Work Text:
The rock at the top of the hill was just as Mr. Satterthwaite remembered from previous visits to Little Dunford: large, warmed by the sun, and conveniently placed not only for sitting after a moderately strenuous hike up the hill, but for viewing the sprawling garden below. Said garden was not the glory it had been under Mary Widdecombe's devoted hand, but her son and his wife had hired a decent enough gardener, and it was suited to its current purpose of providing a space for children to run around screaming while adults chatted and drank lemonade. That Satterthwaite found neither prospect appealing was certainly not the fault of his hosts.
Still, there was plenty to watch at this particular gathering, on the occasion of the Widdecombe’s twentieth wedding anniversary, and Satterthwaite had always found it interesting to watch people when he could not hear them. Besides being a challenge to his considerable observation skills, it often revealed things that would have been disguised by speech.
For example, the bride’s mother, Amy Guilfoyle, who was ostensibly in mourning for her second husband, was chatting with the local vicar in her usual animated fashion. She had seen Mr. Guilfoyle (as everyone, Amy included, had called him) through his illness in proper English fashion, but her demeanor over the past four weeks had confirmed Satterthwaite’s suspicion that her second marriage had been as much convenience as grand passion.
Her daughter, on the other hand, still had a grand passion with Linus Widdecombe, as could be seen in the way she leaned into him while she laughed at something her brother had said. Emma Widdecombe was still an attractive woman, albeit one whose youthful prettiness was settling into middle age with less flair than her mother’s had.
The same could be said of Nick Swansea. Both of Mrs. Guildfoyle’s children took after her rather than her first husband, but Swansea’s once boyish face was now deeply lined, which made him look older than his forty years. There were rumors, of course, of the kind of dissolute living one might expect of a playwright, but Satterwaithe suspected it was simply nature; some men seemed blessed with youth until age caught up with them almost overnight.
There were a few others present, of whom Satterthwaite had only the most passing acquaintance: the vicar, who had performed the marriage in question; a maiden aunt (for once, Satterthwaite could not remember exactly whose, which told him that she could not be of much note); and at least a few old school friends of either party. And there was also a gaggle of children who interested Satterthwaite not in the least. Still, it was a happy party, celebrating a marriage that, to all appearances, was as joyous and loving today as it had been twenty years ago.
He was caught up enough in his ruminations that he did not notice that someone had approached him until a shadow fell across the rock. For a moment, his heart leaped in anticipation, for places such as this were often where he found his friend, Mr. Quin (or perhaps, more accurately, where Quin found him). Satterthwaite had not seen his friend since the discovery of Anna Drennan’s body on that strange night, and if this had at first been something of a relief (for those events had unsettled Satterthwaite in a way he would not have thought possible at his age), as the months passed, the idea that he might never see Quin again grew increasingly unpleasant.
"Oh, sorry," a profoundly ordinary masculine voice said, dashing Satterthwaite’s hopes before he even turned to look. "Didn’t know anyone was here."
Satterthwaite smiled politely. It was hardly John Kintner’s fault that he wasn’t the person Satterthwaite had hoped to see. And in truth, he’d always found Widdecombe’s cousin a pleasant enough young man, perhaps even more so now that he had retired from the military. He gestured to the rock, which was more than wide enough to accommodate two.
"I see we had the same idea," he said.
Kintner smiled. "Lunch was a bit heavy. Thought I’d walk a bit of it off." He sat with his back board-straight (it had been Satterthwaite’s observation that it took a good decade or more for military men to lose that bearing, if indeed they ever did). He held his left arm a bit awkwardly, presumably in deference to the injury that had prompted his retirement.
"I confess, at my age, a solitary walk is sometimes preferable to a boisterous party," Satterthwaite replied.
Kintner gave a sympathetic nod, looking down at the party. Satterthwaite watched as his friendly expression gradually gave way to what could only be described as longing. Intrigued, Satterthwaite followed his gaze to where Emma Widdecombe had now hooked one arm through her husband’s and the other through her brother’s, leading both men towards a small table where the makings of cocktails had been set out.
Ah. Well, he would hardly be the first to yearn for the wife of a relation. As Satterthwaite recalled, Kintner had joined the Army shortly after the engagement party, much to the surprise of those who knew him. That was one mystery solved, then.
