Agatha Christie

Murder is Easy

Dedicated to
Rosalind and Susan
the first two critics of this book

One

A FELLOW TRAVELLER

England!

England after many years!

How was he going to like it?

Luke Fitzwilliam asked himself that question as he walked down the gangplank to the dock. It was present at the back of his mind all through the wait in the Customsâ shed. It came suddenly to the fore when he was finally seated in the boat train.

England on leave was one thing. Plenty of money to blue (to begin with anyway!), old friends to look up, meetings with other fellows home like himselfâa carefree atmosphere of âWell, it wonât be long. Might as well enjoy myself! Soon be going back.â

But now there was no question of going back. No more of the hot stifling nights, no more blinding sun and tropical beauty of rich vegetation, no more lonely evenings reading and re-reading old copies of The Times.

Here he was, honourably retired on a pension, with some small private means of his own, a gentleman of leisure, come home to England. What was he going to do with himself?

England! England on a June day, with a grey sky and a sharp biting wind. Nothing welcoming about her on a day like this! And the people! Heavens, the people! Crowds of them, all with grey faces like the skyâanxious worried faces. The houses too, springing up everywhere like mushrooms. Nasty little houses! Revolting little houses! Chicken coops in the grandiose manner all over the countryside!

With an effort Luke Fitzwilliam averted his eyes from the landscape outside the railway carriage window and settled down to a perusal of the papers he had just bought. The Times, the Daily Clarion and Punch.

He started with the Daily Clarion. The Clarion was given over entirely to Epsom.

Luke thought: âA pity we didnât get in yesterday. Havenât seen the Derby run since I was nineteen.â

He had drawn a horse in the Club sweep and he looked now to see what the Clarionâs racing correspondent thought of its chance. He found it dismissed contemptuously in a sentence.

âOf the others, Jujube the II., Markâs Mile, Santony and Jerry Boy are hardly likely to qualify for a place. A likely outsider isââ

But Luke paid no attention to the likely outsider. His eye had shifted to the betting. Jujube the II. was listed at a modest 40 to 1.

He glanced at his watch. A quarter to four. âWell,â he thought. âItâs over now.â And he wished heâd had a bet on Clarigold who was the second favourite.

Then he opened The Times and became absorbed in more serious matters.

Not for long, however, for a fierce-looking colonel in the corner opposite was so incensed at what he himself had just read that he had to pass on his indignation to his fellow passenger. A full half hour passed before the colonel tired of saying what he thought about âthese damned Communist agitators, sir.â

The colonel died down at last and finally dropped off to sleep with his mouth open. Shortly afterwards the train slowed down and finally stopped. Luke looked out of the window. They were in a large empty-looking station with many platforms. He caught sight of a bookstall some way up the platform with a placard: DERBY RESULT. Luke opened the door, jumped out, and ran towards the bookstall. A moment later he was staring with a broad grin at a few smudged lines in the stop press.

Derby Result

JUJUBE THE II.

MAZEPPA

CLARIGOLD

Luke grinned broadly. A hundred pounds to blue! Good old Jujube the II., so scornfully dismissed by all the tipsters.

He folded the paper, still grinning to himself, and turned backâto face emptiness. In the excitement of Jujube the II.âs victory, his train had slipped out of the station unnoticed by him.

âWhen the devil did that train go out?â he demanded of a gloomy-looking porter.

The latter replied:

âWhat train? There hasnât been no train since the 3:14.â

âThere was a train here just now. I got out of it. The boat express.â

The porter replied austerely:

âThe boat express donât stop anywhere till London.â

âBut it did,â Luke assured him. âI got out of it.â

âNo stop anywhere till London,â repeated the porter immovably.

âIt stopped at this very platform and I got out of it, I tell you.â

Faced by facts, the porter changed his ground.

âYou didnât ought to have done,â he said reproachfully. âIt donât stop here.â

âBut it did.â

âThat âtwas signal, that was. Signal against it. It didnât what youâd call âstop.ââ

âIâm not so good at these fine distinctions as you are,â said Luke. âThe point is, what do I do next?â

The porter, a man of slow ideas, repeated reproachfully: âYou didnât ought to have got out.â

âWeâll admit that,â said Luke. âThe wrong is done, past all recallâweep we never so bitterly we can never bring back the dead pastâQuoth the raven âNevermoreââThe moving finger writes; and having writ moves on, etc., etc., and so on and so forth. What Iâm trying to get at is, what do you, a man experienced in the service of the railway company, advise me to do now?â

âYouâre asking what youâd better do?â

âThat,â said Luke, âis the idea. There are, I presume, trains that stop, really officially stop, here?â

âReckon,â said the porter. âYouâd best go on by the 4:25.â

âIf the 4:25 goes to London,â said Luke, âthe 4:25 is the train for me.â

Reassured on that point, Luke strolled up and down the platform. A large board informed him that he was at Fenny Clayton Junction for Wychwood-under-Ashe, and presently a train consisting of one carriage pushed backwards by an antiquated little engine came slowly puffing in and deposited itself in a modest bay. Six or seven people alighted, and crossing over a bridge, came to join Luke on his platform. The gloomy porter suddenly awoke to life and began pushing about a large truck of crates and baskets, another porter joined him and began to rattle milk cans. Fenny Clayton awoke to life.

At last, with immense importance the London train came in. The third-class carriages were crowded, and of firsts there were only three and each one contained a traveller or travellers. Luke scrutinized each compartment. The first, a smoker, contained a gentleman of military aspect smoking a cigar. Luke felt he had had enough of Anglo-Indian colonels today. He passed on to the next one, which contained a tired-looking genteel young woman, possibly a nursery governess, and an active-looking small boy of about three. Luke passed on quickly. The next door was open and the carriage contained one passenger, an elderly lady. She reminded Luke slightly of one of his aunts, his Aunt Mildred, who had courageously allowed him to keep a grass snake when he was ten years old. Aunt Mildred had been decidedly a good aunt as aunts go. Luke entered the carriage and sat down.

After some five minutes of intense activity on the part of milk vans, luggage trucks and other excitements, the train moved slowly out of the station. Luke unfolded his paper and turned to such items of news as might interest a man who had already read his morning paper.

He did not hope to read it for long. Being a man of many aunts, he was fairly certain that the nice old lady in the corner did not propose to travel in silence to London.

He was rightâa window that needed adjusting, dropped umbrellaâand the way the old lady was telling him what a good train this was.

âOnly an hour and ten minutes. Thatâs very good, you know, very good indeed. Much better than the morning one. That takes an hour and forty minutes.â

She went on:

âOf course, nearly everyone goes by the morning one. I mean, when it is the cheap day itâs silly to go up in the afternoon. I meant to go up this morning, but Wonky Pooh was missingâthatâs my cat, a Persian, such a beauty only heâs had a painful ear latelyâand of course I couldnât leave home till he was found!â

Luke murmured:

âOf course not,â and let his eyes drop ostentatiously to his paper. But it was of no avail. The flood went on.

âSo I just made the best of a bad job and took the afternoon train instead, and of course itâs a blessing in one way because itâs not so crowdedânot that that matters when one is travelling first class. Of course, I donât usually do that. I mean, I should consider it an extravagance, what with taxes and oneâs dividends being less and servantsâ wages so much more and everythingâbut really I was so upset because you see, Iâm going up on very important business, and I wanted to think out exactly what I was going to sayâjust quietly, you knowââ Luke repressed a smile. âAnd when there are people you know travelling up tooâwell, one canât be unfriendlyâso I thought just for once, the expense was quite permissibleâthough I do think nowadays there is so much wasteâand nobody saves or thinks of the future. One is sorry the seconds were ever abolishedâit did make just that little difference.

âOf course,â she went on quickly, with a swift glance at Lukeâs bronzed face, âI know soldiers on leave have to travel first class. I mean, being officers, itâs expected of themââ

Luke sustained the inquisitive glance of a pair of bright twinkling eyes. He capitulated at once. It would come to it, he knew, in the end.

âIâm not a soldier,â he said.

âOh, Iâm sorry. I didnât meanâI just thoughtâyou were so brownâperhaps home from the East on leave.â

âIâm home from the East,â said Luke. âBut not on leave.â He stalled off further researches with a bald statement. âIâm a policeman.â

âIn the police? Now really, thatâs very interesting. A dear friend of mineâher boy has just joined the Palestine police.â

âMayang Straits,â said Luke, taking another shortcut.

âOh, dearâvery interesting. Really, itâs quite a coincidenceâI mean, that you should be travelling in this carriage. Because, you see, this business Iâm going up to town aboutâwell, actually it is to Scotland Yard Iâm going.â

âReally?â said Luke.

He thought to himself, âWill she run down soon like a clock or will this go on all the way to London?â But he did not really mind very much, because he had been very fond of his Aunt Mildred, and he remembered how she had once stumped up a fiver in the nick of time. Besides, there was something very cosy and English about old ladies like this old lady and his Aunt Mildred. There was nothing at all like them in the Mayang Straits. They could be classed with plum pudding on Christmas Day and village cricket and open fireplaces with wood fires. The sort of things you appreciated a good deal when you hadnât got them and were on the other side of the world. (They were also the sort of thing you got very bored with when you had a good deal of them, but as has been already told, Luke had only landed in England three or four hours ago.)

The old lady was continuing happily:

âYes, I meant to go up this morningâand then, as I told you, I was so worried about Wonky Pooh. But you donât think it will be too late, do you? I mean, there arenât any special office hours at Scotland Yard.â

âI donât think they close down at four or anything like that,â said Luke.

âNo, of course, they couldnât, could they? I mean, somebody might want to report a serious crime at any minute, mightnât they?â

âExactly,â said Luke.

For a moment the old lady relapsed into silence. She looked worried.

âI always think itâs better to go right to the fountainhead,â she said at last. âJohn Reed is quite a nice fellowâthatâs our constable in Wychwoodâa very civil-spoken, pleasant manâbut I donât feel, you knowâthat he would be quite the person to deal with anything serious. Heâs quite used to dealing with people whoâve drunk too much, or with exceeding the speed limit, or lighting-up timeâor people who havenât taken out a dog licenceâand perhaps with burglary even. But I donât thinkâIâm quite sureâhe isnât the person to deal with murder!â

Lukeâs eyebrows rose.

âMurder?â

The old lady nodded vigorously.

âYes, murder. Youâre surprised, I can see. I was myself at firstâ¦I really couldnât believe it. I thought I must be imagining things.â

âAre you quite sure you werenât?â Luke asked gently.

âOh, no.â She shook her head positively. âI might have been the first time, but not the second, or the third or the fourth. After that one knows.â

Luke said:

âDo you mean there have beenâerâseveral murders?â

The quiet gentle voice replied:

âA good many, Iâm afraid.â

She went on:

âThatâs why I thought it would be best to go straight to Scotland Yard and tell them about it. Donât you think thatâs the best thing to do?â

Luke looked at her thoughtfully, then he said:

âWhy, yesâI think youâre quite right.â

He thought to himself:

âTheyâll know how to deal with her. Probably get half a dozen old ladies a week coming in burbling about the amount of murders committed in their nice quiet country villages! There may be a special department for dealing with the old dears.â

And he saw in imagination a fatherly superintendent, or a good-looking young inspector, tactfully murmuring:

âThank you, maâam, very grateful to you, Iâm sure. Now just go back and leave it all in our hands and donât worry anymore about it.â

He smiled a little to himself at the picture. He thought:

âI wonder why they get these fancies? Deadly dull lives, I supposeâan unacknowledged craving for drama. Some old ladies, so Iâve heard, fancy everyone is poisoning their food.â

He was roused from these meditations by the thin, gentle voice continuing:

âYou know, I remember reading onceâI think it was the Abercrombie caseâof course heâd poisoned quite a lot of people before any suspicion was arousedâwhat was I saying? Oh, yes, somebody said that there was a lookâa special look that he gave anyoneâand then very shortly afterwards that person would be taken ill. I didnât really believe that when I read about itâbut itâs true!â

âWhatâs true?â

âThe look on a personâs faceâ¦.â

Luke stared at her. She was trembling a little, and her nice pink cheeks had lost some of their colour.

âI saw it first with Amy Gibbsâand she died. And then it was Carter. And Tommy Pierce. But nowâyesterdayâit was Dr. Humblebyâand heâs such a good manâa really good man. Carter, of course, drank, and Tommy Pierce was a dreadfully cheeky impertinent little boy, and bullied the tiny boys, twisting their arms and pinching them. I didnât feel quite so badly about them, but Dr. Humblebyâs different. He must be saved. And the terrible thing is that if I went to him and told him about it he wouldnât believe me! Heâd only laugh! And John Reed wouldnât believe me either. But at Scotland Yard it will be different. Because, naturally, theyâre used to crime there!â

She glanced out of the window.

âOh, dear, we shall be in in a minute.â She fussed a little, opening and shutting her bag, collecting her umbrella.

âThank youâthank you so much.â This to Luke as he picked the umbrella up for the second time. âItâs been such a relief talking to youâmost kind of you, Iâm sureâso glad you think Iâm doing the right thing.â

Luke said kindly:

âIâm sure theyâll give you good advice at Scotland Yard.â

âI really am most grateful.â She fumbled in her bag. âMy cardâoh, dear, I only have oneâI must keep thatâfor Scotland Yardââ

âOf course, of courseââ

âBut my name is Pinkerton.â

âVery suitable name, too, Miss Pinkerton,â said Luke, smiling, adding hastily as she looked a little bewildered, âMy name is Luke Fitzwilliam.â

As the train drew in to the platform he added:

âCan I get you a taxi?â

âOh, no, thank you.â Miss Pinkerton seemed quite shocked at the idea. âI shall take the tube. That will take me to Trafalgar Square, and I shall walk down Whitehall.â

âWell, good luck,â said Luke.

Miss Pinkerton shook him warmly by the hand.

âSo kind,â she murmured again. âYou know, just at first I thought you didnât believe me.â

Luke had the grace to blush.

âWell,â he said. âSo many murders! Rather hard to do a lot of murders and get away with it, eh?â

Miss Pinkerton shook her head.

She said earnestly:

âNo, no, my dear boy, thatâs where youâre wrong. Itâs very easy to killâso long as no one suspects you. And you see, the person in question is just the last person anyone would suspect!â

âWell, anyway, good luck,â said Luke.

Miss Pinkerton was swallowed up in the crowd. He himself went off in search of his luggage, thinking as he did so:

âJust a little bit batty? No, I donât think so. A vivid imagination, thatâs all. Hope they let her down lightly. Rather an old dear.â

Two

OBITUARY NOTICE

I

Jimmy Lorrimer was one of Lukeâs oldest friends. As a matter of course, Luke stayed with Jimmy as soon as he got to London. It was with Jimmy that he sallied forth on the evening of his arrival in search of amusement. It was Jimmyâs coffee that he drank with an aching head the morning after, and it was Jimmyâs voice that went unanswered while he read twice over a small insignificant paragraph in the morning paper.

âSorry, Jimmy,â he said, coming to himself with a start.

âWhat were you absorbed inâthe political situation?â

Luke grinned.

âNo fear. No, itâs rather queerâold pussy I travelled up with in the train yesterday got run over.â

âProbably trusted to a Belisha Beacon,â said Jimmy. âHow do you know itâs her?â

âOf course, it maynât be. But itâs the same nameâPinkertonâshe was knocked down and killed by a car as she was crossing Whitehall. The car didnât stop.â

âNasty business,â said Jimmy.

âYes, poor old bean. Iâm sorry. She reminded me of my Aunt Mildred.â

âWhoever was driving that car will be for it. Bring it in manslaughter as likely as not. I tell you, Iâm scared stiff of driving a car nowadays.â

âWhat have you got at present in the way of a car?â

âFord V 8. I tell you, my boyââ

The conversation became severely mechanical.

Jimmy broke it off to ask:

âWhat the devil are you humming?â

Luke was humming to himself:

âFiddle de dee, fiddle de dee, the fly has married the bumblebee.â

He apologized.

âNursery rhyme remembered from my childhood. Canât think what put it into my head.â

II

It was over a week later that Luke, carelessly scanning the front page of The Times, gave a sudden startled exclamation.

âWell, Iâm damned!â

Jimmy Lorrimer looked up.

âWhatâs the matter?â

Luke did not answer. He was staring at a name in the printed column.

Jimmy repeated his question.

Luke raised his head and looked at his friend. His expression was so peculiar that Jimmy was quite taken aback.

âWhatâs up, Luke? You look as though youâd seen a ghost.â

For a minute or two the other did not reply. He dropped the paper, strode to the window and back again. Jimmy watched him with increasing surprise.

Luke dropped into a chair and leaned forward.

âJimmy, old son, do you remember my mentioning an old lady I travelled up to town withâthe day I arrived in England?â

âThe one you said reminded you of your Aunt Mildred? And then she got run over by a car?â

âThatâs the one. Listen, Jimmy. The old girl came out with a long rigmarole of how she was going up to Scotland Yard to tell them about a lot of murders. There was a murderer loose in her villageâthatâs what it amounted to, and heâs been doing some pretty rapid execution.â

âYou didnât tell me she was batty,â said Jimmy.

