. Satterthwaite,\u201d he murmured.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr. Satterthwaite gripped the table with both hands. He was uplifted, carried out of himself. For the moment, he was an artist pure and simple\u2014an artist whose medium was words.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Swiftly, with a dozen broad strokes, he etched in the picture of life at Deering Hill. Sir George Barnaby, elderly, obese, purse-proud. A man perpetually fussing over the little things of life. A man who wound up his clocks every Friday afternoon, and who paid his own housekeeping books every Tuesday morning, and who always saw to the locking of his own front door every night. A careful man.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And from Sir George he went on to Lady Barnaby. Here his touch was gentler, but none the less sure. He had seen her but once, but his impression of her was definite and lasting. A vivid defiant creature\u2014pitifully young. A trapped child, that was how he described her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShe hated him, you understand? She had married him before she knew what she was doing. And now\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She was desperate\u2014that was how he put it. Turning this way and that. She had no money of her own, she was entirely dependent on this elderly husband. But all the same she was a creature at bay\u2014still unsure of her own powers, with a beauty that was as yet more promise than actuality. And she was greedy. Mr. Satterthwaite affirmed that definitely. Side by side with defiance there ran a greedy streak\u2014a clasping and a clutching at life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI never met Martin Wylde,\u201d continued Mr. Satterthwaite. \u201cBut I heard of him. He lived less than a mile away. Farming, that was his line. And she took an interest in farming\u2014or pretended to. If you ask me, it was pretending. I think that she saw in him her only way of escape\u2014and she grabbed at him, greedily, like a child might have done. Well, there could only be one end to that. We know what that end was, because the letters were read out in court. He kept her letters\u2014she didn\u2019t keep his, but from the text of hers one can see that he was cooling off. He admits as much. There was the other girl. She also lived in the village of Deering Vale. Her father was the doctor there. You saw her in court, perhaps? No, I remember, you were not there, you said. I shall have to describe her to you. A fair girl\u2014very fair. Gentle. Perhaps\u2014yes, perhaps a tiny bit stupid. But very restful, you know. And loyal. Above all, loyal.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He looked at Mr. Quin for encouragement, and Mr. Quin gave it him by a slow appreciative smile. Mr. Satterthwaite went on.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou heard that last letter read\u2014you must have seen it, in the papers, I mean. The one written on the morning of Friday, September 13th. It was full of desperate reproaches and vague threats, and it ended by begging Martin Wylde to come to Deering Hill that same evening at six o\u2019clock. \u2018I will leave the side door open for you, so that no one need know you have been here. I shall be in the music room.\u2019<\/em> It was sent by hand.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr. Satterthwaite paused for a minute or two.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhen he was first arrested, you remember, Martin Wylde denied that he had been to the house at all that evening. His statement was that he had taken his gun and gone out shooting in the woods. But when the police brought forward their evidence, that statement broke down. They had found his fingerprints, you remember, both on the wood of the side door and on one of the two cocktail glasses on the table in the music room. He admitted then that he had come to see Lady Barnaby, that they had had a stormy interview, but that it had ended in his having managed to soothe her down. He swore that he left his gun outside leaning against the wall near the door, and that he left Lady Barnaby alive and well, the time being then a minute or two after a quarter past six. He went straight home, he says. But evidence was called to show that he did not reach his farm until a quarter to seven, and as I have just mentioned, it is barely a mile away. It would not take half an hour to get there. He forgot all about his gun, he declares. Not a very likely statement\u2014and yet\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd yet?\u201d queried Mr. Quin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell,\u201d said Mr. Satterthwaite slowly, it\u2019s a possible one, isn\u2019t it? Counsel ridiculed the supposition, of course, but I think he was wrong. You see, I\u2019ve known a good many young men, and these emotional scenes upset them very much\u2014especially the dark, nervous type like Martin Wylde. Women now, can go through a scene like that and feel positively better for it afterwards, with all their wits about them. It acts like a safety valve for them, steadies their nerves down and all that. But I can see Martin Wylde going away with his head in a whirl, sick and miserable, and without a thought of the gun he had left leaning up against the wall.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He was silent for some minutes before he went on.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNot that it matters. For the next part is only too clear, unfortunately. It was exactly twenty minutes past six when the shot was heard. All the servants heard it, the cook, the kitchen maid, the butler, the housemaid and Lady Barnaby\u2019s own maid. They came rushing to the music room. She was lying huddled over the arm of her chair. The gun had been discharged close to the back of her head, so that the shot hadn\u2019t a chance to scatter. At least two of them penetrated the brain.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He paused again and Mr. Quin asked casually:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe servants gave evidence, I suppose?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr. Satterthwaite nodded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes. The butler got there a second or two before the others, but their evidence was practically a repetition of each other\u2019s.