Satterthwaite cleared his throat, and Kintner jerked his head in startlement.
"It looks as though cocktail hour is beginning," Satterthwaite said mildly, nodding at the children being herded toward the house by several middle-aged women and the adults beginning to cluster around the table designated as a bar. "Shall we join them?"
"I suppose we should. A whiskey would not be amiss right now." Kintner cast one last look towards the garden, this time one of resignation, then gestured for Satterthwaite to precede him down the path.
Do you regret?
The question rang in Satterthwaite’s head like a particularly irritating bell, as it had so often since Quin asked it. He cast a look back at Kintner. If he was no longer so sure of the answer he had given that fateful night, he took some comfort that he was far from alone in pondering what might have been.
~~~
Dinner was a quieter affair, the children (wisely, in Satterthwaite’s opinion) having been shuttled off to their own meal. The wine flowed rather freely, and the mood was relaxed and cheerful.
"My dears, I really am so glad that you decided to have the weekend after all," Amy Guilfoyle said as the guests began the main course. "I’m sure it’s what Mr. Guilfoyle would have wanted."
"I’m sure he would," Mrs. Widdecombe replied, looking at her mother with that fond indulgence offspring sometimes direct at older parents, as if the parent were become the child. It was a look that Satterthwaite, despite having no children, had grown accustomed to, and it had ceased to irritate him as he rounded seventy. "Although in truth, we wouldn’t have wanted to if people were going to be gloomy."
The fact that Felix Guilfoyle, while a pleasant enough chap, was not the sort of man who inspired prolonged mourning was left unsaid, but several at the table had knowing smiles.
"Dashed bad luck, it happening twice, though," Mr. Widdecombe remarked dryly.
There were more knowing looks around the table, although the vicar looked puzzled for a moment, then said, "Ah, yes! I recall now." He looked at Mrs. Widdecombe. "The wedding was postponed because of your father’s..." He blushed, clearly realizing too late that he had been about to say something unseemly. "Untimely passing," he finished awkwardly.
One of course did not refer to suicide directly, although the means of George Swansea’s death was well-known: shot through the head by his own hand. Satterthwaite had a brief moment of dissonance, recalling the death of Derek Capel and the night that had first brought Quin into his life. He felt the familiar tingling that told him of a drama still to be played out. He knew of no unresolved questions regarding Swansea’s death, but his many encounters with Quin had taught him not to assume that what he knew precluded the existence of greater knowledge.
"Indeed," Mrs. Widdecombe replied lightly, easing the vicar’s embarrassment. "Only by six months, of course, but it was rather a large undertaking at the time."
The mood turned slightly somber, although Satterthwaite, with his lifetime of observation, sensed that it was less than sincere, that the dinner guests ceased to smile more because an awkward topic had been brought up than because they were genuinely distressed. Certainly the suicide had been tragic. And unlike Mr. Guilfoyle, Swansea had not been a man who provoked mild feelings: he was, Satterthwaite recalled, the sort who was either loved greatly or despised with equal passion. But two decades could cool even the strongest of feelings, and no one, not even his wife and children, looked greatly disturbed at the mention of his death.
Except, perhaps, for Major Kintner. For a brief moment, desperation and despair were written on his stolid features. This time, though, Satterthwaite could see precisely where his gaze was aimed: not at Emma Widdecombe, at all, but at her brother. Moreover, Swansea was returning the look with something very much like the same longing, tinged with regret.
Oh. Well, it wasn’t as if Satterthwaite hadn’t seen such things before, or even seen them often. One did not get to his age without knowing… He found his thoughts straying to Quin again, to that knowing smile that made his dark features look almost saturnine, and for reasons he could not fathom, Satterthwaite felt himself blush.
Do you regret? He’d said no, said he preferred his life as an onlooker, seeing what others did not, but always from a distance.
Liar, Satterthwaite told himself bitterly. About so many things.
"People so often use that phrase," Mrs. Guilfoyle said in her usual airy way. "And yet I can’t help think that it doesn’t really fit."
The table exchanged puzzled looks before Nick Swansea finally asked, "What phrase, mother?"
"Untimely passing, untimely death, untimely anything," she replied. "Oh, I’m not suggesting George’s death was happy, or fated, or anything like that," she continued lightly, "but I can’t help thinking that perhaps it was just a bit fortuitous."