âI didnât think she was.â

âOh, come now, old boy, wholesale murderââ

Luke said impatiently:

âI didnât think she was off her head. I thought she was just letting her imagination run away with her like old ladies sometimes do.â

âWell, yes, I suppose that might have been it. But she was probably a bit touched as well, I should think.â

âNever mind what you think, Jimmy. At the moment, Iâm telling you, see?â

âOh, quiteâquiteâget on with it.â

âShe was quite circumstantial, mentioned one or two victims by name and then explained that what had really rattled her was the fact that she knew who the next victim was going to be.â

âYes?â said Jimmy encouragingly.

âSometimes a name sticks in your head for some silly reason or other. This name stuck in mine because I linked it up with a silly nursery rhyme they used to sing to me when I was a kid. Fiddle de dee, fiddle de dee, the fly has married the bumblebee.â

âVery intellectual, Iâm sure, but whatâs the point?â

âThe point, my good ass, is that the manâs name was HumblebyâDr. Humbleby. My old lady said Dr. Humbleby would be the next, and she was distressed because he was âsuch a good man.â The name stuck in my head because of the aforementioned rhyme.â

âWell?â said Jimmy.

âWell, look at this.â

Luke passed over the paper, his finger pressed against an entry in the column of deaths.

HUMBLEBY.âOn June 13, suddenly, at his residence, Sandgate, Wychwood-under-Ashe, JOHN EDWARD HUMBLEBY, MD, beloved husband of JESSIE ROSE HUMBLEBY. Funeral Friday. No flowers, by request.

âYou see, Jimmy? Thatâs the name and the place and heâs a doctor. What do you make of it?â

Jimmy took a moment or two to answer. His voice was serious when he said at last rather uncertainly:

âI suppose itâs just a damned odd coincidence.â

âIs it, Jimmy? Is it? Is that all it is?â

Luke began to walk up and down again.

âWhat else could it be?â asked Jimmy.

Luke wheeled round suddenly.

âSuppose that every word that dear bleating old sheep said was true! Suppose that that fantastic story was just the plain literal truth!â

âOh, come now, old boy! That would be a bit thick! Things like that donât happen.â

âWhat about the Abercrombie case? Wasnât he supposed to have done away with a goodish few?â

âMore than ever came out,â said Jimmy. âA pal of mine had a cousin who was the local coroner. I heard a bit through him. They got Abercrombie for feeding the local vet with arsenic, then they dug up his wife and she was full of it, and itâs pretty certain his brother-in-law went the same wayâand that wasnât all, by a long chalk. This pal of mine told me the unofficial view was that Abercrombie had done away with at least fifteen people in his time. Fifteen!â

âExactly. So these things do happen!â

âYes, but they donât happen often.â

âHow do you know? They may happen a good deal oftener than you suppose.â

âThere speaks the police wallah! Canât you forget youâre a policeman now that youâve retired into private life?â

âOnce a policeman, always a policeman, I suppose,â said Luke. âNow look here, Jimmy, supposing that before Abercrombie had got so foolhardy as fairly to push his murders under the nose of the police, some dear loquacious old spinster had just simply guessed what he was up to and had trotted off to tell someone in authority all about it. Do you suppose theyâd have listened to her?â

Jimmy grinned.

âNo fear!â

âExactly. Theyâd have said sheâd got bats in the belfry. Just as you said! Or theyâd have said, âToo much imagination. Not enough to do.â As I said! And both of us, Jimmy, would have been wrong.â

Lorrimer took a moment or two to consider, then he said:

âWhatâs the position exactlyâas it appears to you?â

Luke said slowly:

âThe case stands like this. I was told a storyâan improbable, but not an impossible story. One piece of evidence, the death of Dr. Humbleby, supports that story. And thereâs one other significant fact. Miss Pinkerton was going to Scotland Yard with this improbable story of hers. But she didnât get there. She was run over and killed by a car that didnât stop.â

Jimmy objected.

âYou donât know that she didnât get there. She might have been killed after her visit, not before.â

âShe might have been, yesâbut I donât think she was.â

âThatâs pure supposition. It boils down to thisâyou believe in thisâthis melodrama.â

Luke shook his head sharply.

âNo, I donât say that. All I say is, thereâs a case for investigation.â

âIn other words, you are going to Scotland Yard.â

âNo, it hasnât come to that yetânot nearly. As you say, this man Humblebyâs death may be merely a coincidence.â

âThen what, may I ask, is the idea?â

âThe idea is to go down to this place and look into the matter.â

âSo thatâs the idea, is it?â

âDonât you agree that that is the only sensible way to set about it?â

Jimmy stared at him, then he said:

âAre you serious about this business, Luke?â

âAbsolutely.â

âSuppose the whole thingâs a mareâs nest?â

âThat would be the best thing that could happen.â

âYes, of courseâ¦â Jimmy frowned. âBut you donât think it is, do you?â

âMy dear fellow, Iâm keeping an open mind.â Jimmy was silent for a minute or two. Then he said:

âGot any plan? I mean, youâll have to have some reason for suddenly arriving in this place.â

âYes, I suppose I shall.â

âNo âsupposeâ about it. Do you realize what a small English country town is like? Anyone new sticks out a mile!â

âI shall have to adopt a disguise,â said Luke with a sudden grin. âWhat do you suggest? Artist? HardlyâI canât draw, let alone paint.â

âYou could be a modern artist,â suggested Jimmy. âThen that wouldnât matter.â

But Luke was intent on the matter in hand.

âAn author? Do authors go to strange country inns to write? They might, I suppose. A fisherman, perhapsâbut Iâll have to find out if thereâs a handy river. An invalid ordered country air? I donât look the part, and anyway everyone goes to a nursing home nowadays. I might be looking for a house in the neighbourhood. But thatâs not very good. Hang it all, Jimmy, there must be some plausible reason for a hearty stranger to descend upon an English village?â

Jimmy said:

âWait a secâgive me that paper again.â

Taking it, he gave it a cursory glance and announced triumphantly:

âI thought so! Luke, old boyâto put it in a nutshellâIâll fix you OK. Everythingâs as easy as winking!â

Luke wheeled round.

âWhat?â

Jimmy was continuing with modest pride:

âI thought something struck a chord! Wychwood-under-Ashe. Of course! The very place!â

âHave you, by any chance, a pal who knows the coroner there?â

âNot this time. Better than that, my boy. Nature, as you know, has endowed me plentifully with aunts and cousinsâmy father having been one of a family of thirteen. Now listen to this: I have a cousin in Wychwood-under-Ashe.â

âJimmy, youâre a blinking marvel.â

âIt is pretty good, isnât it?â said Jimmy modestly.

âTell me about him.â

âItâs a her. Her nameâs Bridget Conway. For the last two years sheâs been secretary to Lord Whitfield.â

âThe man who owns those nasty little weekly papers?â

âThatâs right. Rather a nasty little man too! Pompous! He was born in Wychwood-under-Ashe, and being the kind of snob who rams his birth and breeding down your throat and glories in being self-made, he has returned to his home village, bought up the only big house in the neighbourhood (it belonged to Bridgetâs family originally, by the way) and is busy making the place into a âmodel estate.ââ

âAnd your cousin is his secretary?â

âShe was,â said Jimmy darkly. âNow sheâs gone one better! Sheâs engaged to him!â

âOh,â said Luke, rather taken aback.

âHeâs a catch, of course,â said Jimmy. âRolling in money. Bridget took rather a toss over some fellowâit pretty well knocked the romance out of her. I dare say this will pan out very well. Sheâll probably be kind of firm with him and heâll eat out of her hand.â

âAnd where do I come in?â

Jimmy replied promptly.

âYou go down there to stayâyouâd better be another cousin. Bridgetâs got so many that one more or less wonât matter. Iâll fix that up with her all right. She and I have always been pals. Now for your reason for going thereâwitchcraft, my boy.â

âWitchcraft?â

âFolklore, local superstitionsâall that sort of thing. Wychwood-under-Ashe has got rather a reputation that way. One of the last places where they had a Witchesâ Sabbathâwitches were still burnt there in the last centuryâall sorts of traditions. Youâre writing a book, see? Correlating the customs of the Mayang Straits and old English folkloreâpoints of resemblance, etc. You know the sort of stuff. Go round with a notebook and interview the oldest inhabitant about local superstitions and customs. Theyâre quite used to that sort of thing down there, and if youâre staying at Ashe Manor it vouches for you.â

âWhat about Lord Whitfield?â

âHeâll be all right. Heâs quite uneducated and completely credulousâactually believes things he reads in his own papers. Anyway Bridget will fix him. Bridgetâs all right. Iâll answer for her.â

Luke drew a deep breath.

âJimmy, old scout, it looks as though the thing is going to be easy. Youâre a wonder. If you can really fix up with your cousinââ

âThat will be absolutely OK. Leave it to me.â

âIâm no end grateful to you.â

Jimmy said:

âAll I ask is, if youâre hunting down a homicidal murderer, let me be in at the death!â

He added sharply:

âWhat is it?â

Luke said slowly:

âJust something I remembered my old lady saying to me. Iâd said to her that it was a bit thick to do a lot of murders and get away with it, and she answered that I was wrongâthat it was very easy to killâ¦â He stopped, and then said slowly, âI wonder if thatâs true, Jimmy? I wonder if it isââ

âWhat?â

âEasy to killâ¦.â

Three

WITCH WITHOUT BROOMSTICK

I

The sun was shining when Luke came over the hill and down into the little country town of Wychwood-under-Ashe. He had bought a secondhand Standard Swallow, and he stopped for a moment on the brow of the hill and switched off the engine.

The summer day was warm and sunny. Below him was the village, singularly unspoilt by recent developments. It lay innocently and peacefully in the sunlightâmainly composed of a long straggling street that ran along under the overhanging brow of Ashe Ridge.

It seemed singularly remote, strangely untouched. Luke thought, âIâm probably mad. The whole thingâs fantastic.â

Had he really come here solemnly to hunt down a killerâsimply on the strength of some garrulous ramblings on the part of an old lady, and a chance obituary notice?

He shook his head.

âSurely these things donât happen,â he murmured. âOrâdo they? Luke, my boy, itâs up to you to find out if youâre the worldâs most credulous prize ass, or if your policemanâs nose has led you hot on the scent.â

He switched on the engine, threw in the gear and drove gently down the twisting road and so entered the main street.

Wychwood, as has been said, consists mainly of its one principal street. There were shops, small Georgian houses, prim and aristocratic, with whitened steps and polished knockers, there were picturesque cottages with flower gardens. There was an inn, the Bells and Motley, standing a little back from the street. There was a village green and a duck pond, and presiding over them a dignified Georgian house which Luke thought at first must be his destination, Ashe Manor. But on coming nearer he saw that there was a large painted board announcing that it was the Museum and Library. Farther on there was an anachronism, a large white modern building, austere and irrelevant to the cheerful haphazardness of the rest of the place. It was, Luke gathered, a local Institute and Ladsâ Club.

It was at this point that he stopped and asked the way to his destination.

He was told that Ashe Manor was about half a mile farther onâhe would see the gates on his right.

Luke continued his course. He found the gates easilyâthey were of new and elaborate wrought iron. He drove in, caught a gleam of red brick through the trees, and turned a corner of the drive to be stupefied by the appalling and incongruous castellated mass that greeted his eyes.

While he was contemplating the nightmare, the sun went in. He became suddenly conscious of the overlying menace of Ashe Ridge. There was a sudden sharp gust of wind, blowing back the leaves of the trees, and at that moment a girl came round the corner of the castellated mansion.

Her black hair was blown up off her head by the sudden gust and Luke was reminded of a picture he had once seenâNevinsonâs âWitch.â The long pale delicate face, the black hair flying up to the stars. He could see this girl on a broomstick flying up to the moonâ¦.

She came straight towards him.

âYou must be Luke Fitzwilliam. Iâm Bridget Conway.â

He took the hand she held out. He could see her now as she wasânot in a sudden moment of fantasy. Tall, slender, a long delicate face with slightly hollow cheekbonesâironic black browsâblack eyes and hair. She was like a delicate etching, he thoughtâpoignant and beautiful.

He had had an acknowledged picture at the back of his mind during his voyage home to Englandâa picture of an English girl flushed and sunburntâstroking a horseâs neck, stooping to weed a herbaceous border, sitting holding out her hands to the blaze of a wood fire. It had been a warm gracious visionâ¦.

Nowâhe didnât know if he liked Bridget Conway or notâbut he knew that that secret picture wavered and broke upâbecame meaningless and foolishâ¦.

He said:

âHow dâyou do? I must apologize for wishing myself on you like this. Jimmy would have it that you wouldnât mind.â

âOh, we donât. Weâre delighted.â She smiled, a sudden curving smile that brought the corners of her long mouth halfway up her cheeks. âJimmy and I always stand in together. And if youâre writing a book on folklore this is a splendid place. All sorts of legends and picturesque spots.â

âSplendid,â said Luke.

They went together towards the house. Luke stole another glance at it. He discerned now traces of a sober Queen Anne dwelling overlaid and smothered by the florid magnificence. He remembered that Jimmy had mentioned the house as having originally belonged to Bridgetâs family. That, he thought grimly, was in its unadorned days. Stealing a glance at the line of her profile, at the long beautiful hands, he wondered.

She was about twenty-eight or -nine, he supposed. And she had brains. And she was one of those people about whom you knew absolutely nothing unless they chose that you shouldâ¦.

Inside, the house was comfortable and in good tasteâthe good taste of a first-class decorator. Bridget Conway led the way to a room with bookshelves and comfortable chairs where a tea table stood near the window with two people sitting by it.

She said:

âGordon, this is Luke, a sort of cousin of a cousin of mine.â

Lord Whitfield was a small man with a semi-bald head. His face was round and ingenuous, with a pouting mouth and boiled gooseberry eyes. He was dressed in careless-looking country clothes. They were unkind to his figure, which ran mostly to stomach.

He greeted Luke with affability.

âGlad to see youâvery glad. Just come back from the East, I hear? Interesting place. Writing a book, so Bridget tells me. They say too many books are written nowadays. I say noâalways room for a good one.â

Bridget said, âMy aunt, Mrs. Anstruther,â and Luke shook hands with a middle-aged woman with a rather foolish mouth.

Mrs. Anstruther, as Luke soon learned, was devoted body and soul to gardening. She never talked of anything else, and her mind was constantly occupied by considerations of whether some rare plant was likely to do well in the place she intended to put it.

After acknowledging the introduction, she said now:

âYou know, Gordon, the ideal spot for a rockery would be just beyond the rose garden, and then you could have the most marvellous water garden where the stream comes through that dip.â

Lord Whitfield stretched himself back in his chair.

âYou fix all that with Bridget,â he said easily. âRock plants are niggly little things, I thinkâbut that doesnât matter.â

Bridget said:

âRock plants arenât sufficiently in the grand manner for you, Gordon.â

She poured out some tea for Luke and Lord Whitfield said placidly:

âThatâs right. Theyâre not what I call good value for money. Little bits of flowers you can hardly seeâ¦I like a nice show in a conservatory, or some good beds of scarlet geraniums.â

Mrs. Anstruther, who possessed par excellence the gift of continuing with her own subject undisturbed by that of anyone else, said:

âI believe those new rock roses would do perfectly in this climate,â and proceeded to immerse herself in catalogues.

Throwing his squat little figure back in his chair, Lord Whitfield sipped his tea and studied Luke appraisingly.

âSo you write books,â he murmured.

Feeling slightly nervous, Luke was about to enter on explanations when he perceived that Lord Whitfield was not really seeking for information.

âIâve often thought,â said his lordship complacently, âthat Iâd like to write a book myself.â

âYes?â said Luke.

âI could, mark you,â said Lord Whitfield. âAnd a very interesting book it would be. Iâve come across a lot of interesting people. Trouble is, I havenât got the time. Iâm a very busy man.â

âOf course. You must be.â

âYou wouldnât believe what Iâve got on my shoulders,â said Lord Whitfield. âI take a personal interest in each one of my publications. I consider that Iâm responsible for moulding the public mind. Next week millions of people will be thinking and feeling just exactly what Iâve intended to make them feel and think. Thatâs a very solemn thought. That means responsibility. Well, I donât mind responsibility. Iâm not afraid of it. I can do with responsibility.â

Lord Whitfield swelled out his chest, attempted to draw in his stomach, and glared amiably at Luke.

Bridget Conway said lightly:

âYouâre a great man, Gordon. Have some more tea.â

Lord Whitfield replied simply:

âI am a great man. No, I wonât have anymore tea.â

Then, descending from his own Olympian heights to the level of more ordinary mortals, he inquired kindly of his guest:

âKnow anybody round this part of the world?â

Luke shook his head. Then, on an impulse, and feeling that the sooner he began to get down to his job the better, he added:

âAt least, thereâs a man here that I promised to look upâfriend of friends of mine. Man called Humbleby. Heâs a doctor.â

âOh!â Lord Whitfield struggled upright in his chair. âDr. Humbleby? Pity.â

âWhatâs a pity?â

âDied about a week ago,â said Lord Whitfield.

âOh, dear,â said Luke. âIâm sorry about that.â

âDonât think youâd have cared for him,â said Lord Whitfield. âOpinionated, pestilential, muddleheaded old fool.â

âWhich means,â put in Bridget, âthat he disagreed with Gordon.â

âQuestion of our water supply,â said Lord Whitfield. âI may tell you, Mr. Fitzwilliam, that Iâm a public-spirited man. Iâve got the welfare of this town at heart. I was born here. Yes, born in this very townââ

With chagrin Luke perceived that they had left the topic of Dr. Humbleby and had reverted to the topic of Lord Whitfield.