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo they all<\/em> gave evidence,\u201d said Mr. Quin musingly. \u201cThere were no exceptions?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNow I remember it,\u201d said Mr. Satterthwaite, \u201cthe housemaid was only called at the inquest. She\u2019s gone to Canada since, I believe.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI see,\u201d said Mr. Quin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There was a silence, and somehow the air of the little restaurant seemed to be charged with an uneasy feeling. Mr. Satterthwaite felt suddenly as though he were on the defensive.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy shouldn\u2019t she?\u201d he said abruptly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy should she?\u201d said Mr. Quin with a very slight shrug of the shoulders.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Somehow, the question annoyed Mr. Satterthwaite. He wanted to shy away from it\u2014to get back on familiar ground.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThere couldn\u2019t be much doubt who fired the shot. As a matter of fact the servants seemed to have lost their heads a bit. There was no one in the house to take charge. It was some minutes before anyone thought of ringing up the police, and when they did so they found that the telephone was out of order.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh!\u201d said Mr. Quin. \u201cThe telephone was out of order.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt was,\u201d said Mr. Satterthwaite\u2014and was struck suddenly by the feeling that he had said something tremendously important. \u201cIt might, of course, have been done on purpose,\u201d he said slowly. \u201cBut there seems no point in that. Death was practically instantaneous.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr. Quin said nothing, and Mr. Satterthwaite felt that his explanation was unsatisfactory.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThere was absolutely no one to suspect but young Wylde,\u201d he went on. \u201cBy his own account, even, he was only out of the house three minutes before the shot was fired. And who else could have fired it? Sir George was at a bridge party a few houses away. He left there at half-past six and was met just outside the gate by a servant bringing him the news. The last rubber finished at half-past six exactly\u2014no doubt about that. Then there was Sir George\u2019s secretary, Henry Thompson. He was in London that day, and actually at a business meeting at the moment the shot was fired. Finally, there is Sylvia Dale, who after all, had a perfectly good motive, impossible as it seems that she should have had anything to do with such a crime. She was at the station of Deering Vale seeing a friend off by the 6:28 train. That lets her out. Then the servants. What earthly motive could any one of them have? Besides they all arrived on the spot practically simultaneously. No, it must have been Martin Wylde.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But he said it in a dissatisfied kind of voice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They went on with their lunch. Mr. Quin was not in a talkative mood, and Mr. Satterthwaite had said all he had to say. But the silence was not a barren one. It was filled with the growing dissatisfaction of Mr. Satterthwaite, heightened and fostered in some strange way by the mere acquiescence of the other man.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr. Satterthwaite suddenly put down his knife and fork with a clatter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSupposing that that young man is really innocent,\u201d he said. \u201cHe\u2019s going to be hanged.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He looked very startled and upset about it. And still Mr. Quin said nothing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s not as though\u2014\u201d began Mr. Satterthwaite, and stopped. \u201cWhy shouldn\u2019t the woman go to Canada?\u201d he ended inconsequently.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr. Quin shook his head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t even know what part of Canada she went to,\u201d continued Mr. Satterthwaite peevishly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCould you find out?\u201d suggested the other.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI suppose I could. The butler, now. He\u2019d know. Or possibly Thompson, the secretary.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He paused again. When he resumed speech, his voice sounded almost pleading.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s not as though it were anything to do with me?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat a young man is going to be hanged in a little over three weeks?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, yes\u2014if you put it that way, I suppose. Yes, I see what you mean. Life and death. And that poor girl, too. It\u2019s not that I\u2019m hardheaded\u2014but, after all\u2014what good will it do? Isn\u2019t the whole thing rather fantastic? Even if I found out where the woman\u2019s gone in Canada\u2014why, it would probably mean that I should have to go out there myself.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr. Satterthwaite looked seriously upset.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd I was thinking of going to the Riviera next week,\u201d he said pathetically.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And his glance towards Mr. Quin said as plainly as it could be said, \u201cDo let me off, won\u2019t you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou have never been to Canada?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNever.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cA very interesting country.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr. Satterthwaite looked at him undecidedly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou think I ought to go?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr. Quin leaned back in his chair and lighted a cigarette. Between puffs of smoke, he spoke deliberately.