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Half an hour after the police took Nicholas Crewe away, his sister's dinner party began as advertised.
Guests arriving on time had no notion of the excitement that had lately transpired in the very rooms they were filling with gossip and pleasantries; the early arrivals kept quiet, whether out of delicacy or confusion it could not be said for certain. Conversation was light, spirits were high, and in the middle of it all floated Catherine Crewe, golden and radiant, dressed to the nines and painted to a pristine gloss. She laughed -- complimented -- dazzled. All eyes were drawn to her. Small wonder then that she was unconscious of a lone observer who had retreated to the balcony.
Mr. Satterthwaite stood with his back to the railing, watching his hostess scintillate, comparing her image to the memory of a tear-streaked, avenging fury in a towering rage. Surely this could not be the same woman, he thought. The transformation was complete. Yes, that was the same lithe figure, those the same clear green eyes, but nothing else remained. Her carriage was changed, far more than her clothing and makeup, and the expressions flitting across the sharp face were different. Even the glow of her skin seemed to come from another, warmer source than it had earlier in the evening.
There were many of his acquaintances among the guests, but Mr. Satterthwaite did not plan to join them yet. Changed as she was, Catherine might not be ready to countenance his presence. Besides, he was waiting. Presently he heard the balcony door open and sensed more than saw a lean figure arrange itself against the railing beside him. He did not need to look up to know who it was. Still, he did look up.
"Am I late for another one of your successes?" asked Mr. Quin, smiling his sad smile.
Mr. Satterthwaite said, "Not this tired old charade again," but his heart lightened and some of his doubts lifted.
"If I gave it up, there would be nothing for you to forgive and indulge. I do enjoy being the object of your indulgence."
"Then it's yours," said Mr. Satterthwaite, with an agreeable shiver, and he told the story. How Nicholas Crewe's fiancée had been murdered; how she had been Catherine Crewe's dearest friend, the dark forest spirit to her golden goddess; how the tale of his jealousy and guilt had been coaxed out of Nicholas, first in mumbled occlusions, then in gloating, lurid confession; and how at last three pairs of arms had been required to hold back Catherine, every inch the grief-stricken lover, so that Nicholas might live to be arrested.
"They acted just as they should have, pulling her off him, but somehow...”
“You were unsatisfied with it?” Mr. Quin suggested.
Even to him Mr. Satterthwaite could go no further than a brief, stiff nod. “At least, no one could have blamed her, I think, if she had killed him. What he said about Veronica, how good it felt to..." His sensitive spirit shied away from any reference to it. "Well. Catherine wasn't in control of herself." He did not like to say it, watching Catherine now as she sailed among her guests, at ease -- poised -- controlled.
Following his gaze, Mr. Quin said, "She's put on a different face, so she acts a different woman."
"I wonder.”
“Yes?”
“You would say that now she is consciously acting a part, that of the gracious hostess. But mightn’t it be just as true that she was acting a part earlier, the part of an avenging angel? One may be as false as the other... Or, I think, as true. Everyone takes on a number of roles, more or less consciously. Catherine does it more completely, more purposefully than most, but each role is still the truth, because the role is all there is. With everyone, it's all roles, one way or another."
"Turtles all the way down, Mr. Satterthwaite?"
Mr. Satterthwaite fought down an entirely inappropriate laugh. “Yes, I suppose.”
“It might not be so easy for her now, if she had been allowed to have her vengeance. And there is not much doubt, I suppose, that Mr. Crewe will hang.”
“No doubt at all.”
“You will want to go in and join the party now,” said Mr. Quin, stepping away from the railing.
There was nowhere for him to go, really, except back into the room, but Mr. Satterthwaite feared, not without some justification, that he would simply disappear from the balcony. On an impulse he caught Mr. Quin’s wrist. “No,” he said sharply. Then, when Mr. Quin showed no immediate signs of vanishing, he added more calmly, “No. I will stay a little longer. The air is good out here.” With a touch of desperation, “Just this once, don’t leave so abruptly. Just this once, perhaps, you might indulge me.”
Mr. Quin laughed on a strange, tragic note and came back to the railing. Feeling slightly self-conscious, Mr. Satterthwaite released his wrist.
“I come and go,” said Mr. Quin. “You know that.”
Thoroughly embarrassed, but pleased with his small triumph, Mr. Satterthwaite nodded absently. “I know.”
“But you should also know that I enjoy your company, and might on occasion grant a favor, if only you ask.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, and he looked up into Mr. Quin’s sadly smiling face.
Slowly and inevitably, as in a dream where you know what will happen a split second before it does, Mr. Quin leaned down and kissed him, ever so carefully.
In that moment Mr. Satterthwaite knew utter darkness -- absolute cold -- wild joy. He closed his eyes, and inevitably, imagined how the scene would appear to one of the guests at the party. The barely-glimpsed handsome stranger bending over the dried-up little old man, in silhouette, just beyond the arc of light from the room. An odd place, the balcony, a kind of backstage for the party, and for the moment the center of the action. And inevitably, as in a dream, when Mr. Satterthwaite opened his eyes, he was alone, and the center of action shifted, quite properly, back to golden Catherine Crewe and her guests. He would join them any moment now.