âIâm not ashamed of it and I donât care who knows it,â went on that gentleman. âI had none of your natural advantages. My father kept a boot-shopâyes, a plain boot-shop. And I served in that shop when I was a young lad. I raised myself by my own efforts, FitzwilliamâI determined to get out of the rutâand I got out of the rut! Perseverance, hard work and the help of Godâthatâs what did it! Thatâs what made me what I am today.â

Exhaustive details of Lord Whitfieldâs career were produced for Lukeâs benefit and the former wound up triumphantly:

âAnd here I am and the whole worldâs welcome to know how Iâve got here! Iâm not ashamed of my beginningsâno, sirâIâve come back here where I was born. Do you know what stands where my fatherâs shop used to be? A fine building built and endowed by meâInstitute, Boysâ Clubs, everything tip-top and up to date. Employed the best architect in the country! I must say heâs made a bare plain job of itâlooks like a workhouse or a prison to meâbut they say itâs all right, so I suppose it must be.â

âCheer up,â said Bridget. âYou had your own way over this house!â

Lord Whitfield chuckled appreciatively.

âYes, they tried to put it over on me here! Carry out the original spirit of the building. No, I said, Iâm going to live in the place, and I want something to show for my money! When one architect wouldnât do what I wanted I sacked him and got another. The fellow I got in the end understood my ideas pretty well.â

âHe pandered to your worst flights of imagination,â said Bridget.

âSheâd have liked the place left as it was,â said Lord Whitfield. He patted her arm. âNo use living in the past, my dear. Those old Georges didnât know much. I didnât want a plain redbrick house. I always had a fancy for a castleâand now Iâve got one!â He added, âI know my taste isnât very classy, so I gave a good firm carte blanche to do the inside, and I must say they havenât done too badlyâthough some of it is a bit drab.â

âWell,â said Luke, a little at a loss for words, âitâs a great thing to know what you want.â

âAnd I usually get it too,â said the other, chuckling.

âYou nearly didnât get your way about the water scheme,â Bridget reminded him.

âOh, that!â said Lord Whitfield. âHumbleby was a fool. These elderly men are inclined to be pigheaded. They wonât listen to reason.â

âDr. Humbleby was rather an outspoken man, wasnât he?â Luke ventured. âHe made a good many enemies that way, I should imagine.â

âN-no, I donât know that I should say that,â demurred Lord Whitfield, rubbing his nose. âEh, Bridget?â

âHe was very popular with everyone, I always thought,â said Bridget. âI only saw him when he came about my ankle that time, but I thought he was a dear.â

âYes, he was popular enough on the whole,â admitted Lord Whitfield. âThough I know one or two people who had it in for him. Pigheadedness again.â

âOne or two of the people living here?â

Lord Whitfield nodded.

âLots of little feuds and cliques in a place like this,â he said.

âYes, I suppose so,â said Luke. He hesitated, uncertain of his next step.

âWhat sort of people live here mostly?â he queried.

It was rather a weak question, but he got an instant response.

âRelicts, mostly,â said Bridget. âClergymenâs daughters and sisters and wives. Doctorsâ dittoes. About six women to every man.â

âBut there are some men?â hazarded Luke.

âOh, yes, thereâs Mr. Abbot, the solicitor, and young Dr. Thomas, Dr. Humblebyâs partner, and Mr. Wake, the rector, andâwho else is there, Gordon? Oh! Mr. Ellsworthy, who keeps the antique shop and who is too, too terribly sweet! And Major Horton and his bulldogs.â

âThereâs somebody else I believe my friends mentioned as living down here,â said Luke. âThey said she was a nice old pussy but talked a lot.â

Bridget laughed. âThat applies to half the village!â

âWhat was the name now? Iâve got it. Pinkerton.â

Lord Whitfield said with a hoarse chuckle:

âReally, youâve no luck! Sheâs dead too. Got run over the other day in London. Killed outright.â

âYou seem to have a lot of deaths here,â said Luke lightly.

Lord Whitfield bridled immediately.

âNot at all. One of the healthiest places in England. Canât count accidents. They may happen to anyone.â

But Bridget Conway said thoughtfully:

âAs a matter of fact, Gordon, there have been a lot of deaths in the last year. Theyâre always having funerals.â

âNonsense, my dear.â

Luke said:

âWas Dr. Humblebyâs death an accident too?â

Lord Whitfield shook his head.

âOh, no,â he said. âHumbleby died of acute septicÃ¦mia. Just like a doctor. Scratched his finger with a rusty nail or somethingâpaid no attention to it, and it turned septic. He was dead in three days.â

âDoctors are rather like that,â said Bridget. âAnd of course, theyâre very liable to infection, I suppose, if they donât take care. It was sad, though. His wife was brokenhearted.â

âNo good rebelling against the will of providence,â said Lord Whitfield easily.

II

âBut was it the will of providence?â Luke asked himself later as he changed into his dinner jacket. SepticÃ¦mia? Perhaps. A very sudden death, though.

And there echoed through his head Bridget Conwayâs lightly spoken words:

âThere have been a lot of deaths in the last year.â

Four

LUKE MAKES A BEGINNING

Luke had thought out his plan of campaign with some care, and prepared to put it into action without more ado when he came down to breakfast the following morning.

The gardening aunt was not in evidence, but Lord Whitfield was eating kidneys and drinking coffee, and Bridget Conway had finished her meal and was standing at the window, looking out.

After good mornings had been exchanged and Luke had sat down with a plentifully heaped plate of eggs and bacon, he began:

âI must get to work,â he said. âDifficult thing is to induce people to talk. You know what I meanânot people like you andâerâBridget.â (He remembered just in time not to say Miss Conway.) âYouâd tell me anything you knewâbut the trouble is you wouldnât know the things I want to knowâthat is the local superstitions. Youâd hardly believe the amount of superstition that still lingers in out-of-the-way parts of the world. Why, thereâs a village in Devonshire. The rector had to remove some old granite menhirs that stood by the church because the people persisted in marching round them in some old ritual every time there was a death. Extraordinary how old heathen rites persists.â

âDare say youâre right,â said Lord Whitfield. âEducation, thatâs what people need. Did I tell you that Iâd endowed a very fine library here? Used to be the old manor houseâwas going for a songânow itâs one of the finest librariesââ

Luke firmly quelled the tendency of the conversation to turn in the direction of Lord Whitfieldâs doings.

âSplendid,â he said heartily. âGood work. Youâve evidently realized the background of old-world ignorance there is here. Of course, from my point of view, thatâs just what I want. Old customsâold wivesâ talesâhints of the old rituals such asââ

Here followed almost verbatim a page of a work that Luke had read up for the occasion.

âDeaths are the most hopeful line,â he ended. âBurial rites and customs always survive longer than any others. Besides, for some reason or other, village people always like talking about deaths.â

âThey enjoy funerals,â agreed Bridget from the window.

âI thought Iâd make that my starting-point,â went on Luke. âIf I can get a list of recent demises in the parish, track down the relatives and get into conversation, Iâve no doubt I shall soon get a hint of what Iâm after. Whom had I better get the data fromâthe parson?â

âMr. Wake would probably be very interested,â said Bridget. âHeâs quite an old dear and a bit of an antiquary. He could give you a lot of stuff, I expect.â

Luke had a momentary qualm during which he hoped that the clergyman might not be so efficient an antiquary as to expose his own pretensions.

Aloud he said heartily:

âGood. Youâve no idea, I suppose, of likely people whoâve died during the last year.â

Bridget murmured:

âLet me see. Carter, of course. He was the landlord of the Seven Stars, that nasty little pub down by the river.â

âA drunken ruffian,â said Lord Whitfield. âOne of these socialistic, abusive brutes, a good riddance.â

âAnd Mrs. Rose, the laundress,â went on Bridget. âAnd little Tommy Pierceâhe was a nasty little boy if you like. Oh, of course, and that girl Amy whatâs-her-name.â

Her voice changed slightly as she uttered the last name.

âAmy?â said Luke.

âAmy Gibbs. She was housemaid here and then she went to Miss Waynflete. There was an inquest on her.â

âWhy?â

âFool of a girl mixed up some bottles in the dark,â said Lord Whitfield.

âShe took what she thought was cough mixture and it was hat paint,â explained Bridget.

Luke raised his eyebrows.

âSomewhat of a tragedy.â

Bridget said:

âThere was some idea of her having done it on purpose. Some row with a young man.â

She spoke slowlyâalmost reluctantly.

There was a pause. Luke felt instinctively the presence of some unspoken feeling weighing down the atmosphere.

He thought:

âAmy Gibbs? Yes, that was one of the names old Miss Pinkerton mentioned.â

She had also mentioned a small boyâTommy someoneâof whom she had evidently held a low opinion (this, it seemed, was shared by Bridget!) And yesâhe was almost sureâthe name Carter had been spoken too.

Rising, he said lightly:

âTalking like this makes me feel rather ghoulishâas though I dabbled only in graveyards. Marriage customs are interesting tooâbut rather more difficult to introduce into conversation unconcernedly.â

âI should imagine that was likely,â said Bridget with a faint twitch of the lips.

âIll-wishing or overlooking, thereâs another interesting subject,â went on Luke with a would-be show of enthusiasm. âYou often get that in these old-world places. Know of any gossip of that kind here?â

Lord Whitfield slowly shook his head. Bridget Conway said:

âWe shouldnât be likely to hear of things like thatââ

Luke took it up almost before she finished speaking.

âNo doubt about it, Iâve got to move in lower social spheres to get what I want. Iâll be off to the vicarage first and see what I can get there. After that perhaps a visit to theâSeven Stars, did you say? And what about the small boy of unpleasant habits? Did he leave any sorrowing relatives?â

âMrs. Pierce keeps a tobacco and paper shop in High Street.â

âThat,â said Luke, âis nothing less than providential. Well, Iâll be on my way.â

With a swift graceful movement Bridget moved from the window.

âI think,â she said, âIâll come with you, if you donât mind.â

âOf course not.â

He said it as heartily as possible, but he wondered if she had noticed that, just for a moment, he had been taken aback.

It would have been easier for him to handle an elderly antiquarian clergyman without an alert discerning intelligence by his side.

âOh well,â he thought to himself. âItâs up to me to do my stuff convincingly.â

Bridget said:

âWill you just wait, Luke, while I change my shoes?â

Lukeâthe Christian name uttered so easily gave him a queer warm feeling. And yet what else could she have called him? Since she had agreed to Jimmyâs scheme of cousinship she could hardly call him Mr. Fitzwilliam. He thought suddenly and uneasily, âWhat does she think of it all? In Godâs name what does she think?â

Queer that that had not worried him beforehand. Jimmyâs cousin had just been a convenient abstractionâa lay figure. He had hardly visualized her, just accepted his friendâs dictum that âBridget would be all right.â

He had thought of herâif he had thought of her at allâas a little blonde secretary personâastute enough to have captured a rich manâs fancy.

Instead she had force, brains, a cool clear intelligence and he had no idea what she was thinking of him. He thought: Sheâs not an easy person to deceive.

âIâm ready now.â

She had joined him so silently that he had not heard her approach. She wore no hat, and there was no net on her hair. As they stepped out from the house the wind, sweeping round the corner of the castellated monstrosity, caught her long black hair and whipped it into a sudden frenzy round her face.

She said smiling:

âYou need me to show you the way.â

âItâs very kind of you,â he answered punctiliously.

And wondered if he had imagined a sudden swiftly passing ironic smile.

Looking back at the battlements behind him, he said irritably:

âWhat an abomination! Couldnât anyone stop him?â

Bridget answered: âAn Englishmanâs house is his castleâliterally so in Gordonâs case! He adores it.â

Conscious that the remark was in bad taste, yet unable to control his tongue, he said:

âItâs your old home, isnât it? Do you âadoreâ to see it the way it is now?â

She looked at him thenâa steady slightly amused look it was.

âI hate to destroy the dramatic picture you are building up,â she murmured. âBut actually I left here when I was two and a half, so you see the old home motive doesnât apply. I canât even remember this place.â

âYouâre right,â said Luke. âForgive the lapse into film language.â

She laughed.

âTruth,â she said, âis seldom romantic.â

And there was a sudden bitter scorn in her voice that startled him. He flushed a deep red under his tan, then realized suddenly that the bitterness had not been aimed at him. It was her own scorn and her own bitterness. Luke was wisely silent. But he wondered a good deal about Bridget Conwayâ¦.

Five minutes brought them to the church and to the vicarage that adjoined it. They found the vicar in his study.

Alfred Wake was a small stooping old man with very mild blue eyes, and an absentminded but courteous air. He seemed pleased but a little surprised by the visit.

âMr. Fitzwilliam is staying with us at Ashe Manor,â said Bridget, âand he wants to consult you about a book he is writing.â

Mr. Wake turned his mild inquiring eyes towards the younger man, and Luke plunged into explanations.

He was nervousâdoubly so. Nervous in the first place because this man had no doubt a far deeper knowledge of folklore and superstitious rites and customs than one could acquire by merely hurriedly cramming from a haphazard collection of books. Secondly he was nervous because Bridget Conway was standing by listening.

Luke was relieved to find that Mr. Wakeâs special interest was Roman remains. He confessed gently that he knew very little of medieval folklore and witchcraft. He mentioned the existence of certain items in the history of Wychwood, offered to take Luke to the particular ledge of hill where it was said the Witchesâ Sabbaths had been held, but expressed himself regretful that he could add no special information of his own.

Inwardly much relieved, Luke expressed himself as somewhat disappointed, and then plunged into inquiries as to deathbed superstitions.

Mr. Wake shook his head gently.

âI am afraid I should be the last person to know about those. My parishioners would be careful to keep anything unorthodox from my ears.â

âThatâs so, of course.â

âBut Iâve no doubt, all the same, there is a lot of superstition still rife. These village communities are very backward.â

Luke plunged boldly.

âIâve been asking Miss Conway for a list of all the recent deaths she could remember. I thought I might get at something that way. I suppose you could supply me with a list, so that I could pick out the likelies.â

âYesâyesâthat could be managed. Giles, our sexton, a good fellow but sadly deaf, could help you there. Let me see now. There have been a good manyâa good manyâa treacherous spring and a hard winter behind itâand then a good many accidentsâquite a cycle of bad luck there seems to have been.â

âSometimes,â said Luke, âa cycle of bad luck is attributed to the presence of a particular person.â

âYes, yes. The old story of Jonah. But I do not think there have been any strangers hereânobody, that is to say, outstanding in any way, and Iâve certainly never heard any rumour of such feelingâbut then again, as I said, perhaps I shouldnât. Now let me seeâquite recently we have had Dr. Humbleby and poor Lavinia Pinkertonâa fine man, Dr. Humblebyââ

Bridget put in:

âMr. Fitzwilliam knows friends of his.â

âDo you indeed? Very sad. His loss will be much felt. A man with many friends.â

âBut surely a man with some enemies too,â said Luke. âIâm only going by what Iâve heard my friends say,â he went on hastily.

Mr. Wake sighed.

âA man who spoke his mindâand a man who wasnât always very tactful, shall we sayââ he shook his head. âIt does get peopleâs backs up. But he was greatly beloved among the poorer classes.â

Luke said carelessly:

âYou know I always feel that one of the most unpalatable facts to be faced in life, is the fact that every death that occurs means a gain to someoneâI donât mean only financially.â

The vicar nodded thoughtfully.

âI see your meaning, yes. We read in an obituary notice that a man is regretted by everybody, but that can only be true very rarely I fear. In Dr. Humblebyâs case, there is no denying that his partner, Dr. Thomas, will find his position very much improved by Dr. Humblebyâs death.â

âHow is that?â

âThomas, I believe, is a very capable fellowâcertainly Humbleby always said so, but he didnât get on here very well. He was, I think, overshadowed by Humbleby who was a man of very definite magnetism. Thomas appeared rather colourless in contrast. He didnât impress his patients at all. I think he worried over it, too, and that made him worseâmore nervous and tongue-tied. As a matter of fact Iâve noticed an astonishing difference already. More aplombâmore personality. I think he feels a new confidence in himself. He and Humbleby didnât always agree, I believe. Thomas was all for newer methods of treatment and Humbleby preferred to stick to the old ways. There were clashes between them more than onceâover that as well as over a matter nearer homeâbut there, I mustnât gossipââ

Bridget said softly and clearly:

âBut I think Mr. Fitzwilliam would like you to gossip!â

Luke shot her a quick disturbed look.

Mr. Wake shook his head doubtfully, and then went on, smiling a little in deprecation.

âI am afraid one learns to take too much interest in oneâs neighboursâ affairs. Rose Humbleby is a very pretty girl. One doesnât wonder that Geoffrey Thomas lost his heart. And of course Humblebyâs point of view was quite understandable tooâthe girl is young and buried away here she hadnât much chance of seeing other men.â

âHe objected?â said Luke.

âVery definitely. Said they were far too young. And of course young people resent being told that! There was a very definite coldness between the two men. But I must say that Iâm sure Dr. Thomas was deeply distressed at his partnerâs unexpected death.â

âSepticÃ¦mia, Lord Whitfield told me.â

âYesâjust a little scratch that got infected. Doctors run grave risks in the course of their profession, Mr. Fitzwilliam.â

âThey do indeed,â said Luke.