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou are, I believe, a rich man, Mr. Satterthwaite. Not a millionaire, but a man able to indulge a hobby without counting the expense. You have looked on at the dramas of other people. Have you never contemplated stepping in and playing a part? Have you never seen yourself for a minute as the arbiter of other people\u2019s destinies\u2014standing in the centre of the stage with life and death in your hands?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr. Satterthwaite leant forward. The old eagerness surged over him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou mean\u2014if I go on this wild-goose chase to Canada\u2014?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr. Quin smiled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh! it was your suggestion, going to Canada, not mine,\u201d he said lightly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou can\u2019t put me off like that,\u201d said Mr. Satterthwaite earnestly. \u201cWhenever I have come across you\u2014\u201d He stopped.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThere is something about you I do not understand. Perhaps I never shall. The last time I met you\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOn Midsummer\u2019s Eve.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr. Satterthwaite was startled, as though the words held a clue that he did not quite understand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWas it Midsummer\u2019s Eve?\u201d he asked confusedly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes. But let us not dwell on that. It is unimportant, is it not?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSince you say so,\u201d said Mr. Satterthwaite courteously. He felt that elusive clue slipping through his fingers. \u201cWhen I come back from Canada\u201d\u2014he paused a little awkwardly\u2014\u201cI\u2014I\u2014should much like to see you again.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI am afraid I have no fixed address for the moment,\u201d said Mr. Quin regretfully. \u201cBut I often come to this place. If you also frequent it, we shall no doubt meet before very long.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They parted pleasantly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr. Satterthwaite was very excited. He hurried round to Cook\u2019s and inquired about boat sailings. Then he rang up Deering Hill. The voice of a butler, suave and deferential, answered him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMy name is Satterthwaite. I am speaking for a\u2014er\u2014firm of solicitors. I wished to make a few inquiries about a young woman who was recently housemaid in your establishment.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWould that be Louisa, sir? Louisa Bullard?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat is the name,\u201d said Mr. Satterthwaite, very pleased to be told it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI regret she is not in this country, sir. She went to Canada six months ago.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCan you give me her present address?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The butler was afraid he couldn\u2019t. It was a place in the mountains she had gone to\u2014a Scotch name\u2014ah! Banff, that was it. Some of the other young women in the house had been expecting to hear from her, but she had never written or given them any address.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr. Satterthwaite thanked him and rang off. He was still undaunted, The adventurous spirit was strong in his breast. He would go to Banff. If this Louisa Bullard was there, he would track her down somehow or other.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

To his own surprise, he enjoyed the trip greatly. It was many years since he had taken a long sea voyage. The Riviera, Le Touquet and Deauville, and Scotland had been his usual round. The feeling that he was setting off on an impossible mission added a secret zest to his journey. What an utter fool these fellow travellers of his would think him did they but know the object of his quest! But then\u2014they were not acquainted with Mr. Quin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In Banff he found his objective easily attained. Louisa Bullard was employed in the large Hotel there. Twelve hours after his arrival he was standing face to face with her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She was a woman of about thirty-five, anaemic looking, but with a strong frame. She had pale brown hair inclined to curl, and a pair of honest brown eyes. She was, he thought, slightly stupid, but very trustworthy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She accepted quite readily his statement that he had been asked to collect a few further facts from her about the tragedy at Deering Hill.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI saw in the paper that Mr. Martin Wylde had been convicted, sir. Very sad, it is, too.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She seemed, however, to have no doubt as to his guilt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cA nice young gentleman gone wrong. But though I wouldn\u2019t speak ill of the dead, it was her ladyship what led him on. Wouldn\u2019t leave him alone, she wouldn\u2019t. Well, they\u2019ve both got their punishment. There\u2019s a text used to hang on my wall when I was a child, \u2018God is not mocked,\u2019 and it\u2019s very true. I knew something was going to happen that very evening\u2014and sure enough it did.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHow was that?\u201d said Mr. Satterthwaite.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI was in my room, sir, changing my dress, and I happened to glance out of the window. There was a train going along, and the white smoke of it rose up in the air, and if you\u2019ll believe me it formed itself into the sign of a gigantic hand. A great white hand against the crimson of the sky. The fingers were crooked like, as though they were reaching out for something. It fair gave me a turn. \u2018Did you ever now?