The Shadow on the Glass: An Agatha Christie Short Story. Agatha Christie

Mr Satterthwaite. ‘A Greenways ghost. They bought it with the house.’

      ‘Of course,’ said Lady Cynthia. ‘I remember now. But it doesn’t clank chains, does it? It’s only something to do with a window.’

      Jimmy Allenson looked up quickly.

      ‘A window?’

      But for the moment Mr Satterthwaite did not answer. He was looking over Jimmy’s head at three figures approaching from the direction of the house – a slim girl between two men. There was a superficial resemblance between the men, both were tall and dark with bronzed faces and quick eyes, but looked at more closely the resemblance vanished. Richard Scott, hunter and explorer, was a man of extraordinarily vivid personality. He had a manner that radiated magnetism. John Porter, his friend and fellow hunter, was a man of squarer build with an impassive, rather wooden face, and very thoughtful grey eyes. He was a quiet man, content always to play second fiddle to his friend.

      And between these two walked Moira Scott who, until three months ago, had been Moira O’Connell. A slender figure, big wistful brown eyes, and golden red hair that stood out round her small face like a saint’s halo.

      ‘That child mustn’t be hurt,’ said Mr Satterthwaite to himself. ‘It would be abominable that a child like that should be hurt.’

      Lady Cynthia greeted the newcomers with a wave of the latest thing in parasols.

      ‘Sit down, and don’t interrupt,’ she said. ‘Mr Satterthwaite is telling us a ghost story.’

      ‘I love ghost stories,’ said Moira Scott. She dropped down on the grass.

      ‘The ghost of Greenways House?’ asked Richard Scott. ‘Yes. You know about it?’

      Scott nodded.

      ‘I used to stay here in the old days,’ he explained. ‘Before the Elliots had to sell up. The Watching Cavalier, that’s it, isn’t it?’

      ‘The Watching Cavalier,’ said his wife softly. ‘I like that. It sounds interesting. Please go on.’

      But Mr Satterthwaite seemed somewhat loath to do so. He assured her that it was not really interesting at all.

      ‘Now you’ve done it, Satterthwaite,’ said Richard Scott sardonically. ‘That hint of reluctance clinches it.’

      In response to popular clamour, Mr Satterthwaite was forced to speak.

      ‘It’s really very uninteresting,’ he said apologetically. ‘I believe the original story centres round a Cavalier ancestor of the Elliot family. His wife had a Roundhead lover. The husband was killed by the lover in an upstairs room, and the guilty pair fled, but as they fled, they looked back at the house, and saw the face of the dead husband at the window, watching them. That is the legend, but the ghost story is only concerned with a pane of glass in the window of that particular room on which is an irregular stain, almost imperceptible from near at hand, but which from far away certainly gives the effect of a man’s face looking out.’

      ‘Which window is it?’ asked Mrs Scott, looking up at the house.

      ‘You can’t see it from here,’ said Mr Satterthwaite. ‘It is round the other side but was boarded up from the inside some years ago – forty years ago, I think, to be accurate.’

      ‘What did they do that for? I thought you said the ghost didn’t walk.’

      ‘It doesn’t,’ Mr Satterthwaite assured her. ‘I suppose – well, I suppose there grew to be a superstitious feeling about it, that’s all.’