Satterthwaite frowned. "Do you mean because of his condition?" George Swansea had suffered from a rapidly worsening palsy which caused violent trembling of the limbs, and it was widely held that he had taken his own life rather than reach the point where he was unable to enjoy the rather boisterous, active life he had led for so long. Satterthwaite recalled that during the weekend celebrating Emma’s engagement to Linus Widdecombe, Swansea had been considerably more irritable than was his wont. After his death his family had attributed it to his inability to participate in an afternoon ride on the family’s horses. To Satterthwaite (who had himself declined to participate in the ride), it seemed an unfathomable reason to take one’s life, but then, he had not lived so physical a life as George Swansea, and he knew that his own insatiable curiosity about what comes next was not shared by such men.
"Well, there was that, of course," Mrs. Guilfoyle said. "George was such a proud man, you know. But it was only a few months after that that several of his investments went rather badly." Like any good Englishwoman, she spoke only vaguely about finances, but it was known that the family fortunes had declined quite a bit after Swansea’s death. "Especially the coffee plantation. George had been counting on that money to make up for other losses, but the yield that year was simply abysmal. Poor Mr. Guilfoyle was simply distraught over it."
More knowing smiles from the rest of the guests. Guilfoyle had been a partner in several of Swansea's business endeavors, and as such had been a source of great support and comfort to the man’s family after his death. Few were surprised when Amy married him a year later, although the information about the family’s finances only bolstered Satterthwaite’s belief that it had been more convenience than love.
Amy shook her head as if to clear it of such sad thoughts. "But enough of this. Dinah, darling," she said, turning to one of Mrs. Widdecombe’s old friends, "do tell us about your trip to Paris. Was it lovely?"
The table settled back into idle chatter, the sort Satterthwaite could listen to without giving it his whole mind. Despite the easy explanation for Swansea’s suicide, his keen sense of drama was still telling him there was more to come. If only Quin were here, he thought. Despite his friend’s insistence that it was Satterthwaite who uncovered these things, he felt ill-equipped to probe without at least some sign of Quin.
Or, he admitted to himself wryly, perhaps he just wanted to see his friend again. With an imperceptible sigh, he turned his full attention back to the conversation.
~~~
Activities began early the next day. The Widdecombes were wise enough both to make plans for their guests and to be clear that leisure was a perfectly acceptable substitute. Although Satterthwaite normally enjoyed a walk after breakfast, he declined to join the women on their excursion to look at some of the nearby cottages - or more precisely, at their gardens. As none of the women were particularly passionate about gardening, Satterthwaite suspected that the walk was as much an excuse for gossip as anything else, and while that was also something he normally enjoyed, of late he found such sessions only a reminder that he was well past the generation that currently held most people’s interests. Two months before at a dinner party, he had been shocked to realize that he had only the slightest acquaintance with one subject of conversation, and had never even heard of the other. Really, it was a most depressing thought.
And so he found himself on the south veranda with Widdecombe, Kintner, and the vicar, enjoying a rather excellent cup of tea and mostly tuning out the discussion, which involved shooting sports, a subject Satterthwaite found moderately tedious.
Still, he was paying enough attention for a line from Widdecombe to catch his ear.
"...rather awkward, besting the old man just as I’d asked for his daughter’s hand in marriage," he said with a chuckle.
It was less the statement itself that drew Satterthwaite’s attention than Major Kintner’s reaction, which was to flush and look away from his cousin as if distressed by the topic. Satterthwaite was more convinced than ever that something was amiss.
"It hardly felt sporting," Widdecombe continued, "with his hands shaking so, but he was always keenly aware of when one wasn’t trying one’s best and took it quite badly."
The vicar sighed, managing to convey sympathy, sorrow, and perhaps a tough of clerical disapproval in that simple noise. "Age is hard for the weak," he said, "but sometimes I think it is even harder for the strong."
Satterthwaite, who had his own opinions on both age and the varying meanings of strength, frowned and was about to speak when he heard a familiar voice drift out from the house.
"If you are sure it’s not too much of an imposition."
Satterthwaite’s heart pounded, and he turned to see Emma Widdecombe approaching with her arm through that of a tall, dark man. Nick Swansea was directly behind them.