\u2019 I said to myself. \u2018That\u2019s a sign of something coming\u2019\u2014and sure enough at that very minute I heard the shot. \u2018It\u2019s come,\u2019 I said to myself, and I rushed downstairs and joined Carrie and the others who were in the hall, and we went into the music room and there she was, shot through the head\u2014and the blood and everything. Horrible! I spoke up, I did, and told Sir George how I\u2019d seen the sign beforehand, but he didn\u2019t seem to think much of it. An unlucky day, that was, I\u2019d felt it in my bones from early in the morning. Friday, and the 13th\u2014what could you expect?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She rambled on. Mr. Satterthwaite was patient. Again and again he took her back to the crime, questioning her closely. In the end he was forced to confess defeat. Louisa Bullard had told all she knew, and her story was perfectly simple and straightforward.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Yet he did discover one fact of importance. The post in question had been suggested to her by Mr. Thompson, Sir George\u2019s secretary. The wages attached were so large that she was tempted, and accepted the job, although it involved her leaving England very hurriedly. A Mr. Denman had made all the arrangements this end and had also warned her not to write to her fellow servants in England, as this might \u201cget her into trouble with the immigration authorities,\u201d which statement she had accepted in blind faith.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The amount of wages, casually mentioned by her, was indeed so large that Mr. Satterthwaite was startled. After some hesitation he made up his mind to approach this Mr. Denman.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He found very little difficulty in inducing Mr. Denman to tell all he knew. The latter had come across Thompson in London and Thompson had done him a good turn. The secretary had written to him in September saying that for personal reasons Sir George was anxious to get this girl out of England. Could he find her a job? A sum of money had been sent to raise the wages to a high figure.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cUsual trouble, I guess,\u201d said Mr. Denman, leaning back nonchalantly in his chair. \u201cSeems a nice quiet girl, too.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr. Satterthwaite did not agree that this was the usual trouble. Louisa Bullard, he was sure, was not a cast-off fancy of Sir George Barnaby\u2019s. For some reason it had been vital to get her out of England. But why? And who was at the bottom of it? Sir George himself, working through Thompson? Or the latter working on his own initiative, and dragging in his employer\u2019s name?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Still pondering over these questions, Mr. Satterthwaite made the return journey. He was cast down and despondent. His journey had done no good.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Smarting under a sense of failure, he made his way to the Arlecchino<\/em> the day after his return. He hardly expected to be successful the first time, but to his satisfaction the familiar figure was sitting at the table in the recess, and the dark face of Mr. Harley Quin smiled a welcome.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell,\u201d said Mr. Satterthwaite as he helped himself to a pat of butter, \u201cyou sent me on a nice wild-goose chase.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr. Quin raised his eyebrows.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI sent you?\u201d he objected. \u201cIt was your own idea entirely.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhosever idea it was, it\u2019s not succeeded. Louisa Bullard has nothing to tell.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Thereupon Mr. Satterthwaite related the details of his conversation with the housemaid and then went on to his interview with Mr. Denman. Mr. Quin listened in silence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIn one sense, I was justified,\u201d continued Mr. Satterthwaite. \u201cShe was deliberately got out of the way. But why? I can\u2019t see it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo?\u201d said Mr. Quin, and his voice was, as ever, provocative.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr. Satterthwaite flushed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI daresay you think I might have questioned her more adroitly. I can assure you that I took her over the story again and again. It was not my fault that I did not get what we want.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAre you sure,\u201d said Mr. Quin, \u201cthat you did not get what you want?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr. Satterthwaite looked up at him in astonishment, and met that sad, mocking gaze he knew so well.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The little man shook his head, slightly bewildered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There was a silence, and then Mr. Quin said, with a total change of manner:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou gave me a wonderful picture the other day of the people in this business. In a few words you made them stand out as clearly as though they were etched. I wish you would do something of that kind for the place\u2014you left that in shadow.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr. Satterthwaite was flattered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe place? Deering Hill? Well, it\u2019s a very ordinary sort of house nowadays. Red brick, you know, and bay windows. Quite hideous outside, but very comfortable inside. Not a very large house. About two acres of ground. They\u2019re all much the same, those houses round the links. Built for rich men to live in. The inside of the house is reminiscent of a hotel\u2014the bedrooms are like hotel suites. Baths and hot and cold basins in all the bedrooms and a good many gilded electric-light fittings. All wonderfully comfortable, but not very countrylike. You can tell that Deering Vale is only nineteen miles from London.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr. Quin listened attentively.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe train service is bad, I have heard,\u201d he remarked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh! I don\u2019t know about that,\u201d said Mr. Satterthwaite, warming to his subject. \u201cI was down there for a bit last summer. I found it quite convenient for town. Of course the trains only go every hour. Forty-eight minutes past the hour from Waterloo\u2014up to 10:48.