Mr. Wake gave a sudden start.

âBut I have wandered a long way from what we were talking about,â he said. âA gossiping old man, I am afraid. We were speaking of the survival of pagan death customs and of recent deaths. There was Lavinia Pinkertonâone of our more kindly Church helpers. Then there was that poor girl, Amy Gibbsâyou might discover something in your line there, Mr. Fitzwilliamâthere was just a suspicion, you know, that it might have been suicideâand there are certain rather eerie rites in connection with that type of death. There is an auntânot, I fear, a very estimable woman, and not very much attached to her nieceâbut a great talker.â

âValuable,â said Luke.

âThen there was Tommy Pierceâhe was in the choir at one timeâa beautiful trebleâquite angelicâbut not a very angelic boy otherwise, I am afraid. We had to get rid of him in the end, he made the other boys behave so badly. Poor lad, Iâm afraid he was not very much liked anywhere. He was dismissed from the post office where we got him a job as telegraph boy. He was in Mr. Abbotâs office for a while, but there again he was dismissed very soonâinterfered with some confidential papers, I believe. Then, of course, he was at Ashe Manor for a time, wasnât he, Miss Conway, as garden boy, and Lord Whitfield had to discharge him for gross impertinence. I was so sorry for his motherâa very decent hardworking soul. Miss Waynflete very kindly got him some odd window cleaning work. Lord Whitfield objected at first, then suddenly he gave inâactually it was sad that he did so.â

âWhy?â

âBecause the boy was killed that way. He was cleaning the top windows of the library (the old Hall, you know) and tried some silly foolingâdancing on the window ledge or something of that sortâlost his balance, or else became dizzy, and fell. A nasty business! He never recovered consciousness and died a few hours after they got him to hospital.â

âDid anyone see him fall?â asked Luke with interest.

âNo. He was on the garden sideânot the front of the house. They estimate he lay there for about half an hour before anyone found him.â

âWho did find him?â

âMiss Pinkerton. You remember, the lady I mentioned just now who was unfortunately killed in a street accident the other day. Poor soul, she was terribly upset. A nasty experience! She had obtained permission to take a cutting of some plants and found the boy there lying where he had fallen.â

âIt must have been a very unpleasant shock,â said Luke thoughtfully.

âA greater shock,â he thought to himself, âthan you know.â

âA young life cut short is a very sad thing,â said the old man, shaking his head. âTommyâs faults may have been mainly due to high spirits.â

âHe was a disgusting bully,â said Bridget. âYou know he was, Mr. Wake. Always tormenting cats and stray puppies and pinching other little boys.â

âI knowâI know.â Mr. Wake shook his head sadly. âBut you know, my dear Miss Conway, sometimes cruelty is not so much innate as due to the fact that imagination is slow in ripening. That is why if you conceive of a grown man with the mentality of a child you realize that the cunning and brutality of a lunatic may be quite unrealized by the man himself. A lack of growth somewhere, that, I am convinced, is at the root of much of the cruelty and stupid brutality in the world today. One must put away childish thingsââ

He shook his head and spread out his hands.

Bridget said in a voice suddenly hoarse:

âYes, youâre right. I know what you mean. A man who is a child is the most frightening thing in the worldâ¦.â

Luke looked at her with some curiosity. He was convinced that she was thinking of some particular person, and although Lord Whitfield was in some respects exceedingly childish, he did not believe she was thinking of him. Lord Whitfield was slightly ridiculous, but he was certainly not frightening.

Luke Fitzwilliam wondered very much whom the person Bridget was thinking of might be.

Five

VISIT TO MISS WAYNFLETE

Mr. Wake murmured a few more names to himself.

âLet me see nowâpoor Mrs. Rose, and old Bell and that child of the Elkins and Harry Carterâtheyâre not all my people, you understand. Mrs. Rose and Carter were dissenters. And that cold spell in March took off poor old Ben Stanbury at lastâninety-two he was.â

âAmy Gibbs died in April,â said Bridget.

âYes, poor girlâa sad mistake to happen.â

Luke looked up to find Bridget watching him. She lowered her eyes quickly. He thought, with some annoyance:

âThereâs something here that I havenât got on to. Something to do with this girl Amy Gibbs.â

When they had taken leave of the vicar and were outside again, he said:

âJust who and what was Amy Gibbs?â

Bridget took a minute or two to answer. Then she saidâand Luke noticed the slight constraint in her voice:

âAmy was one of the most inefficient housemaids I have ever known.â

âThatâs why she got the sack?â

âNo. She stayed out after hours playing about with some young man. Gordon has very moral and old-fashioned views. Sin in his view does not take place until after eleven oâclock, but then it is rampant. So he gave the girl notice and she was impertinent about it!â

Luke asked: âA good-looking girl?â

âVery good-looking.â

âSheâs the one who swallowed hat paint in mistake for cough mixture?â

âYes.â

âRather a stupid thing to do?â Luke hazarded.

âVery stupid.â

âWas she stupid?â

âNo, she was quite a sharp girl.â

Luke stole a look at her. He was puzzled. Her replies were given in an even tone, without emphasis or even much interest. But behind what she said, there was, he felt convinced, something not put into words.

At that moment Bridget stopped to speak to a tall man who swept off his hat and greeted her with breezy heartiness.

Bridget, after a word or two, introduced Luke.

âThis is my cousin, Mr. Fitzwilliam, who is staying at the Manor. Heâs down here to write a book. This is Mr. Abbot.â

Luke looked at Mr. Abbot with some interest. This was the solicitor who had employed Tommy Pierce.

Luke had a somewhat illogical prejudice against lawyers in generalâbased on the grounds that so many politicians were recruited from their ranks. Also their cautious habit of not committing themselves annoyed him. Mr. Abbot, however, was not at all the conventional type of lawyer, he was neither thin, spare, nor tight-lipped. He was a big florid man, dressed in tweeds with a hearty manner and a jovial effusiveness. There were little creases at the corners of his eyes, and the eyes themselves were more shrewd than one appreciated in a first casual glance.

âWriting a book, eh? Novel?â

âFolklore,â said Bridget.

âYouâve come to the right place for that,â said the lawyer. âWonderfully interesting part of the world here.â

âSo Iâve been led to understand,â said Luke. âI dare say you could help me a bit. You must come across curious old deedsâor know of some interesting surviving customs.â

âWell, I donât know about thatâmaybeâmaybeââ

âMuch belief in ghosts round here?â asked Luke.

âAs to that I couldnât sayâI really couldnât say.â

âNo haunted house?â

âNoâI donât know of anything of that kind.â

âThereâs the child superstition, of course,â said Luke. âDeath of a boy childâa violent death that isâthe boy always walks. Not a girl childâinteresting that.â

âVery,â said Mr. Abbot. âI never heard that before.â

Since Luke had just invented it, that was hardly surprising.

âSeems thereâs a boy hereâTommy somethingâwas in your office at one time. Iâve reason to believe they think that heâs walking.â

Mr. Abbotâs red face turned slightly purple.

âTommy Pierce? A good for nothing, prying, meddlesome jackanapes.â

âSpirits always seem to be mischievous. Good law-abiding citizens seldom trouble this world after theyâve left it.â

âWhoâs seen himâwhatâs this story?â

âThese things are difficult to pin down,â said Luke. âPeople wonât come out into the open with a statement. Itâs just in the air, so to speak.â

âYesâyes, I suppose so.â

Luke changed the subject adroitly.

âThe real person to get hold of is the local doctor. They hear a lot in the poorer cases they attend. All sorts of superstitions and charmsâprobably love philtres and all the rest of it.â

âYou must get on to Thomas. Good fellow, Thomas, thoroughly up-to-date man. Not like poor old Humbleby.â

âBit of a reactionary, wasnât he?â

âAbsolutely pigheadedâa diehard of the worst description.â

âYou had a real row over the water scheme, didnât you?â asked Bridget.

Again a rich ruddy glow suffused Abbotâs face.

âHumbleby stood dead in the way of progress,â he said sharply. âHe held out against the scheme! He was pretty rude, too, in what he said. Didnât mince his words. Some of the things he said to me were positively actionable.â

Bridget murmured: âBut lawyers never go to law, do they? They know better.â

Abbot laughed immoderately. His anger subsided as quickly as it had arisen.

âPretty good, Miss Bridget! And youâre not far wrong. We who are in it know too much about law, ha, ha. Well, I must be getting along. Give me a call if you think I can help you in any way, Mr.âerââ

âFitzwilliam,â said Luke. âThanks, I will.â

As they walked on Bridget said:

âYour methods, I note, are to make statements and see what they provoke.â

âMy methods,â said Luke, âare not strictly truthful, if that is what you mean?â

âIâve noticed that.â

A little uneasy, he hesitated what to say next. But before he could speak, she said:

âIf you want to hear more about Amy Gibbs, I can take you to someone who could help you.â

âWho is that?â

âA Miss Waynflete. Amy went there after she left the Manor. She was there when she died.â

âOh, I seeââ he was a little taken aback. âWellâthank you very much.â

âShe lives just here.â

They were crossing the village green. Inclining her head in the direction of the big Georgian house that Luke had noticed the day before, Bridget said: âThatâs Wych Hall. Itâs a library now.â

Adjoining the Hall was a little house that looked rather like a dollâs house in proportion. Its steps were dazzlingly white, its knocker shone and its window curtains showed white and prim.

Bridget pushed open the gate and advanced to the steps.

As she did so the front door opened and an elderly woman came out.

She was, Luke thought, completely the country spinster. Her thin form was neatly dressed in a tweed coat and skirt and she wore a grey silk blouse with a cairn-gorm brooch. Her hat, a conscientious felt, sat squarely upon her well-shaped head. Her face was pleasant and her eyes, through their pince-nez, decidedly intelligent. She reminded Luke of those nimble black goats that one sees in Greece. Her eyes held just that quality of mild inquiring surprise.

âGood morning, Miss Waynflete,â said Bridget. âThis is Mr. Fitzwilliam.â Luke bowed. âHeâs writing a bookâabout deaths and village customs and general gruesomeness.â

âOh, dear,â said Miss Waynflete. âHow very interesting.â

And she beamed encouragingly upon him.

He was reminded of Miss Pinkerton.

âI thought,â said Bridgetâand again he noted that curious flat tone in her voiceââthat you might tell him something about Amy.â

âOh,â said Miss Waynflete. âAbout Amy? Yes. About Amy Gibbs.â

He was conscious of a new factor in her expression. She seemed to be thoughtfully summing him up.

Then, as though coming to a decision, she drew back into the hall.

âDo come in,â she said. âI can go out later. No, no,â in answer to a protest from Luke. âI had really nothing urgent to do. Just a little unimportant domestic shopping.â

The small drawing room was exquisitely neat and smelled faintly of burnt lavender. There were some Dresden china shepherds and shepherdesses on the mantelpiece, simpering sweetly. There were framed water-colours, two samplers, and three needlework pictures on the wall. There were some photographs of what were obviously nephews and nieces and some good furnitureâa Chippendale desk, some little satinwood tablesâand a hideous and rather uncomfortable Victorian sofa.

Miss Waynflete offered her guests chairs and then said apologetically:

âIâm afraid I donât smoke myself, so I have no cigarettes, but do please smoke if you like.â

Luke refused but Bridget promptly lighted a cigarette.

Sitting bolt upright in a chair with carved arms, Miss Waynflete studied her guest for a moment or two and then dropping her eyes as though satisfied, she said:

âYou want to know about that poor girl Amy? The whole thing was very sad and caused me a great deal of distress. Such a tragic mistake.â

âWasnât there some question ofâsuicide?â asked Luke.

Miss Waynflete shook her head.

âNo, no, that I cannot believe for a moment. Amy was not at all that type.â

âWhat type was she?â asked Luke bluntly. âIâd like to hear your account of her.â

Miss Waynflete said:

âWell, of course, she wasnât at all a good servant. But nowadays, really, one is thankful to get anybody. She was very slipshod over her work and always wanting to go outâwell, of course she was young and girls are like that nowadays. They donât seem to realize that their time is their employerâs.â

Luke looked properly sympathetic and Miss Waynflete proceeded to develop her theme.

âShe wasnât the sort of girl I care forârather a bold type though of course I wouldnât like to say much now that sheâs dead. One feels unchristianâthough really I donât think that that is a logical reason for suppressing the truth.â

Luke nodded. He realized that Miss Waynflete differed from Miss Pinkerton in having a more logical mind and better processes of thought.

âShe was fond of admiration,â went on Miss Waynflete, âand was inclined to think a lot of herself. Mr. Ellsworthyâhe keeps the new antique shop but he is actually a gentlemanâhe dabbles a little in water-colours and he had done one or two sketches of the girlâs headâand I think, you know, that rather gave her ideas. She was inclined to quarrel with the young man she was engaged toâJim Harvey. Heâs a mechanic at the garage and very fond of her.â

Miss Waynflete paused and then went on.

âI shall never forget that dreadful night. Amy had been out of sortsâa nasty cough and one thing and another (those silly cheap silk stockings they will wear and shoes with paper soles practicallyâof course they catch chills) and sheâd been to the doctor that afternoon.â

Luke asked quickly:

âDr. Humbleby or Dr. Thomas?â

âDr. Thomas. And he gave her the bottle of cough mixture that she brought back with her. Something quite harmless, a stock mixture, I believe. She went to bed early and it must have been about one in the morning when the noise beganâan awful kind of choking scream. I got up and went to her door but it was locked on the inside. I called to her but couldnât get any answer. Cook was with me and we were both terribly upset. And then we went to the front door and luckily there was Reed (our constable) just passing on his beat, and we called to him. He went round the back of the house and managed to climb up on the outhouse roof, and as her window was open he got in quite easily that way and unlocked the door. Poor girl, it was terrible. They couldnât do anything for her, and she died in Hospital a few hours later.â

âAnd it wasâwhatâhat paint?â

âYes. Oxalic acid poisoning is what they called it. The bottle was about the same size as the cough linctus one. The latter was on her washstand and the hat paint was by her bed. She must have picked up the wrong bottle and put it by her in the dark ready to take if she felt badly. That was the theory at the inquest.â

Miss Waynflete stopped. Her intelligent goatâs eyes looked at him, and he was aware that some particular significance lay behind them. He had the feeling that she was leaving some part of the story untoldâand a stronger feeling that, for some reason, she wanted him to be aware of the fact.

There was a silenceâa long and rather difficult silence. Luke felt like an actor who does not know his cue. He said rather weakly:

âAnd you donât think it was suicide?â

Miss Waynflete said promptly:

âCertainly not. If the girl had decided to make away with herself, she would have bought something probably. This was an old bottle of stuff that she must have had for years. And anyway, as Iâve told you, she wasnât that kind of girl.â

âSo you thinkâwhat?â said Luke bluntly.

Miss Waynflete said:

âI think it was very unfortunate.â

She closed her lips and looked at him earnestly.

Just when Luke was feeling that he must try desperately to say something anticipated, a diversion occurred. There was a scratching at the door and a plaintive mew.

Miss Waynflete sprang up and went to open the door, whereupon a magnificent orange Persian walked in. He paused, looked disapprovingly at the visitor, and sprang upon the arm of Miss Waynfleteâs chair.

Miss Waynflete addressed him in a cooing voice.

âWhy Wonky Poohâwhereâs my Wonky Pooh been all the morning?â

The name struck a chord of memory. Where had he heard something about a Persian cat called Wonky Pooh? He said:

âThatâs a very handsome cat. Have you had him long?â

Miss Waynflete shook her head.

âOh, no, he belonged to an old friend of mine, Miss Pinkerton. She was run over by one of these horrid motorcars and of course I couldnât have let Wonky Pooh go to strangers. Lavinia would have been most upset. She simply worshipped himâand he is very beautiful isnât he?â

Luke admired the cat gravely.

Miss Waynflete said: âBe careful of his ears. Theyâve been rather painful lately.â

Luke stroked the animal warily.

Bridget rose to her feet.

She said, âWe must be going.â

Miss Waynflete shook hands with Luke.

âPerhaps,â she said, âI shall see you again before long.â

Luke said cheerfully: âI hope so, Iâm sure.â

He thought she looked puzzled and a little disappointed. Her gaze shifted to Bridgetâa rapid look with a hint of interrogation in it. Luke felt that there was some understanding between the two women from which he was excluded. It annoyed him, but he promised himself to get to the bottom of it before long.

Miss Waynflete came out with them. Luke stood a minute on the top of the steps looking with approval on the untouched primness of the village green and the duck pond.

âMarvellously unspoilt, this place,â he said.

Miss Waynfleteâs face lit up.

âYes, indeed,â she said eagerly. âReally it is still just as I remember it as a child. We lived in the Hall, you know. But when it came to my brother he did not care to live in itâindeed could not afford to do so, and it was put up for sale. A builder had made an offer and was, I believe, going to âdevelop the land,â I think that was the phrase. Fortunately, Lord Whitfield stepped in and acquired the property and saved it. He turned the house into a library and museumâreally it is practically untouched. I act as librarian twice a week thereâunpaid, of courseâand I canât tell you what a pleasure it is to be in the old place and know that it will not be vandalised. And really it is a perfect settingâyou must visit our little museum one day, Mr. Fitzwilliam. There are some quite interesting local exhibits.â

âI certainly shall make a point of doing so, Miss Waynflete.â

âLord Whitfield has been a great benefactor to Wychwood,â said Miss Waynflete. âIt grieves me that there are people who are sadly ungrateful.â

Her lips pressed themselves together. Luke discreetly asked no questions. He said good-bye again.