"Nonsense," she was saying. "We’ve all had quite enough of each others’ company. Some new blood, that’s what’s needed. Darling," she turned to her husband. "This is Mr. Quin. He’s renting Rose Cottage for the weekend, and I told him he simply must join us for lunch."
Quin nodded in greeting, and Satterthwaite took the moment before their eyes met to study his friend. He looked nothing like that terrible creature Satterthwaite had seen by the rubbish heap six months before; here he was, just a rather ordinary looking man, with the sort of face one would call interesting, rather than handsome. He looked very much the same age that he had when Satterthwaite first met him, young, but in no way youthful. There was nothing to explain what was so compelling about him, and Satterthwaite found himself wondering if there were others whose spirit leaped when they saw him, others who knew his presence heralded things both wonderful and terrifying. Surely there must be. Someone like Quin could not have settled on one wizened, somewhat fussy old man as his sole confidant. And yet, this was the first time Satterthwaite had ever pondered if there were others, and he somewhat peevishly found himself hoping there were not.
Do you regret?
At last Quin’s gaze reached Satterthwaite, and he smiled in what appeared to be genuine pleasure.
"Mr. Satterthwaite," he said. "So good to see you again."
Satterthwaite smiled, putting aside all fretful thoughts. "My dear Quin. I was just thinking last night that this gathering lacked only your presence to reveal some strange mystery."
Quin shook his head, taking the seat Mrs. Widdecombe offered. To the others at the gathering, he said, "Mr. Satterthwaite seems to feel I am some sort of magician. He credits me with his own deductive powers, I’m afraid."
Satterthwaite merely smiled in return, his doubts falling to the anticipation of drama.
"I can’t think what mystery there would be to solve here," Swansea said lightly, "unless it’s how our hosts have managed to remain so disgustingly happy. Really, Em, you make it quite hard to be a cynic."
"As if you ever were," his sister replied. "I seem to recall you making a rather gushing toast about true love at our engagement party. There were references to doves, if I recall."
A faint, almost imperceptible shadow passed over Swansea’s features. "Ah, but I was young then, and overcome with the romance of it all. Not to mention the gratitude that I wouldn’t be subjected to the usual shooting of innocent clay pigeons."
Mrs. Widdecombe shot him a reproachful look, and he had the grace to flush. Satterthwaite cleared his throat. "Ah, yes. I recall the weekend was less...active than others at your parents’ home," he said mildly. "In deference to your father, I suppose?" It was skirting the boundaries of good taste to bring up the elder Swansea’s illness, but one of the benefits of age was a certain permission to be inquisitive.
Mrs. Widdecombe nodded, and her husband added, "Of course, the old man would have none of it. Decided to challenge Kintner, here, to a private contest. Wasn’t that right, Kintner?"
Major Kintner, Satterthwaite observed wryly, should never engage in any card playing that required bluffing. His panic was written all over his face. "Er, yes. Saturday afternoon."
"From the way you looked after," Widdecombe continued, "I assumed he beat you soundly."
Satterthwaite frowned. Something that had been nagging at the edges of his mind began to take shape. "Forgive me for bringing up such a sad subject, but wasn’t that mentioned at the inquest a month later?"
If his question caused great distress, no one showed it, except perhaps Kintner, who continued to look as though he would rather be almost anywhere else.
"It was," Swansea replied. "The doctor was a bit surprised that he’d been able to hold a gun steadily enough to shoot himself, but of course the disease did come and go at times." He spoke steadily, as if the subject of his father’s death were nothing more emotional than the weather. Satterthwaite had long thought that there was little love lost between father and son.
"The coroner spoke of calling you to testify, didn't he?" he asked the Major.
"There was some mention of it," Swansea answered for his friend, "but of course you were gone by then, weren't you, John?" His tone was light enough that one could almost miss the hint of regret, even bitterness in his words. Looking around the terrace, Satterthwaite thought that he was perhaps the only one who heard it. Well, he and Kintner, who was looking intently at his empty teacup.
"To the Falklands," he replied quietly. "Quite impossible to get back, of course." If it were possible, he looked even more uncomfortable.
"Well," said Mr. Quin, "in the end, it hardly mattered, if all you were going to testify to was that he was capable of holding and firing a gun accurately enough."