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd how long does it take to Deering Vale?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cJust about three-quarters of an hour. Twenty-eight minutes past the hour at Deering Vale.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOf course,\u201d said Mr. Quin with a gesture of vexation. \u201cI should have remembered. Miss Dale saw someone off by the 6:28 that evening, didn\u2019t she?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr. Satterthwaite did not reply for a minute or two. His mind had gone back with a rush to his unsolved problem. Presently he said:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI wish you would tell me what you meant just now when you asked me if I was sure I had not got what I wanted?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It sounded rather complicated, put that way, but Mr. Quin made no pretence of not understanding.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI just wondered if you weren\u2019t being a little too exacting. After all, you found out that Louisa Bullard was deliberately got out of the country. That being so, there must be a reason. And the reason must lie in what she said to you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell,\u201d said Mr. Satterthwaite argumentatively. \u201cWhat did she say? If she\u2019d given evidence at the trial, what could she have said?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShe might have told what she saw,\u201d said Mr. Quin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat did she see?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cA sign in the sky.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr. Satterthwaite stared at him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAre you thinking of that<\/em> nonsense? That superstitious notion of its being the hand of God?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPerhaps,\u201d said Mr. Quin, \u201cfor all you and I know it may have been the hand of God, you know.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The other was clearly puzzled at the gravity of his manner.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNonsense,\u201d he said. \u201cShe said herself it was the smoke of the train.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAn up train or a down train, I wonder?\u201d murmured Mr. Quin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHardly an up train. They go at ten minutes to the hour. It must have been a down train\u2014the 6:28\u2014no, that won\u2019t do. She said the shot came immediately afterwards, and we know the shot was fired at twenty minutes past six. The train couldn\u2019t have been ten minutes early.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHardly, on that line,\u201d agreed Mr. Quin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr. Satterthwaite was staring ahead of him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPerhaps a goods train,\u201d he murmured. \u201cBut surely, if so\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThere would have been no need to get her out of England. I agree,\u201d said Mr. Quin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr. Satterthwaite gazed at him, fascinated.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe 6:28,\u201d he said slowly. \u201cBut if so, if the shot was fired then, why did everyone say it was earlier?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cObvious,\u201d said Mr. Quin. \u201cThe clocks must have been wrong.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAll of them?\u201d said Mr. Satterthwaite doubtfully. \u201cThat\u2019s a pretty tall coincidence, you know.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI wasn\u2019t thinking of it as a coincidence,\u201d said the other. \u201cI was thinking it was Friday.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cFriday?\u201d said Mr. Satterthwaite.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou did tell me, you know, that Sir George always wound the clocks on a Friday afternoon,\u201d said Mr. Quin apologetically.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe put them back ten minutes,\u201d said Mr. Satterthwaite, almost in a whisper, so awed was he by the discoveries he was making. \u201cThen he went out to bridge. I think he must have opened the note from his wife to Martin Wylde that morning\u2014yes, decidedly he opened it. He left his bridge party at 6:30, found Martin\u2019s gun standing by the side door, and went in and shot her from behind. Then he went out again, threw the gun into the bushes where it was found later, and was apparently just coming out of the neighbour\u2019s gate when someone came running to fetch him. But the telephone\u2014what about the telephone? Ah! yes, I see. He disconnected it so that a summons could not be sent to the police that way\u2014they might have noted the time it was received. And Wylde\u2019s story works out now. The real time he left was five and twenty minutes past six. Walking slowly, he would reach home about a quarter to seven. Yes, I see it all. Louisa was the only danger with her endless talk about her superstitious fancies. Someone might realize the significance of the train and then\u2014goodbye to that excellent alibi.<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWonderful,\u201d commented Mr. Quin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr. Satterthwaite turned to him, flushed with success.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe only thing is\u2014how to proceed now?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI should suggest Sylvia Dale,\u201d said Mr. Quin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr. Satterthwaite looked doubtful.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI mentioned to you,\u201d he said, \u201cshe seemed to me a little\u2014er\u2014stupid.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShe has a father and brothers who will take the necessary steps.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat is true,\u201d said Mr. Satterthwaite, relieved.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A very short time afterwards he was sitting with the girl telling her the story. She listened attentively. She put no questions to him but when he had done she rose.