When they were outside the gate Bridget said:

âDo you want to pursue further researches or shall we go home by way of the river? Itâs a pleasant walk.â

Luke answered promptly. He had no mind for further investigations with Bridget Conway standing by listening. He said:

âGo round by the river, by all means.â

They walked along the High Street. One of the last houses had a sign decorated in old gold lettering with the word Antiques on it. Luke paused and peered through one of the windows into the cool depths.

âRather a nice slipware dish there,â he remarked. âDo for an aunt of mine. Wonder how much they want for it?â

âShall we go in and see?â

âDo you mind? I like pottering about antique shops. Sometimes one picks up a good bargain.â

âI doubt if you will here,â said Bridget dryly. âEllsworthy knows the value of his stuff pretty accurately, I should say.â

The door was open. In the hall were chairs and settees and dressers with china and pewter on them. Two rooms full of goods opened at either side.

Luke went into the room on the left and picked up the slipware dish. At the same moment a dim figure came forward from the back of the room where he had been sitting at a Queen Anne walnut desk.

âAh, dear Miss Conway, what a pleasure to see you.â

âGood morning, Mr. Ellsworthy.â

Mr. Ellsworthy was a very exquisite young man dressed in a colour scheme of russet brown. He had a long pale face with a womanish mouth, long black artistic hair and a mincing walk.

Luke was introduced and Mr. Ellsworthy immediately transferred his attention to him.

âGenuine old English slipware. Delicious, isnât it? I love my bits and pieces, you know, hate to sell them. Itâs always been my dream to live in the country and have a little shop. Marvellous place, Wychwoodâit has atmosphere, if you know what I mean.â

âThe artistic temperament,â murmured Bridget.

Ellsworthy turned on her with a flash of long white hands.

âNot that terrible phrase, Miss Conway. Noâno, I implore you. Donât tell me Iâm all arty and craftyâI couldnât bear it. Really, really, you know, I donât stock handwoven tweeds and beaten pewter. Iâm a tradesman, thatâs all, just a tradesman.â

âBut youâre really an artist, arenât you?â said Luke. âI mean, you do water-colours, donât you?â

âNow who told you that?â cried Mr. Ellsworthy, clasping his hands together. âYou know this place is really too marvellousâone simply canât keep a secret! Thatâs what I like about itâitâs so different from that inhuman you-mind-your-own-business-and-I-will-mind-mine of a city! Gossip and malice and scandalâall so delicious if one takes them in the right spirit!â

Luke contented himself with answering Mr. Ellsworthyâs question and paying no attention to the latter part of his remarks.

âMiss Waynflete told us that you had made several sketches of a girlâAmy Gibbs.â

âOh, Amy,â said Mr. Ellsworthy. He took a step backwards and set a beer mug rocking. He steadied it carefully. He said: âDid I? Oh, yes, I suppose I did.â

His poise seemed somewhat shaken.

âShe was a pretty girl,â said Bridget.

Mr. Ellsworthy had recovered his aplomb.

âOh, do you think so?â he asked. âVery commonplace, I always thought. If youâre interested in slipware,â he went on to Luke, âIâve got a couple of slipware birdsâdelicious things.â

Luke displayed a faint interest in the birds and then asked the price of the dish.

Ellsworthy named a figure.

âThanks,â said Luke, âbut I donât think Iâll deprive you of it after all.â

âIâm always relieved, you know,â said Ellsworthy, âwhen I donât make a sale. Foolish of me, isnât it? Look here, Iâll let you have it for a guinea less. You care for the stuff. I can see thatâit makes all the difference. And after all, this is a shop!â

âNo, thanks,â said Luke.

Mr. Ellsworthy accompanied them out to the door, waving his handsâvery unpleasant hands, Luke thought they wereâthe flesh seemed not so much white as faintly greenish.

âNasty bit of goods, Mr. Ellsworthy,â he remarked when he and Bridget were out of earshot.

âA nasty mind and nasty habits I should say,â said Bridget.

âWhy does he really come to a place like this?â

âI believe he dabbles in black magic. Not quite black Masses but that sort of thing. The reputation of this place helps.â

Luke said rather awkwardly: âGood lordâI suppose heâs the kind of chap I really need. I ought to have talked to him on the subject.â

âDo you think so?â said Bridget. âHe knows a lot about it.â

Luke said rather uneasily:

âIâll look him up some other day.â

Bridget did not answer. They were out of the town now. She turned aside to follow a footpath and presently they came to the river.

There they passed a small man with a stiff moustache and protuberant eyes. He had three bulldogs with him to whom he was shouting hoarsely in turn. âNero, come here, sir. Nelly, leave it. Drop it, I tell you. AugustusâAUGUSTUS, I sayââ

He broke off to raise his hat to Bridget, stared at Luke with what was evidently a devouring curiosity and passed on resuming his hoarse expostulations.

âMajor Horton and his bulldogs?â quoted Luke.

âQuite right.â

âHavenât we seen practically everyone of note in Wychwood this morning?â

âPractically.â

âI feel rather obtrusive,â said Luke. âI suppose a stranger in an English village is bound to stick out a mile,â he added ruefully, remembering Jimmy Lorrimerâs remarks.

âMajor Horton never disguises his curiosity very well,â said Bridget. âHe did stare, rather.â

âHeâs the sort of man you could tell was a Major anywhere,â said Luke rather viciously.

Bridget said abruptly: âShall we sit on the bank a bit? Weâve got lots of time.â

They sat on a fallen tree that made a convenient seat. Bridget went on:

âYes, Major Horton is very militaryâhas an orderly room manner. Youâd hardly believe he was the most henpecked man in existence a year ago!â

âWhat, that fellow?â

âYes. He had the most disagreeable woman for a wife that Iâve ever known. She had the money too, and never scrupled to underline the fact in public.â

âPoor bruteâHorton, I mean.â

âHe behaved very nicely to herâalways the officer and gentleman. Personally, I wonder he didnât take a hatchet to her.â

âShe wasnât popular, I gather.â

âEverybody disliked her. She snubbed Gordon and patronized me and made herself generally unpleasant wherever she went.â

âBut I gather a merciful providence removed her?â

âYes, about a year ago. Acute gastritis. She gave her husband, Dr. Thomas and two nurses absolute Hellâbut she died all right. The bulldogs brightened up at once.â

âIntelligent brutes!â

There was a silence. Bridget was idly picking at the long grass. Luke frowned at the opposite bank unseeingly. Once again the dreamlike quality of his mission obsessed him. How much was factâhow much imagination? Wasnât it bad for one to go about studying every fresh person you met as a potential murderer? Something degrading about that point of view.

âDamn it all,â thought Luke, âIâve been a policeman too long!â

He was brought out of his abstraction with a shock. Bridgetâs cold clear voice was speaking.

âMr. Fitzwilliam,â she said, âjust exactly why have you come down here?â

Six

HAT PAINT

Luke had been just in the act of applying a match to a cigarette. The unexpectedness of her remark momentarily paralysed his hand. He remained quite motionless for a second or two, the match burned down and scorched his fingers.

âDamn,â said Luke as he dropped the match and shook his hand vigorously. âI beg your pardon. You gave me rather a nasty jolt.â He smiled ruefully.

âDid I?â

âYes.â He sighed. âOh, well, I suppose anyone of real intelligence was bound to see through me! That story of my writing a book on folklore didnât take you in for a moment, I suppose?â

âNot after Iâd once seen you.â

âYou believed it up to then?â

âYes.â

âAll the same it wasnât really a good story,â said Luke critically. âI mean, any man might want to write a book, but the bit about coming down here and passing myself off as a cousinâI suppose that made you smell a rat?â

Bridget shook her head.

âNo. I had an explanation for thatâI thought I had, I mean. I presumed you were pretty hard upâa lot of my and Jimmyâs friends are thatâand I thought he suggested the cousin stunt so thatâwell, so that it would save your pride.â

âBut when I arrived,â said Luke, âmy appearance immediately suggested such opulence that that explanation was out of the question?â

Her mouth curved in its slow smile.

âOh, no,â she said. âIt wasnât that. It was simply that you were the wrong kind of person.â

âNot sufficient brains to write a book? Donât spare my feelings. Iâd rather know.â

âYou might write a bookâbut not that kind of bookâold superstitionsâdelving into the pastânot that sort of thing! Youâre not the kind of man to whom the past means muchâperhaps not even the futureâonly just the present.â

âHâmâI see.â He made a wry face. âDamn it all, youâve made me nervous ever since I got here! You look so confoundedly intelligent.â

âIâm sorry,â said Bridget drily. âWhat did you expect?â

âWell, I really hadnât thought about it.â

But she went on calmly:

âA fluffy little personâwith just enough brains to realize her opportunities and marry her boss?â

Luke made a confused noise. She turned a cool amused glance on him.

âI quite understand. Itâs all right. Iâm not annoyed.â

Luke chose effrontery.

âWell, perhaps, it was something faintly approaching that. But I didnât think much about it.â

She said slowly:

âNo, you wouldnât. You donât cross your fences till you get to them.â

But Luke was despondent.

âOh, Iâve no doubt I did my stuff pretty rottenly! Has Lord Whitfield seen through me too?â

âOh, no. If you said youâd come down here to study the habits of water beetles and write a monograph about them, it would have been OK with Gordon. Heâs got a beautiful believing mind.â

âAll the same I wasnât a bit convincing! I got rattled somehow.â

âI cramped your style,â said Bridget. âI saw that. It rather amused me, Iâm afraid.â

âOh, it would! Women with any brains are usually cold-bloodedly cruel.â

Bridget murmured:

âOne has to take oneâs pleasures as one can in this life!â She paused a minute, then said: âWhy are you down here, Mr. Fitzwilliam?â

They had returned full circle to the original question. Luke had been aware that it must be so. In the last few seconds he had been trying to make up his mind. He looked up now and met her eyesâshrewd inquiring eyes that met his with a calm, steady gaze. There was a gravity in them which he had not quite expected to find there.

âIt would be better, I think,â he said meditatively, ânot to tell you anymore lies.â

âMuch better.â

âBut the truthâs awkwardâ¦Look here, have you yourself formed any opinionâI mean has anything occurred to you about my being here?â

She nodded slowly and thoughtfully.

âWhat was your idea? Will you tell me? I fancy it may help somehow.â

Bridget said quietly:

âI had an idea that you came down here in connection with the death of that girl, Amy Gibbs.â

âThatâs it, then! Thatâs what I sawâwhat I feltâwhenever her name cropped up! I knew there was something. So you thought I came down about that?â

âDidnât you?â

âIn a wayâyes.â

He was silentâfrowning. The girl beside him sat equally silent, not moving. She said nothing to disturb his train of thought.

He made up his mind.

âIâve come down here on a wild goose chaseâon a fantastical and probably quite absurd and melodramatic supposition. Amy Gibbs is part of that whole business. Iâm interested to find out exactly how she died.â

âYes, I thought so.â

âBut dash it allâwhy did you think so? What is there about her death thatâwellâaroused your interest?â

Bridget said:

âIâve thoughtâall alongâthat there was something wrong about it. Thatâs why I took you to see Miss Waynflete.â

âWhy?â

âBecause she thinks so too.â

âOh.â Luke thought back rapidly. He understood now the underlying suggestions of that intelligent spinsterâs manner. âShe thinks as you doâthat thereâs somethingâodd about it?â

Bridget nodded.

âWhy exactly?â

âHat paint, to begin with.â

âWhat do you mean, hat paint?â

âWell, about twenty years ago, people did paint hatsâone season you had a pink straw, next season a bottle of hat paint and it became dark blueâthen perhaps another bottle and a black hat! But nowadaysâhats are cheapâtawdry stuff to be thrown away when out of fashion.â

âEven girls of the class of Amy Gibbs?â

âIâd be more likely to paint a hat than she would! Thriftâs gone out. And thereâs another thing. It was red hat paint.â

âWell?â

âAnd Amy Gibbs had red hairâcarrots!â

âYou mean it doesnât go together?â

Bridget nodded.

âYou wouldnât wear a scarlet hat with carroty hair. Itâs the sort of thing a man wouldnât realize, butââ

Luke interrupted her with heavy significance.

âNoâa man wouldnât realize that. It fits inâit all fits in.â

Bridget said:

âJimmy has got some odd friends at Scotland Yard. Youâre notââ

Luke said quickly:

âIâm not an official detectiveâand Iâm not a well-known private investigator with rooms in Baker Street, etc. Iâm exactly what Jimmy told you I wasâa retired policeman from the East. Iâm horning in on this business because of an odd thing that happened in the train to London.â

He gave a brief synopsis of his conversation with Miss Pinkerton and the subsequent events which had brought about his presence in Wychwood.

âSo you see,â he ended. âItâs fantastic! Iâm looking for a certain manâa secret killerâa man here in Wychwoodâprobably well-known and respected. If Miss Pinkertonâs right and youâre right and Miss Whatâs-âer-name is rightâthat man killed Amy Gibbs.â

Bridget said: âI see.â

âIt could have been done from outside, I suppose?â

âYes, I think so,â said Bridget slowly. âReed, the constable, climbed up to her window by means of an outhouse. The window was open. It was a bit of a scramble, but a reasonably active man would find no real difficulty.â

âAnd having done that, he did what?â

âSubstituted a bottle of hat paint for the cough linctus.â

âHoping sheâd do exactly what she did doâwake up, drink it off, and that everyone would say sheâd made a mistake or committed suicide?â

âYes.â

âThere was no suspicion of what they call in books, âfoul playâ at the inquest?â

âNo.â

âMen again, I supposeâthe hat paint point wasnât raised?â

âNo.â

âBut it occurred to you?â

âYes.â

âAnd to Miss Waynflete? Have you discussed it together?â

Bridget smiled faintly:

âOh, noânot in the sense you mean. I mean we havenât said anything right out. I donât really know how far the old pussy has gone in her own mind. Iâd say sheâd been just worried to start withâand gradually getting more so. Sheâs quite intelligent, you know, went to Girton or wanted to, and was advanced when she was young. Sheâs not got quite the woolly mind of most of the people down here.â

âMiss Pinkerton had rather a woolly mind I should imagine,â said Luke. âThatâs why I never dreamed there was anything in her story to begin with.â

âShe was pretty shrewd, I always thought,â said Bridget. âMost of these rambling old dears are as sharp as nails in some ways. You said she mentioned other names?â

Luke nodded.

âYes. A small boyâthat was Tommy PierceâI remembered the name as soon as I heard it. And Iâm pretty sure that the man Carter came in too.â

âCarter, Tommy Pierce, Amy Gibbs, Dr. Humbleby,â said Bridget thoughtfully. âAs you say, itâs almost too fantastic to be true! Who on earth would want to kill all those people? They were all so different!â

Luke said:

âAny idea as to why anyone should want to do away with Amy Gibbs?â

Bridget shook her head.

âI canât imagine.â

âWhat about the man Carter? How did he die, by the way?â

âFell into the river and was drowned. He was on his way home, it was a misty night and he was quite drunk. Thereâs a footbridge with a rail on only one side. It was taken for granted that he missed his footing.â

âBut someone could quite easily have given him a shove?â

âOh, yes.â

âAnd somebody else could quite easily have given nasty little Tommy a push when he was window cleaning?â

âAgain yes.â

âSo it boils down to the fact that itâs really quite easy to remove three human beings without anyone suspecting.â

âMiss Pinkerton suspected,â Bridget pointed out.

âSo she did, bless her. She wasnât troubled with ideas of being too melodramatic, or of imagining things.â

âShe often told me the world was a very wicked place.â

âAnd you smiled tolerantly, I suppose?â

âIn a superior manner!â

âAnybody who can believe six impossible things before breakfast wins hands down at this game.â

Bridget nodded.

Luke said:

âI suppose itâs no good my asking you if youâve a hunch of any kind? Thereâs no particular individual in Wychwood who gives you a creepy feeling down the spine, or who has strange pale eyesâor a queer maniacal giggle.â

âEverybody Iâve met in Wychwood appears to me to be eminently sane, respectable, and completely ordinary.â

âI was afraid youâd say that,â said Luke.

Bridget said:

âYou think this man is definitely mad?â

âOh, I should say so. A lunatic all right, but a cunning one. The last person youâd ever suggestâprobably a pillar of society like a Bank Manager.â

âMr. Jones? I certainly canât imagine him committing wholesale murders.â

âThen heâs probably the man we want.â

âIt may be anyone,â said Bridget. âThe butcher, the baker, the grocer, a farm labourer, a road mender, or the man who delivers the milk.â

âIt may beâyesâbut I think the field is a little more restricted than that.â

âWhy?â

âMy Miss Pinkerton spoke of the look in his eyes when he was measuring up his next victim. From the way she spoke I got the impressionâitâs only an impression, mark youâthat the man she was speaking of was at least her social equal. Of course, I may be wrong.â

âYouâre probably quite right! Those nuances of conversation canât be put down in black and white, but theyâre the sort of things one doesnât really make mistakes about.â

âYou know,â said Luke, âitâs a great relief to have you knowing all about it.â

âIt will probably cramp your style less, I agree. And I can probably help you.â

âYour help will be invaluable. You really mean to see it through?â

âOf course.â

Luke said with a sudden slight embarrassment:

âWhat about Lord Whitfield? Do you thinkâ?â

âNaturally we donât tell Gordon anything about it!â said Bridget.