The other listeners looked a little surprised, perhaps that a stranger would opine on a family affair, but Satterthwaite leaned forward eagerly. "I suppose that is what you would have said, Major?" he asked. Kintner's face made clear in a moment that he would have said no such thing, and the cause for his unease became clearer.
Several of the other guests seemed to read his expression similarly, judging by the frowns that passed around the terrace. Nick Swansea in particular leaned forward and said, almost gently, "John?"
Kintner sighed, defeat obvious in the slump of his shoulders. "We didn't actually shoot that day," he said. "He wanted to speak with me about..." he stumbled for a moment, "about my future. He was offering to help with my enlistment."
Swansea opened his mouth as if to speak, his expression betraying a dozen questions. In the end, he simply sat back, none of them asked. The others on the terrace looked at one another, their common thought clear, though no one was willing to voice it.
Satterthwaite had no such reticence. "That does rather raise some doubt about the coroner's verdict, does it not?"
"Must it?" Kintner asked desperately.
"I suppose it must," Emma Widdecombe said. "It wasn't terribly widely known that Father was so badly off, him being so proud, but we all knew his palsy was quite bad. But there was no reason to think it might be… Who would want to…" She obviously could not bring herself to say the words.
"Could it have been an accident, then?" Widdecombe asked doubtfully.
"Stranger things have happened," Mr. Quin replied. "But, forgive me for asking, was the shot well-placed?"
"Very," Satterthwaite answered, his eagerness overriding his tact. "I attended the inquest, of course, and the shot was directly at the right temple, and had considerable evidence that the gun had been placed directly on the head."
Widdecombe nodded. "Does seem unlikely, then. But who...?"
"I could think of a few people," Swansea said darkly. "The old man had an enemy or three in his time."
"Yes, but we were the only ones there!" Mrs. Widdecombe said. "Unless perhaps one of the servants..." The thought seemed both to relieve and unsettle her.
"Seems unlikely," Swansea answered. "Father might have been a bastard, but he paid them well, and seeing as we had to let so many of them go after he died..."
"Yes, but they couldn't have known that," Mrs. Widdecombe protested. "That was more because of the investments than his death."
Satterthwaite frowned. "Was Mr. Guilfoyle there that weekend?" he asked, a picture slowly beginning to form.
Mrs. Widdecombe and Swansea exchanged questioning looks. "I think he was," Swansea said slowly. "He was there so often that year that it's hard to remember, but... Yes, yes, he definitely was, because we couldn't reach him for some time after the body was discovered, as he was on his way back to London."
"But you can't think that Mr. Guilfoyle…" Mrs. Widdecombe said.
Satterthwaite looked to Mr. Quin, who only smiled encouragingly. "It's only," he continued, his mind working furiously, "that it seems curious that a man of your father's business acumen could miscalculate an investment so badly. From what your mother said last night, he was quite sure the coffee plantation would yield a good profit that year."
"That did seem odd to me at the time," Widdecombe put in. "Whatever might have been wrong with his body, his mind was still sharp as a tack."
"Are you suggesting Mr. Guilfoyle lied?" Mrs. Widdecombe asked. All eyes turned to Satterthwaite, who in turned looked to Mr. Quin.
Quin smiled and shrugged. "I have always said that distance lends a certain clarity. From what you knew of the two men, does it seem more likely to you that Mr. Swansea could have so grossly miscalculated the plantation's prospect, or that Mr. Guilfoyle was guilty of some financial malfeasance?"
Looks were again exchanged, and finally Satterthwaite said, "I never thought Mr. Guilfoyle a bad man, but he did strike me as...weak. It would not be unknown for such a person to get in over his head, perhaps to borrow from a common fund for something else and not be able to pay it back."
"But murder?" Mrs. Widdecombe cried. "He was such a mild man."
Surprisingly, it was the vicar who answered. "Mild men often make the most desperate choices," he said sadly.
"Indeed," Quin said, "a weak man might be more likely to commit murder than a strong man. Imagine a man who has taken money from a common investment, knowing that his time was running out. Perhaps your father even confronted him about it. Facing ruin, might he not take the easiest way out rather than stand and face the consequences?"