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI must have a taxi\u2014at once.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMy dear child, what are you going to do?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI am going to Sir George Barnaby.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cImpossible. Absolutely the wrong procedure. Allow me to\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He twittered on by her side. But he produced no impression. Sylvia Dale was intent on her own plans. She allowed him to go with her in the taxi, but to all his remonstrances she addressed a deaf ear. She left him in the taxi while she went into Sir George\u2019s city office.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was half an hour later when she came out. She looked exhausted, her fair beauty drooping like a waterless flower. Mr. Satterthwaite received her with concern.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019ve won,\u201d she murmured, as she leant back with half-closed eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d He was startled. \u201cWhat did you do? What did you say?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She sat up a little.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI told him that Louisa Bullard had been to the police with her story. I told him that the police had made inquiries and that he had been seen going into his own grounds and out again a few minutes after half-past six. I told him that the game was up. He\u2014he went to pieces. I told him that there was still time for him to get away, that the police weren\u2019t coming for another hour to arrest him. I told him that if he\u2019d sign a confession that he\u2019d killed Vivien I\u2019d do nothing, but that if he didn\u2019t I\u2019d scream and tell the whole building the truth. He was so panicky that he didn\u2019t know what he was doing. He signed the paper without realizing what he was doing.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She thrust it into his hands.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTake it\u2014take it. You know what to do with it so that they\u2019ll set Martin free.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe actually signed it,\u201d cried Mr. Satterthwaite, amazed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe is a little stupid, you know,\u201d said Sylvia Dale. \u201cSo am I,\u201d she added as an afterthought. \u201cThat\u2019s why I know how stupid people behave. We get rattled, you know, and then we do the wrong thing and are sorry afterwards.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She shivered and Mr. Satterthwaite patted her hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou need something to pull you together,\u201d he said. \u201cCome, we are close to a very favourite resort of mine\u2014the Arlecchino.<\/em> Have you ever been there?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She shook her head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr. Satterthwaite stopped the taxi and took the girl into the little restaurant. He made his way to the table in the recess, his heart beating hopefully. But the table was empty.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Sylvia Dale saw the disappointment in his face.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat is it?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNothing,\u201d said Mr. Satterthwaite. \u201cThat is, I half expected to see a friend of mine here. It doesn\u2019t matter. Some day, I expect, I shall see him again. .\u00a0.\u00a0.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

“The Sign in the Sky” is a story by Agatha Christie selected by Jorge Luis Borges and Adolfo Bioy Casares for their anthology “The Best Police Stories” (1962). The plot revolves around Mr. Satterthwaite, who, after witnessing a trial in which Martin Wylde is convicted of the murder of Vivian Barnaby, harbors doubts about the … Read more<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":13325,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"_kad_blocks_custom_css":"","_kad_blocks_head_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_body_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_footer_custom_js":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[559],"tags":[560,584],"class_list":["post-13327","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-short-stories","tag-agatha-christie-en","tag-great-britain","generate-columns","tablet-grid-50","mobile-grid-100","grid-parent","grid-33"],"acf":[],"taxonomy_info":{"category":[{"value":559,"label":"Short stories"}],"post_tag":[{"value":560,"label":"Agatha Christie"},{"value":584,"label":"Great Britain"}]},"featured_image_src_large":["https:\/\/lecturia.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2020\/03\/Agatha-Christie-La-senal-en-el-cielo.jpg",1024,1024,false],"author_info":{"display_name":"Juan Pablo Guevara","author_link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/author\/spartakku\/"},"comment_info":"","category_info":[{"term_id":559,"name":"Short stories","slug":"short-stories","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":559,"taxonomy":"category","description":"","parent":0,"count":419,"filter":"raw","cat_ID":559,"category_count":419,"category_description":"","cat_name":"Short stories","category_nicename":"short-stories","category_parent":0}],"tag_info":[{"term_id":560,"name":"Agatha Christie","slug":"agatha-christie-en","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":560,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":1,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":584,"name":"Great Britain","slug":"great-britain","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":584,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":49,"filter":"raw"}],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/13327","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=13327"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/13327\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/13325"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=13327"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=13327"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=13327"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}