âYou mean he wouldnât believe it?â

âOh, heâd believe it! Gordon could believe anything! Heâd probably be simply thrilled and insist on having half a dozen of his bright young men down to beat up the neighbourhood! Heâd simply adore it!â

âThat does rather rule it out,â agreed Luke.

âYes, we canât allow him to have his simple pleasures, Iâm afraid.â

Luke looked at her. He seemed about to say something then changed his mind. He looked instead at his watch.

âYes,â said Bridget, âwe ought to be getting home.â

She got up. There was a sudden constraint between them as though Lukeâs unspoken words hovered uncomfortably in the air.

They walked home in silence.

Seven

POSSIBILITIES

Luke sat in his bedroom. At lunch time he had sustained an interrogation by Mrs. Anstruther as to what flowers he had had in his garden in the Mayang Straits. He had then been told what flowers would have done well there. He had also listened to further âTalks to Young Men on the Subject of Myselfâ by Lord Whitfield. Now he was mercifully alone.

He took a sheet of paper and wrote down a series of names. It ran as follows:

Dr. Thomas.

Mr. Abbot.

Major Horton.

Mr. Ellsworthy.

Mr. Wake.

Mr. Jones.

Amyâs young man.

The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker, etc.

He then took another sheet of paper and headed it VICTIMS. Under this heading, he wrote:

Amy Gibbs: Poisoned.

Tommy Pierce: Pushed out of window.

Harry Carter: Shoved off footbridge (drunk? drugged?).

Dr. Humbleby: Blood Poisoning.

Miss Pinkerton: Run down by car.

He added:

Mrs. Rose?

Old Ben?

And after a pause:

Mrs. Horton?

He considered his lists, smoked awhile, then took up his pencil once more.

Dr. Thomas: Possible case against him.

Definite motive in the case of Dr. Humbleby. Manner of latterâs death suitableânamely, scientific poisoning by germs. Amy Gibbs visited him on afternoon of the day she died. (Anything between them? Blackmail?)

Tommy Pierce? No connection known. (Did Tommy know of connection between him and Amy Gibbs?)

Harry Carter? No connection known.

Was Dr. Thomas absent from Wychwood on the day Miss Pinkerton went to London?

Luke sighed and started a fresh heading:

Mr. Abbot: Possible case against him.

(Feel a lawyer is definitely a suspicious person. Possibly prejudice.) His personality, florid, genial, etc., would be definitely suspicious in a bookâalways suspect bluff genial men. Objection: this is not a book, but real life.

Motive for murder of Dr. Humbleby. Definite antagonism existed between them. H. defied Abbot. Sufficient motive for a deranged brain. Antagonism could have been easily noted by Miss Pinkerton.

Tommy Pierce? Latter snooped among Abbotâs papers. Did he find out something he shouldnât have known?

Harry Carter? No definite connection.

Amy Gibbs? No connection known. Hat paint quite suitable to Abbotâs mentalityâan old-fashioned mind. Was Abbot away from the village the day Miss Pinkerton was killed?

Major Horton: Possible case against him.

No connection known with Amy Gibbs, Tommy Pierce or Carter.

What about Mrs. Horton? Death sounds as though it might be arsenical poisoning. If so other murders might be result of thatâblackmail? NBâThomas was doctor in attendance. (Suspicious for Thomas again.)

Mr. Ellsworthy: Possible case against him.

Nasty bit of goodsâdabbles in black magic. Might be temperament of a bloodlust killer. Connection with Amy Gibbs. Any connection with Tommy Pierce? Carter? Nothing known. Humbleby? Might have tumbled to Ellsworthyâs mental condition.

Miss Pinkerton? Was Ellsworthy away from Wychwood when Miss Pinkerton was killed?

Mr. Wake: Possible case against him.

Very unlikely. Possible religious mania? A mission to kill?

Saintly old clergymen likely starters in books, but (as before) this is real life.

Note. Carter, Tommy, Amy all definitely unpleasant characters. Better removed by divine decree?

Mr. Jones.

Dataânone.

Amyâs young man.

Probably every reason to kill Amyâbut seems unlikely on general grounds.

The etceteras?

Donât fancy them.

He read through what he had written.

Then he shook his head.

He murmured softly:

ââwhich is absurd! How nicely Euclid put things.â

He tore up the lists and burnt them.

He said to himself:

âThis job isnât going to be exactly easy.â

Eight

DR. THOMAS

Dr. Thomas leant back in his chair, and passed a long delicate hand over his thick fair hair. He was a young man whose appearance was deceptive. Though he was over thirty, a casual glance would have put him down in the early twenties if not in his teens. His shock of rather unruly fair hair, his slightly startled expression and his pink and white complexion gave him an irresistibly schoolboyish appearance. Immature as he might look, though, the diagnosis he had just pronounced on Lukeâs rheumatic knee agreed almost precisely with that delivered by an eminent Harley Street specialist only a week earlier.

âThanks,â said Luke. âWell, Iâm relieved you think that electrical treatment will do the trick. I donât want to turn a cripple at my age.â

Dr. Thomas smiled boyishly.

âOh, I donât think thereâs any danger of that, Mr. Fitzwilliam.â

âWell, youâve relieved my mind,â said Luke. âI was thinking of going to some specialist chapâbut Iâm sure thereâs no need now.â

Dr. Thomas smiled again.

âGo if it makes your mind easier. After all, itâs always a good thing to have an expertâs opinion.â

âNo, no, Iâve got full confidence in you.â

âFrankly, there is no complexity about the matter. If you take my advice, I am quite sure you will have no further trouble.â

âYouâve relieved my mind no end, doctor. Fancied I might be getting arthritis and would soon be all tied up in knots and unable to move.â

Dr. Thomas shook his head with a slightly indulgent smile.

Luke said quickly:

âMen get the wind up pretty badly in these ways. I expect you find that? I often think a doctor must feel himself a âmedicine manââa kind of magician to most of his patients.â

âThe element of faith enters in very largely.â

âI know. âThe doctor says soâ is a remark always uttered with something like reverence.â

Dr. Thomas raised his shoulders.

âIf oneâs patients only knew!â he murmured humorously.

Then he said:

âYouâre writing a book on magic, arenât you, Mr. Fitzwilliam?â

âNow how did you know that?â exclaimed Luke, perhaps with somewhat overdone surprise.

Dr. Thomas looked amused.

âOh, my dear sir, news gets about very rapidly in a place like this. We have so little to talk about.â

âIt probably gets exaggerated too. Youâll be hearing Iâm raising the local spirits and emulating the Witch of Endor.â

âRather odd you should say that.â

âWhy?â

âWell, the rumour has been going round that you had raised the ghost of Tommy Pierce.â

âPierce? Pierce? Is that the small boy who fell out of a window?â

âYes.â

âNow I wonder howâof courseâI made some remark to the solicitorâwhatâs his name, Abbot.â

âYes, the story originated with Abbot.â

âDonât say Iâve converted a hard-boiled solicitor to a belief in ghosts?â

âYou believe in ghosts yourself, then?â

âYour tone suggests that you do not, doctor. No, I wouldnât say I actually âbelieve in ghostsââto put it crudely. But I have known curious phenomena in the case of sudden or violent death. But Iâm more interested in the various superstitions pertaining to violent deathsâthat a murdered man, for instance, canât rest in his grave. And the interesting belief that the blood of a murdered man flows if his murderer touches him. I wonder how that arose.â

âVery curious,â said Thomas. âBut I donât suppose many people remember that nowadays.â

âMore than you would think. Of course, I donât suppose you have many murders down hereâso itâs hard to judge.â

Luke had smiled as he spoke, his eyes resting with seeming carelessness on the otherâs face. But Dr. Thomas seemed quite unperturbed and smiled in return.

âNo, I donât think weâve had a murder forâoh, very many yearsâcertainly not in my time.â

âNo, this is a peaceful spot. Not conducive to foul play. Unless somebody pushed little Tommy Whatâs-his-name out of the window.â

Luke laughed. Again Dr. Thomasâs smile came in answerâa natural smile full of boyish amusement.

âA lot of people would have been willing to wring that childâs neck,â he said. âBut I donât think they actually got to the point of throwing him out of windows.â

âHe seems to have been a thoroughly nasty childâthe removal of him might have been conceived as a public duty.â

âItâs a pity one canât apply that theory fairly often.â

âIâve always thought a few wholesale murders would be beneficial to the community,â said Luke. âA club bore, for instance, should be finished off with a poisoned liqueur brandy. Then there are the women who gush at you and tear all their dearest friends to pieces with their tongues. Backbiting spinsters. Inveterate diehards who oppose progress. If they were painlessly removed, what a difference it would make to social life!â

Dr. Thomasâs smile lengthened to a grin.

âIn fact, you advocate crime on a grand scale?â

âJudicious elimination,â said Luke. âDonât you agree that it would be beneficial?â

âOh, undoubtedly.â

âAh, but youâre not being serious,â said Luke. âNow I am. I havenât the respect for human life that the normal Englishman has. Any man who is a stumbling block on the way of progress ought to be eliminatedâthatâs how I see it!â

Running his hand through his short fair hair, Dr. Thomas said:

âYes, but who is to be the judge of a manâs fitness or unfitness?â

âThatâs the difficulty, of course,â Luke admitted.

âThe Catholics would consider a Communist agitator unfit to liveâthe Communist agitator would sentence the priest to death as a purveyor of superstition, the doctor would eliminate the unhealthy man, the pacifist would condemn the soldier, and so on.â

âYouâd have to have a scientific man as judge,â said Luke. âSomeone with an unbiased but highly specialized mindâa doctor, for instance. Come to that, I think youâd be a pretty good judge yourself, doctor.â

âOf unfitness to live?â

âYes.â

Dr. Thomas shook his head.

âMy job is to make the unfit fit. Most of the time itâs an uphill job, Iâll admit.â

âNow just for the sake of argument,â said Luke. âTake a man like the late Harry Carterââ

Dr. Thomas said sharply:

âCarter? You mean the landlord of the Seven Stars?â

âYes, thatâs the man. I never knew him myself, but my cousin, Miss Conway, was talking about him. He seems to have been a really thoroughgoing scoundrel.â

âWell,â said the other, âhe drank, of course. Ill-treated his wife, bullied his daughter. He was quarrelsome and abusive and had had a row with most people in the place.â

âIn fact, the world is a better place without him?â

âOne might be inclined to say so, I agree.â

âIn fact, if somebody had given him a push and sent him into the river instead of his kindly electing to fall in of his own accord, that person would have been acting in the public interest?â

Dr. Thomas said drily:

âThese methods that you advocateâdid you put them into practice in theâMayang Straits, I think you said?â

Luke laughed.

âOh, no, with me itâs theoryânot practice.â

âNo, I do not think you are the stuff of which murderers are made.â

Luke asked:

âWhy not? Iâve been frank enough in my views.â

âExactly. Too frank.â

âYou mean that if I were really the kind of man who takes the law into his own hands I shouldnât go about airing my views?â

âThat was my meaning.â

âBut it might be a kind of gospel with me. I might be a fanatic on the subject!â

âEven so, your sense of self-protection would be active.â

âIn fact, when looking for a murderer, look out for a nice gentle wouldnât-hurt-a-fly type of man.â

âSlightly exaggerated perhaps,â said Dr. Thomas, âbut not far from the truth.â

Luke said abruptly:

âTell meâit interests meâhave you ever come across a man whom you believed might be a murderer?â

Dr. Thomas said sharply:

âReallyâwhat an extraordinary question!â

âIs it? After all, a doctor must come across so many queer characters. He would be better able to detectâfor instanceâthe signs of homicidal maniaâin an early stageâbefore itâs noticeable.â

Thomas said rather irritably:

âYou have the general laymanâs idea of a homicidal maniacâa man who runs amok with a knife, a man more or less foaming at the mouth. Let me tell you a homicidal lunatic may be the most difficult thing on this earth to spot. To all seeming he may be exactly like everyone elseâa man, perhaps, who is easily frightenedâwho may tell you, perhaps, that he has enemies. No more than that. A quiet, inoffensive fellow.â

âIs that really so?â

âOf course itâs so. A homicidal lunatic often kills (as he thinks) in self-defence. But of course a lot of killers are ordinary sane fellows like you and me.â

âDoctor, you alarm me! Fancy if you should discover later that I have five or six nice quiet little killings to my credit.â

Dr. Thomas smiled.

âI donât think itâs very likely, Mr. Fitzwilliam.â

âDonât you? Iâll return the compliment. I donât believe youâve got five or six murders to your credit either.â

Dr. Thomas said cheerfully:

âYouâre not counting my professional failures.â

Both men laughed.

Luke got up and said good-bye.

âIâm afraid Iâve taken up a lot of your time,â he said apologetically.

âOh, Iâm not busy. Wychwood is a pretty healthy place. Itâs a pleasure to have a talk with someone from the outside world.â

âI was wonderingââ said Luke and stopped.

âYes?â

âMiss Conway told me when she sent me to you what a veryâwellâwhat a first-class man you were. I wondered if you didnât feel rather buried down here? Not much opportunity for talent.â

âOh, general practice is a good beginning. Itâs valuable experience.â

âBut you wonât be content to stay in a rut all your life? Your late partner, Dr. Humbleby, was an unambitious fellow, so Iâve heardâquite content with his practice here. Heâd been here for a good many years, I believe?â

âPractically a lifetime.â

âHe was sound but old-fashioned, so I hear.â

Dr. Thomas said:

âAt times he was difficultâ¦Very suspicious of modern innovations, but a good example of the old school of physicians.â

âLeft a very pretty daughter, Iâm told,â said Luke in jocular fashion.

He had the pleasure of seeing Dr. Thomasâs pale pink countenance go a deep scarlet.

âOhâerâyes,â he said.

Luke gazed at him kindly. He was pleased at the prospect of erasing Dr. Thomas from his list of suspected persons.

The latter recovered his normal hue and said abruptly:

âTalking about crime just now, I can lend you rather a good book as you are interested in the subject! Translation from the German. Kreuzhammer on Inferiority and Crime.â

âThank you,â said Luke.

Dr. Thomas ran his finger along a shelf and drew out the book in question.

âHere you are. Some of the theories are rather startlingâand of course they are only theories, but they are interesting. The early life of Menzheld, for instance, the Frankfurt butcher, as they called him, and the chapter on Anna Helm, the little nursemaid killer, are really extremely interesting.â

âShe killed about a dozen of her charges before the authorities tumbled to it, I believe,â said Luke.

Dr. Thomas nodded.

âYes. She had a most sympathetic personalityâdevoted to childrenâand apparently quite genuinely heartbroken at each death. The psychology is amazing.â

âAmazing how these people get away with it,â said Luke.

He was on the doorstep now. Dr. Thomas had come out with him.

âNot amazing really,â said Dr. Thomas. âItâs quite easy, you know.â

âWhat is?â

âTo get away with it.â He was smiling againâa charming, boyish smile. âIf youâre careful. One just has to be carefulâthatâs all! But a clever man is extremely careful not to make a slip. Thatâs all there is to it.â

He smiled and went into the house.

Luke stood staring up the steps.

There had been something condescending in the doctorâs smile. Throughout their conversation Luke had been conscious of himself as a man of full maturity and of Dr. Thomas as a youthful and ingenuous young man.

Just for a moment he felt the rÃ´les reversed. The doctorâs smile had been that of a grown-up amused by the cleverness of a child.

Nine

MRS. PIERCE TALKS

In the little shop in the High Street Luke had bought a tin of cigarettes and todayâs copy of Good Cheer, the enterprising little weekly which provided Lord Whitfield with a good portion of his substantial income. Turning to the football competition, Luke, with a groan, gave forth the information that he had just failed to win a hundred and twenty pounds. Mrs. Pierce was roused at once to sympathy and explained similar disappointments on the part of her husband. Friendly relations thus established, Luke found no difficulty in prolonging the conversation.

âA great interest in football Mr. Pierce takes,â said Mr. Pierceâs spouse. âTurns to it first of all in the news, he does. And as I say, many a disappointment heâs had, but there, everybody canât win, thatâs what I say, and what I say is you canât go against luck.â

Luke concurred heartily in these sentiments, and proceeded to advance by an easy transition to a further profound statement that troubles never come singly.

âAh, no, indeed, sir, that I do know.â Mrs. Pierce sighed. âAnd when a woman has a husband and eight childrenâsix living and buried two, that isâwell, she knows what trouble is, as you may say.â

âI suppose she doesâoh, undoubtedly,â said Luke. âYouâveâerâburied two, you say?â

âOne no longer than a month ago,â said Mrs. Pierce with a kind of melancholy enjoyment.

âDear me, very sad.â

âIt wasnât only sad, sir. It was a shockâthatâs what it was, a shock! I came all over queer, I did, when they broke it to me. Never having expected anything of that kind to happen to Tommy, as you might say, for when a boyâs a trouble to you it doesnât come natural to think of him being took. Now my Emma Jane, a sweet little mite she was. âYouâll never rear her.â Thatâs what they said. âSheâs too good to live.â And it was true, sir. The Lord knows His own.â

Luke acknowledged the sentiment and strove to return from the subject of the saintly Emma Jane to that of the less saintly Tommy.