"And he wouldn't have known Father couldn't shoot," Swansea said slowly. "He was never much of a sportsman, never went on the rides or the hunts or the shooting contests. We had that in common," he added with an ironic smile. "Still, it makes a certain awful sense. As unhappy as Father was with his condition, I never could quite believe..."
Mrs. Widdecombe shook her head, not in denial, but in disbelief. "And to think, Mother was so grateful .Mother!" she interrupted her own thought. "Oh, what a horrifying thing to know. Or worse, to wonder and never know for certain."
Widdecombe cleared his throat. "Ought we to tell her, do you think? I mean, what purpose could it serve? It’s not as if she blames herself for the suicide...does she?"
"Definitely not," Nick Swansea said, with an authority Satterthwaite would not have thought he possessed. "She doesn’t need to know. It's not as if we can prove anything, or bring him to justice. Best to leave things as they are."
There was a general round of agreement. The vicar looked moderately uncomfortable, but murmured something about Our Lord's justice and seemed to reconcile himself to silence.
Satterthwaite could not help but feel a bit let down. It had been an interesting puzzle, but to what end? There was no justice to be sought against a dead man, no reputation to save, no life to release from doubt.
He looked over at Quin as if to seek an answer. The other man’s eyes shifted almost too quick to see, over to Major Kintner, then back to Satterthwaite. Knowing a cue when he saw one, Satterthwaite looked over at Kintner. The man looked as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and the last piece of the puzzle fell into place.
Kintner stood suddenly. "If you will all excuse me," he said, "I feel the need for a bit of exertion." He left over Mrs. Widdecombe’s distracted admonishment to be back in time for lunch.
For a moment, Satterthwaite was torn. He greatly feared, despite Quin’s acceptance of the invitation to lunch, that if Satterthwaite were to leave, his friend would be gone when he returned. It was the man’s habit to disappear, and if Satterthwaite had always been confident that he would see Quin again, the thought that it might be another six months or a year before he did so was uncommonly distressing this time.
Do you regret?
In the end curiosity was too strong a pull, and he made his own excuses to follow the Major. He was not surprised that Kintner led them to the top of the small hill where they’d sat only the day before. The man was not sitting this time, but pacing before the rock in obvious agitation. He stopped when he saw Satterthwaite approach, but his agitation did not ease.
"You thought Nick killed his father," Satterthwaite said bluntly.
Kintner seemed to deflate. "He knew. Somehow, the old bastard knew about us." He shot Satterthwaite a quick look as if to assure himself that Satterthwaite both understood and was not shocked. Satterthwaite merely smiled. It was hardly the most scandalous thing he had ever heard; people so often spoke their deepest secrets around him. Kintner shook his head. "He confronted me when we went shooting. Threatened to ruin me, ruin both of us, his own son, even, if I didn’t break things off. If I didn’t leave and never come back." He let out a bitter laugh. "He’d have done it, too, and damn the disgrace to his own family. Nick...Nick would have said we should just go somewhere, leave and let the old man try his worst. He was always very sheltered."
"Or perhaps just very brave," Satterthwaite said quietly.
"The old man would have crushed him out of pure spite. I can’t say I was sorry to hear he was dead."
"I gather few were," Satterthwaite said dryly. "But you knew it couldn’t have been suicide. You knew he couldn’t have pulled the trigger."
"I suspected," Kintner admitted. "He’d tried that day, tried to look intimidating holding a pistol. The fact that he could barely keep it in his hand only made him angrier."
"And your natural suspicion was that Nick learned what his father had done and shot him," Satterthwaite said. "Which is why you stayed away even though the threat was gone."
"I wouldn’t have blamed him for it, not one bit. But Nick had always been so…gentle, so above that kind of violence." He smiled fondly, then shook his head. "I couldn’t stand the thought that he would do that, lose that part of himself, for us."
"Have you ever seen one of his plays?" Satterthwaite asked.
Kintner shook his head. "Not much time for that sort of thing. And anyway, I couldn’t bring myself to."
"It might have set your mind at ease. There's a melancholy under the humor, but no darkness. Nothing like what you’d expect from a man who could kill his own father in cold blood."
Kintner swallowed and shook his head again, looking toward the house with the same longing on his face as yesterday, only this time made more desperate for the hint of hope.
"You should speak to him," Satterthwaite said. This, he saw, was the wrong that had to be righted. Had Quin come for the dead, for an old man who perhaps regretted his cruelty? Or had he come for the living? In the end, it didn’t matter.