âYour boy died quite recently?â he said. âAn accident?â

âAn accident it was, sir. Cleaning the windows of the old Hall, which is now the library, and he must have lost his balance and fellâfrom the top windows, that was.â

Mrs. Pierce expatiated at some length on all the details of the accident.

âWasnât there some story,â said Luke carelessly, âof his having been seen dancing on the windowsill?â

Mrs. Pierce said that boys would be boysâbut no doubt it did give the major a turn, him being a fussy gentleman.

âMajor Horton?â

âYes, sir, the gentleman with the bulldogs. After the accident happened he chanced to mention having seen our Tommy acting very rash-likeâand of course it does show that if something sudden had startled him he would have fallen easy enough. High spirits, sir, that was Tommyâs trouble. A sore trial heâs been to me in many ways,â she finished, âbut there it was, just high spiritsânothing but high spiritsâsuch as any lad might have. There wasnât no real harm in him, as you might say.â

âNo, noâIâm sure there wasnât, but sometimes, you know, Mrs. Pierce, peopleâsober middle-aged peopleâfind it hard to remember theyâve ever been young themselves.â

Mrs. Pierce sighed.

âVery true those words are, sir. I canât help but hoping that some gentlemen I could name but wonât will have taken it to heart the way they were hard upon the ladâjust on account of his high spirits.â

âPlayed a few tricks upon his employers, did he?â asked Luke with an indulgent smile.

Mrs. Pierce responded immediately.

âIt was just his fun, sir, that was all. Tommy was always good at imitations. Make us hold our sides with laughing the way heâd mince about pretending to be that Mr. Ellsworthy at the curio shopâor old Mr. Hobbs, the churchwardenâand he was imitating his lordship up at the manor and the two under-gardeners laughing, when up came his lordship quiet-like and gave Tommy the sack on the spotâand naturally that was only to be expected, and quite right, and his lordship didnât bear malice afterwards, and helped Tommy to get another job.â

âBut other people werenât so magnanimous, eh?â said Luke.

âThat they were not, sir. Naming no names. And youâd never think it with Mr. Abbot, so pleasant in his manner and always a kind word or a joke.â

âTommy got into trouble with him?â

Mrs. Pierce said:

âItâs not, Iâm sure, that the boy meant any harmâ¦And after all, if papers are private and not meant to be looked at, they shouldnât be laid out on a tableâthatâs what I say.â

âOh, quite,â said Luke. âPrivate papers in a lawyerâs office ought to be kept in the safe.â

âThatâs right, sir. Thatâs what I think, and Mr. Pierce he agrees with me. Itâs not even as though Tommy had read much of it.â

âWhat was itâa will?â asked Luke.

He judged (probably rightly) that a question as to what the document in question had been might make Mrs. Pierce halt. But this direct question brought an instant response.

âOh, no, sir, nothing of that kind. Nothing really important. Just a private letter it wasâfrom a ladyâand Tommy didnât even see who the lady was. All such a fuss about nothingâthatâs what I say.â

âMr. Abbot must be the sort of man who takes offence very easily,â said Luke.

âWell, it does seem so, doesnât it, sir? Although, as I say, heâs always such a pleasant gentleman to speak toâalways a joke or a cheery word. But itâs true that I have heard he was a difficult man to get up against, and him and Dr. Humbleby was daggers drawn, as the saying is, just before the poor gentleman died. And not a pleasant thought for Mr. Abbot afterwards. For once thereâs a death one doesnât like to think thereâs been harsh words spoken and no chance of taking them back.â

Luke shook his head solemnly and murmured:

âVery trueâvery true.â

He went on:

âA bit of a coincidenceâthat. Hard words with Dr. Humbleby and Dr. Humbleby diedâharsh treatment of your Tommyâand the boy dies! I should think that a double experience like that would tend to make Mr. Abbot careful of his tongue in future.â

âHarry Carter, too, down at the Seven Stars,â said Mrs. Pierce. âVery sharp words passed between them only a week before Carter went and drowned himselfâbut one canât blame Mr. Abbot for that. The abuse was all on Carterâs sideâwent up to Mr. Abbotâs house, he did, being in liquor at the time, and shouting out the foulest language at the top of his voice. Poor Mrs. Carter, she had a deal to put up with, and it must be owned Carterâs death was a merciful release as far as she was concerned.â

âHe left a daughter, too, didnât he?â

âAh,â said Mrs. Pierce. âIâm never one to gossip.â

This was unexpected but promising. Luke pricked up his ears and waited.

âI donât say there was anything in it but talk. Lucy Carterâs a fine-looking young woman in her way, and if it hadnât been for the difference in station I dare say no notice would have been taken. But talk there has been and you canât deny itâespecially after Carter went right up to his house, shouting and swearing.â

Luke gathered the implications of this somewhat confused speech.

âMr. Abbot looks as though heâd appreciate a good-looking girl,â he said.

âItâs often the way with gentlemen,â said Mrs. Pierce. âThey donât mean anything by itâjust a word or two in passing, but the gentryâs the gentry and it gets noticed in consequence. Itâs only to be expected in a quiet place like this.â

âItâs a very charming place,â said Luke. âSo unspoilt.â

âThatâs what artists always say, but I think weâre a bit behind the times myself. Why, thereâs been no building here to speak of. Over at Ashevale, for instance, theyâve got a lovely lot of new houses, some of them with green roofs and stained glass in the windows.â

Luke shuddered slightly.

âYouâve got a grand new institute here,â he said.

âThey say itâs a very fine building,â said Mrs. Pierce, without great enthusiasm. âOf course, his lordshipâs done a lot for the place. He means well, we all know that.â

âBut you donât think his efforts are quite successful?â said Luke, amused.

âWell, of course, sir, he isnât really gentryânot like Miss Waynflete, for instance, and Miss Conway. Why, Lord Whitfieldâs father kept a boot-shop only a few doors from here. My mother remembers Gordon Ragg serving in the shopâremembers it as well as anything. Of course heâs his lordship now and heâs a rich manâbut itâs never the same, is it, sir?â

âEvidently not,â said Luke.

âYouâll excuse me mentioning it, sir,â said Mrs. Pierce. âAnd of course I know youâre staying at the manor and writing a book. But youâre a cousin of Miss Bridgetâs, I know, and thatâs quite a different thing. Very pleased we shall be to have her back as mistress of Ashe Manor.â

âRather,â said Luke. âIâm sure you will.â

He paid for his cigarettes and paper with sudden abruptness.

He thought to himself:

âThe personal element. One must keep that out of it! Hell, Iâm here to track down a criminal. What does it matter who that black-haired witch marries or doesnât marry? She doesnât come into thisâ¦.â

He walked slowly along the street. With an effort he thrust Bridget into the back of his mind.

âNow then,â he said to himself. âAbbot. The case against Abbot. Iâve linked him up with three of the victims. He had a row with Humbleby, a row with Carter and a row with Tommy Pierceâand all three died. What about the girl Amy Gibbs? What was the private letter that infernal boy saw? Did he know who it was from? Or didnât he? He maynât have said so to his mother. But suppose he did. Suppose Abbot thought it necessary to shut his mouth. It could be! Thatâs all one can say about it. It could be! Not good enough!â

Luke quickened his pace, looking about him with sudden exasperation.

âThis damned villageâitâs getting on my nerves. So smiling and peacefulâso innocentâand all the time this crazy streak of murder running through it. Or am I the crazy one? Was Lavinia Pinkerton crazy? After all, the whole thing could be coincidenceâyes, Humblebyâs death and allâ¦.â

He glanced back down the length of the High Streetâand he was assailed by a strong feeling of unreality.

He said to himself:

âThese things donât happenâ¦.â

Then he lifted his eyes to the long frowning line of Ashe Ridgeâand at once the unreality passed. Ashe Ridge was realâit knew strange thingsâwitchcraft and cruelty and forgotten bloodlusts and evil ritesâ¦.

He started. Two figures were walking along the side of the ridge. He recognized them easilyâBridget and Ellsworthy. The young man was gesticulating with those curious, unpleasant hands of his. His head was bent to Bridgetâs. They looked like two figures out of a dream. One felt that their feet made no sound as they sprang catlike from turf to turf. He saw her black hair stream out behind her blown by the wind. Again that queer magic of hers held him.

âBewitched, thatâs what I am, bewitched,â he said to himself.

He stood quite stillâa queer numbed feeling spreading over him.

He thought to himself ruefully:

âWhoâs to break the spell? Thereâs no one.â

Ten

ROSE HUMBLEBY

A soft sound behind him made him turn sharply. A girl was standing there, a remarkably pretty girl with brown hair curling round her ears and rather timid-looking dark-blue eyes. She flushed a little with embarrassment before she spoke.

âMr. Fitzwilliam, isnât it?â she said.

âYes. Iââ

âIâm Rose Humbleby. Bridget told me thatâthat you knew some people who knew my father.â

Luke had the grace to flush slightly under his tan.

âIt was a long time ago,â he said rather lamely. âTheyâerâknew him as a young manâbefore he married.â

âOh, I see.â

Rose Humbleby looked a little crestfallen. But she went on:

âYouâre writing a book, arenât you?â

âYes. Iâm making notes for one, that is. About local superstitions. All that sort of thing.â

âI see. It sounds frightfully interesting.â

âIt will probably be as dull as ditch water,â Luke assured her.

âOh, no, Iâm sure it wonât.â

Luke smiled at her.

He thought:

âOur Dr. Thomas is in luck!â

âThere are people,â he said, âwho can make the most exciting subject unbearably boring. Iâm afraid Iâm one of them.â

âOh, but why should you be?â

âI donât know. But the conviction is growing upon me.â

Rose Humbleby said:

âYou might be one of the people who make dull subjects sound frightfully exciting!â

âNow that is a nice thought,â said Luke. âThank you for it.â

Rose Humbleby smiled back. Then she said:

âDo you believe inâin superstitions and all that?â

âThatâs a difficult question. It doesnât follow, you know. One can be interested in things one doesnât believe in.â

âYes, I suppose so,â the girl sounded doubtful.

âAre you superstitious?â

âN-noâI donât think so. But I do think things come inâin waves.â

âWaves?â

âWaves of bad luck and good luck. I meanâI feel as though lately all Wychwood was under a spell ofâof misfortune. Father dyingâand Miss Pinkerton being run over, and that little boy who fell out of the window. IâI began to feel as though I hated this placeâas though I must get away!â

Her breath came rather faster. Luke looked at her thoughtfully.

âSo you feel like that?â

âOh! I know itâs silly. I suppose really it was poor daddy dying so unexpectedlyâit was so horribly sudden.â She shivered. âAnd then Miss Pinkerton. She saidââ

The girl paused.

âWhat did she say? She was a delightful old lady, I thoughtâvery like a rather special aunt of mine.â

âOh, did you know her?â Roseâs face lit up. âI was very fond of her and she was devoted to daddy. But Iâve sometimes wondered if she was what the Scotch call âfey.ââ

âWhy?â

âBecauseâitâs so oddâshe seemed quite afraid that something was going to happen to daddy. She almost warned me. Especially about accidents. And then that dayâjust before she went up to townâshe was so odd in her mannerâabsolutely in a dither. I really do think, Mr. Fitzwilliam, that she was one of those people who have second sight. I think she knew that something was going to happen to her. And she must have known that something was going to happen to daddy too. Itâsâitâs rather frightening, that sort of thing!â

She moved a step nearer to him.

âThere are times when one can foresee the future,â said Luke. âIt isnât always supernatural, though.â

âNo, I suppose itâs quite natural reallyâjust a faculty that most people lack. All the same itâworries meââ

âYou mustnât worry,â said Luke gently. âRemember, itâs all behind you now. Itâs no good going back over the past. Itâs the future one has to live for.â

âI know. But thereâs more, you seeâ¦â Rose hesitated. âThere was somethingâto do with your cousin.â

âMy cousin? Bridget?â

âYes. Miss Pinkerton was worried about her in some way. She was always asking me questionsâ¦I think she was afraid for herâtoo.â

Luke turned sharply, scanning the hillside. He had an unreasoning sense of fear. Bridgetâalone with the man whose hands had that unhealthy hue of greenish decomposing flesh! Fancyâall fancy! Ellsworthy was only a harmless dilettante who played at shopkeeping.

As though reading his thoughts, Rose said:

âDo you like Mr. Ellsworthy?â

âEmphatically no.â

âGeoffreyâDr. Thomas, you know, doesnât like him either.â

âAnd you?â

âOh, noâI think heâs dreadful.â She drew a little nearer. âThereâs a lot of talk about him. I was told that he had some queer ceremony in the Witchesâ Meadowâa lot of his friends came down from Londonâfrightfully queer-looking people. And Tommy Pierce was a kind of acolyte.â

âTommy Pierce?â said Luke sharply.

âYes. He had a surplice and a red cassock.â

âWhen was this?â

âOh, some time agoâI think it was in March.â

âTommy Pierce seems to have been mixed-up in everything that ever took place in this village.â

Rose said:

âHe was frightfully inquisitive. He always had to know what was going on.â

âHe probably knew a bit too much in the end,â said Luke grimly.

Rose accepted the words at their face value.

âHe was rather an odious little boy. He liked cutting up wasps and he teased dogs.â

âThe kind of boy whose decease is hardly to be regretted!â

âNo, I suppose not. It was terrible for his mother, though.â

âI gather she has five blessings left to console her. Sheâs got a good tongue, that woman.â

âShe does talk a lot, doesnât she?â

âAfter buying a few cigarettes from her, I feel I know the full history of everyone in the place!â

Rose said ruefully:

âThatâs the worst of a place like this. Everybody knows everything about everybody else.â

âOh, no,â said Luke.

She looked at him inquiringly.

Luke said with significance:

âNo one human being knows the full truth about another human being.â

Roseâs face grew grave. She gave a slight involuntary shiver.

âNo,â she said slowly. âI suppose thatâs true.â

âNot even oneâs nearest and dearest,â said Luke.

âNot evenââ she stopped. âOh, I suppose youâre rightâbut I wish you wouldnât say frightening things like that, Mr. Fitzwilliam.â

âDoes it frighten you?â

Slowly she nodded her head.

Then she turned abruptly.

âI must be going now. Ifâif you have nothing better to doâI mean if you couldâdo come and see us. Mother wouldâwould like to see you because of your knowing friends of daddyâs long ago.â

She walked slowly away down the road. Her head was bent a little as though some weight of care of perplexity bowed it down.

Luke stood looking after her. A sudden wave of solicitude swept over him. He felt a longing to shield and protect this girl.

From what? Asking himself the question, he shook his head with a momentary impatience at himself. It was true that Rose Humbleby had recently lost her father, but she had a mother, and she was engaged to be married to a decidedly attractive young man who was fully adequate to anything in the protection line. Then why should he, Luke Fitzwilliam, be assailed by this protection complex?

Good old sentimentality to the fore again, thought Luke. The protective male! Flourishing in the Victorian era, going strong in the Edwardian, and still showing signs of life despite what our friend Lord Whitfield would call the rush and strain of modern life!

âAll the same,â he said to himself as he strolled on towards the looming mass of Ashe Ridge, âI like that girl. Sheâs much too good for Thomasâa cool, superior devil like that.â

A memory of the doctorâs last smile on the doorstep recurred to him. Decidedly smug it had been! Complacent!

The sound of footsteps a little way ahead roused Luke from his slightly irritable meditations. He looked up to see young Mr. Ellsworthy coming down the path from the hillside. His eyes were on the ground and he was smiling to himself. His expression struck Luke disagreeably. Ellsworthy was not so much walking as prancingâlike a man who keeps time to some devilish little jig running in his brain. His smile was a strange secret contortion of the lipsâit had a gleeful slyness that was definitely unpleasant.

Luke had stopped, and Ellsworthy was nearly abreast of him when he at last looked up. His eyes, malicious and dancing, met the other manâs for just a minute before recognition came. Then, or so it seemed to Luke, a complete change came over the man. Where a minute before there had been the suggestion of a dancing satyr, there was now a somewhat effeminate and priggish young man.

âOh, Mr. Fitzwilliam, good morning.â

âGood morning,â said Luke. âHave you been admiring the beauties of Nature?â

Mr. Ellsworthyâs long, pale hands flew up in a reproving gesture.

âOh, no, noâoh, dear me, no. I abhor Nature. Such a coarse, unimaginative wench. I have always held that one cannot enjoy life until one has put Nature in her place.â

âAnd how do you propose to do that?â

âThere are ways!â said Mr. Ellsworthy. âIn a place like this, a delicious provincial spot, there are some most delectable amusements if one has the goÃ»tâthe flair. I enjoy life, Mr. Fitzwilliam.â

âSo do I,â said Luke.

âMens sana in corpore sano,â said Mr. Ellsworthy. His tone was delicately ironic. âIâm sure thatâs so true of you.â

âThere are worse things,â said Luke.

âMy dear fellow! Sanity is the one unbelievable bore. One must be madâdeliciously madâpervertedâslightly twistedâthen one sees life from a new and entrancing angle.â

âThe leperâs squint,â suggested Luke.