"All those years, lost," Kintner said quietly.
"But many more still ahead." Satterthwaite suppressed a chuckle. Men at Kintner’s age thought themselves so old, past all chances in life, particularly men whose glory was behind them in some war or other. It was only at Satterthwaite’s age that one saw how young forty really was. "It’s easy to see the time gone by. Not so easy to see how much is still to come."
"I ran away. I left him to save myself, and worse, I believed..." He shook his head. "How can he forget that?"
"Perhaps he won’t," Satterthwaite said. "But it’s certain that nothing will change if you don’t ask him." His expression turned kindly. "He had courage twenty years ago. Perhaps it’s your turn."
Kintner squared his shoulders, looking every inch the soldier about to face his greatest battle, and walked to the house. Satterthwaite waited a few moments before following.
He was not surprised in the least when Quin was not at the luncheon gathering.
"He remembered something he needed to attend to," Mrs. Widdecombe said with no real concern. After all, to her Quin was just a momentary curiosity. Satterthwaite nodded, trying not to let his disappointment show. It was, he thought, more difficult than it should have been.
~~~
That afternoon, Mr. Satterthwaite settled on his familiar rock. The garden was again filled with people, children running about in what looked like a game of tag, adults clustered in their usual pairs and trios and other groupings. It looked very much like his first day here, with one exception that was hardly notable to anyone except perhaps himself. Major Kintner and Nick Swansea were sitting together on a wicker bench. They were not touching, or even sitting in a particularly intimate stance. To the casual observer, there was no change in their demeanor from yesterday. To Satterthwaite, however, the difference was obvious. The difference was everything.
"Do you regret?" he asked himself quietly.
"You said you didn’t," an answer came from beside the rock. "Has your answer changed?"
Satterthwaite did not even bother to look around. "I lectured Kintner on courage. It’s hard not to see my own cowardice in their light."
"It’s not cowardice to live the life you wish to live."
Satterthwaite smiled. "That is the heart of it, then. I seldom questioned if this was the life I wished to live until you asked me. I occasionally thought of what might have been, but never truly thought of chancing my comforts for something more." He turned to look at Mr. Quin. "You always do that, of course, ask me the questions that make me see things. But never about myself. Not until then." He tried and failed to keep the bitterness out of his voice.
Quin sat beside him on the rock, effortlessly graceful as always. "You never brought yourself up before then. You always credit me with creating the circumstances for investigation, but it’s always been you who saw things, you who directed the play."
Satterthwaite shook his head. "I’m too old to think of such things."
"It’s easy to see the time gone by," Quin quoted. "Not so easy to see how much is still to come." If there had been even a trace of mockery in his tone, Satterthwaite would have left, but Quin didn’t give him even that excuse.
A woman’s laugh rose from the garden, and Satterthwaite looked down at the small gathering. A party for a marriage, another mystery solved, another couple reunited. He’d been content with that a year ago.
"What if I do regret?" he asked. "What then? More questions? There are no unsolved crimes, no lost lovers, no tragic misunderstandings in my past."
"Not in your past. Perhaps one in your present."
Satterthwaite looked at his friend, not bothering to voice the question.
"You’ve always thought I came for others, for the lovers you reunited, or perhaps the dead who regretted. And I did, but not only for them. You never saw the one thread that ran through all of them: you." He smiled at Satterthwaite’s surprised look. "All the times I urged you to act, if only on another’s behalf. It was always as much about you as any of them."
For perhaps the first time in his life, Satterthwaite found himself at a loss for words. He didn’t, couldn’t dare hope. It was too much.
He looked down at Kintner and Swansea. How many people had he watched take a chance, watched act?
"It has to be you who decides," Quin said. "I can only provide the cues."
Taking a deep breath, Satterthwaite leaned over and kissed Quin. For all the terrified pounding of his heart, he was somehow unsurprised when Quin kissed him back. There was nothing magical or strange, no music in the background, just a first kiss, slightly awkward, but promising more if given time. Satterthwaite pulled back just enough to see a contented smile on Quin’s face, one he knew he was mirroring back.
Do you regret?
"Not anymore," Satterthwaite whispered, moving to kiss his friend again.