âAh, very goodâvery goodâquite witty! But thereâs something in it, you know. An interesting angle of vision. But I mustnât detain you. Youâre having exerciseâone must have exerciseâthe public school spirit!â

âAs you say,â said Luke, and with a curt nod walked on.

He thought:

âIâm getting too darned imaginative. The fellowâs just an ass, thatâs all.â

But some indefinable uneasiness drove his feet on faster. That queer, sly, triumphant smile that Ellsworthy had had on his faceâwas that just imagination on his, Lukeâs part? And his subsequent impression that it had been wiped off as though by a sponge the moment the other man caught sight of Luke coming towards himâwhat of that?

And with quickening uneasiness he thought:

âBridget? Is she all right? They came up here together and he came back alone.â

He hurried on. The sun had come out while he was talking to Rose Humbleby. Now it had gone in again. The sky was dull and menacing, and wind came in sudden erratic little puffs. It was as though he had stepped out of normal everyday life into that queer half-world of enchantment, the consciousness of which had enveloped him ever since he came to Wychwood.

He turned a corner and came out on the flat ledge of green grass that had been pointed out to him from below and which went, he knew, by the name of the Witchesâ Meadow. It was here, so tradition had it, that the witches had held revelry on Walpurgis Night and Halloweâen.

And then a quick wave of relief swept over him. Bridget was here. She sat with her back against a rock on the hillside. She was sitting bent over, her head in her hands.

He walked quickly over to her. Lovely springing turf strangely green and fresh.

He said:

âBridget?â

Slowly she raised her face from her hands. Her face troubled him. She looked as though she were returning from some far-off world, as though she had difficulty in adjusting herself to the world of now and here.

Luke saidârather inadequately:

âI sayâyouâreâyouâre all right, arenât you?â

It was a minute or two before she answeredâas though she still had not quite come back from that far-off world that had held her. Luke felt that his words had to travel a long way before they reached her.

Then she said:

âOf course Iâm all right. Why shouldnât I be?â

And now her voice was sharp and almost hostile.

Luke grinned.

âIâm hanged if I know. I got the wind up about you suddenly.â

âWhy?â

âMainly, I think, because of the melodramatic atmosphere in which Iâm living at present. It makes me see things out of all proportion. If I lose sight of you for an hour or two I naturally assume that the next thing will be to find your gory corpse in a ditch. It would be in a play or a book.â

âHeroines are never killed,â said Bridget.

âNo, butââ

Luke stoppedâjust in time.

âWhat were you going to say?â

âNothing.â

Thank goodness he had just stopped himself in time. One couldnât very well say to an attractive young woman, âBut youâre not the heroine.â

Bridget went on:

âThey are abducted, imprisoned, left to die of sewer gas or be drowned in cellarsâthey are always in danger, but they donât ever die.â

âNor even fade away,â said Luke.

He went on:

âSo this is the Witchesâ Meadow?â

âYes.â

He looked down at her.

âYou only need a broomstick,â he said kindly.

âThank you. Mr. Ellsworthy said much the same.â

âI met him just now,â said Luke.

âDid you talk to him at all?â

âYes. I think he tried to annoy me.â

âDid he succeed?â

âHis methods were rather childish.â He paused and then went on abruptly. âHeâs an odd sort of fellow. One minute you think heâs just a messâand then suddenly one wonders if there isnât a bit more to it than that.â

Bridget looked up at him.

âYouâve felt that too?â

âYou agree then?â

âYes.â

Luke waited.

Bridget said:

âThereâs somethingâodd about him. Iâve been wondering you knowâ¦I lay awake last night racking my brains. About the whole business. It seemed to me that if there was aâa killer about, I ought to know who it was! I mean, living down here and all that. I thought and I thought and it came to thisâif there is a killer, he must definitely be mad.â

Thinking of what Dr. Thomas had said, Luke asked:

âYou donât think that a murderer can be as sane as you or I?â

âNot this kind of a murderer. As I see it, this murderer must be crazy. And that, you see, brought me straight to Ellsworthy. Of all the people down here, heâs the only one who is definitely queer. He is queer, you canât get away from it!â

Luke said doubtfully:

âThere are a good many of his sort, dilettanti, poseursâusually quite harmless.â

âYes. But I think there might be a little more than that. Heâs got such nasty hands.â

âYou noticed that? Funny, I did too!â

âTheyâre not just whiteâtheyâre green.â

âThey do give one that effect. All the same, you canât convict a man of being a murderer because of the colour of his flesh tints.â

âOh, quite. What we want is evidence.â

âEvidence!â growled Luke. âJust the one thing thatâs absolutely lacking. The manâs been too careful. A careful murderer! A careful lunatic!â

âIâve been trying to help,â said Bridget.

âWith Ellsworthy, you mean?â

âYes. I thought I could probably tackle him better than you could. Iâve made a beginning.â

âTell me.â

âWell, it seems that he has a kind of little coterieâa band of nasty friends. They come down here from time to time and celebrate.â

âDo you mean what are called nameless orgies?â

âI donât know about nameless but certainly orgies. Actually it all sounds very silly and childish.â

âI suppose they worship the devil and do obscene dances.â

âSomething of the kind. Apparently they get a kick out of it.â

âI can contribute something to this,â said Luke. âTommy Pierce took part in one of their ceremonies. He was an acolyte. He had a red cassock.â

âSo he knew about it?â

âYes. And that might explain his death.â

âYou mean he talked about it?â

âYesâor he may have tried a spot of quiet blackmail.â

Bridget said thoughtfully:

âI know itâs all fantasticâbut it doesnât seem quite so fantastic when applied to Ellsworthy as it does to anyone else.â

âNo, I agreeâthe thing becomes just conceivable instead of being ludicrously unreal.â

âWeâve got a connection with two of the victims,â said Bridget. âTommy Pierce and Amy Gibbs.â

âWhere do the publican and Humbleby come in?â

âAt the moment they donât.â

âNot the publican. But I can imagine a motive for Humblebyâs removal. He was a doctor and he may have tumbled to Ellsworthyâs abnormal state.â

âYes, thatâs possible.â

Then Bridget laughed.

âI did my stuff pretty well this morning. My psychic possibilities are grand, it seems, and when I told how one of my great-great-grandmothers had a near escape of being burnt for witchcraft my stock went soaring up. I rather think that I shall be invited to take part in the orgies at the next meeting of the Satanic Games whenever that may be.â

Luke said:

âBridget, for Godâs sake, be careful.â

She looked at him, surprised. He got up.

âI met Humblebyâs daughter just now. We were talking about Miss Pinkerton. And the Humbleby girl said that Miss Pinkerton had been worried about you.â

Bridget, in the act of rising, stopped as though frozen into immobility.

âWhatâs that? Miss Pinkertonâworriedâabout me?â

âThatâs what Rose Humbleby said.â

âRose Humbleby said that?â

âYes.â

âWhat more did she say?â

âNothing more.â

âAre you sure?â

âQuite sure.â

There was a pause, then Bridget said, âI see.â

âMiss Pinkerton was worried about Humbleby and he died. Now I hear she was worried about youââ

Bridget laughed. She stood up and shook her head so that her long black hair flew out round her head.

âDonât worry,â she said. âThe devil looks after his own.â

Eleven

DOMESTIC LIFE OF MAJOR HORTON

Luke leaned back in his chair on the other side of the bank managerâs table.

âWell, that seems very satisfactory,â he said. âIâm afraid Iâve been taking up a lot of your time.â

Mr. Jones waved a deprecating hand. His small, dark, plump face wore a happy expression.

âNo, indeed, Mr. Fitzwilliam. This is a quiet spot, you know. We are always glad to see a stranger.â

âItâs a fascinating part of the world,â said Luke. âFull of superstitions.â

Mr. Jones sighed and said it took a long time for education to eradicate superstition. Luke remarked that he thought education was too highly rated nowadays and Mr. Jones was slightly shocked by the statement.

âLord Whitfield,â he said, âhas been a handsome benefactor here. He realizes the disadvantages under which he himself suffered as a boy and is determined that the youth of today shall be better equipped.â

âEarly disadvantages havenât prevented him from making a large fortune,â said Luke.

âNo, he must have had abilityâgreat ability.â

âOr luck,â said Luke.

Mr. Jones looked rather shocked.

âLuck is the one thing that counts,â said Luke. âTake a murderer, for example. Why does the successful murderer get away with it? Is it ability? Or is it sheer luck?â

Mr. Jones admitted that it was probably luck.

Luke continued:

âTake a fellow like this man Carter, the landlord of one of your pubs. The fellow was probably drunk six nights out of sevenâyet one night he goes and pitches himself off the footbridge into the river. Luck again.â

âGood luck for some people,â said the bank manager.

âYou mean?â

âFor his wife and daughter.â

âOh, yes, of course.â

A clerk knocked and entered bearing papers. Luke gave two specimen signatures and was given a cheque-book. He rose.

âWell, Iâm glad thatâs all fixed up. Had a bit of luck over the Derby this year. Did you?â

Mr. Jones said smilingly that he was not a betting man. He added that Mrs. Jones had very strong views on the subject of horse racing.

âThen I suppose you didnât go to the Derby?â

âNo indeed.â

âAnybody go to it from here?â

âMajor Horton did. Heâs quite a keen racing man. And Mr. Abbot usually takes the day off. He didnât back the winner, though.â

âI donât suppose many people did,â said Luke, and departed after the exchange of farewells.

He lit a cigarette as he emerged from the bank. Apart from the theory of the âleast likely person,â he saw no reason for retaining Mr. Jones on his list of suspects. The bank manager had shown no interesting reactions to Lukeâs test questions. It seemed quite impossible to visualize him as a murderer. Moreover, he had not been absent on Derby Day. Incidentally, Lukeâs visit had not been wasted, he had received two small items of information. Both Major Horton and Mr. Abbot, the solicitor, had been away from Wychwood on Derby Day. Either of them, therefore, could have been in London at the time when Miss Pinkerton was run down by a car.

Although Luke did not now suspect Dr. Thomas he felt he would be more satisfied if he knew for a fact that the latter had been at Wychwood engaged in his professional duties on that particular day. He made a mental note to verify that point.

Then there was Ellsworthy. Had Ellsworthy been in Wychwood on Derby Day? If he had, the presumption that he was the killer was correspondingly weakened. Although, Luke noted, it was possible that Miss Pinkertonâs death had been neither more nor less than the accident that it was supposed to be.

But he rejected that theory. Her death was too opportune.

Luke got into his own car, which was standing by the kerb, and drove in it to Pipwellâs Garage, situated at the far end of the High Street.

There were various small matters in the carâs running that he wanted to discuss. A good-looking young mechanic with a freckled face listened intelligently. The two men lifted the bonnet and became absorbed in a technical discussion.

A voice called:

âJim, come here a minute.â

The freckled-faced mechanic obeyed.

Jim Harvey. That was right. Jim Harvey, Amy Gibbsâs young man. He returned presently, apologizing, and conversation became technical once more. Luke agreed to leave the car there.

As he was about to leave he inquired casually:

âDo any good on the Derby this year?â

âNo, sir. Backed Clarigold.â

âCanât be many people who backed Jujube the II.?â

âNo, indeed, sir. I donât believe any of the papers even tipped it as an outside chance.â

Luke shook his head.

âRacingâs an uncertain game. Ever seen the Derby run?â

âNo, sir, wish I had. Asked for a day off this year. There was a cheap ticket up to town and down to Epsom, but the boss wouldnât hear of it. We were shorthanded, as a matter of fact, and had a lot of work in that day.â

Luke nodded and took his departure.

Jim Harvey was crossed off his list. That pleasant-faced boy was not a secret killer, and it was not he who had run down Lavinia Pinkerton.

He strolled home by way of the riverbank. Here, as once before, he encountered Major Horton and his dogs. The major was still in the same condition of apoplectic shouting. âAugustusâNellyâNELLY, I say. NeroâNeroâNERO.â

Again the protuberant eyes stared at Luke. But this time there was more to follow. Major Horton said:

âExcuse me. Mr. Fitzwilliam, isnât it?â

âYes.â

âHorton hereâMajor Horton. Believe Iâm going to meet you tomorrow up at the Manor. Tennis party. Miss Conway very kindly asked me. Cousin of yours, isnât she?â

âYes.â

âThought so. Soon spot a new face down here, you know.â

Here a diversion occurred, the three bulldogs advancing upon a nondescript white mongrel.

âAugustusâNero. Come here, sirâcome here, I say.â

When Augustus and Nero had finally reluctantly obeyed the command, Major Horton returned to the conversation. Luke was patting Nelly, who was gazing up at him sentimentally.

âNice bitch, that, isnât she?â said the major. âI like bulldogs. Iâve always had âem. Prefer âem to any other breed. My place is just near here, come in and have a drink.â

Luke accepted and the two men walked together while Major Horton held forth on the subject of dogs and the inferiority of all other breeds to that which he himself preferred.

Luke heard of the prizes Nelly had won, of the infamous conduct of a judge in awarding Augustus merely a Highly Commended, and of the triumphs of Nero in the show ring.

By then they had turned in at the majorâs gate. He opened the front door, which was not locked, and the two men passed into the house. Leading the way into a small slightly doggy-smelling room lined with bookshelves, Major Horton busied himself with the drinks. Luke looked round him. There were photographs of dogs, copies of the Field and Country Life and a couple of well-worn armchairs. Silver cups were arranged round the bookcases. There was one oil painting over the mantelpiece.

âMy wife,â said the major, looking up from the siphon and noting the direction of Lukeâs glance. âRemarkable woman. A lot of character in her face, donât you think?â

âYes, indeed,â said Luke, looking at the late Mrs. Horton.

She was represented in a pink satin dress and was holding a bunch of lilies of the valley. Her brown hair was parted in the middle and her lips were pressed grimly together. Her eyes, of a cold grey, looked out ill-temperedly at the beholder.

âA remarkable woman,â said the major, handing a glass to Luke. âShe died over a year ago. I havenât been the same man since.â

âNo?â said Luke, a little at a loss to know what to say.

âSit down,â said the major, waving a hand towards one of the leather chairs.

He himself took the other one and sipping his whisky and soda, he went on:

âNo, I havenât been the same man since.â

âYou must miss her,â said Luke awkwardly.

Major Horton shook his head darkly.

âFellow needs a wife to keep him up to scratch,â he said. âOtherwise he gets slackâyes, slack. He lets himself go.â

âBut surelyââ

âMy boy, I know what Iâm talking about. Mind you, Iâm not saying marriage doesnât come hard on a fellow at first. It does. Fellow says to himself, damn it all, he says, I canât call my soul my own! But he gets broken in. Itâs all discipline.â

Luke thought that Major Hortonâs married life must have been more like a military campaign than an idyll of domestic bliss.

âWomen,â soliloquized the major, âare a rum lot. It seems sometimes that thereâs no pleasing them. But by Jove, they keep a man up to the mark.â

Luke preserved a respectful silence.

âYou married?â inquired the major.

âNo.â

âAh, well, youâll come to it. And mind you, my boy, thereâs nothing like it.â

âItâs always cheering,â said Luke, âto hear someone speak well of the marriage state. Especially in these days of easy divorce.â

âPah!â said the major. âYoung people make me sick. No staminaâno endurance. They canât stand anything. No fortitude!â

Luke itched to ask why such exceptional fortitude should be needed, but he controlled himself.

âMind you,â said the major, âLydia was a woman in a thousandâin a thousand! Everyone here respected and looked up to her.â

âYes?â

âShe wouldnât stand any nonsense. Sheâd got a way of fixing a person with her eyeâand the person wiltedâjust wilted. Some of these half-baked girls who call themselves servants nowadays. They think youâll put up with any insolence. Lydia soon showed them! Do you know we had fifteen cooks and house-parlourmaids in one year. Fifteen!â

Luke felt that this was hardly a tribute to Mrs. Hortonâs domestic management, but since it seemed to strike his host differently he merely murmured some vague remark.

âTurned âem out neck and crop, she did, if they didnât suit.â

âWas it always that way about?â asked Luke.

âWell, of course a lot of them walked out on us. A good riddanceâthatâs what Lydia used to say!â

âA fine spirit,â said Luke, âbut wasnât it sometimes rather awkward?â

âOh! I didnât mind turning to and putting my hand to things,â said Horton. âIâm a pretty fair cook and I can lay a fire with anyone. Iâve never cared for washing up but of course itâs got to be doneâyou canât get away from that.â

Luke agreed that you couldnât. He asked whether Mrs. Horton had been good at domestic work.

âIâm not the sort of fellow to let his wife wait on him,â said Major Horton. âAnd anyway Lydia was far too delicate to do any housework.â

âShe wasnât strong then?â

Major Horton shook his head.

âShe had wonderful spirit. She wouldnât give in. But what that woman suffered! And no sympathy from the doctors either. Doctors are callous brutes. They only understand downright physical pain. Anything out of the ordinary is beyond most of them. Humbleby, for instance, everyone seemed to think he was a good doctor.â

âYou donât agree.â

âThe man was an absolute ignoramus. Knew nothing of modern discoveries. Doubt if heâd ever heard of a neurosis! He understood measles and mumps and broken bones all right, I suppose. But nothing else. Had a row with him in the end. He didnât understand Lydiaâs case at all. I gave it him straight from the shoulder and he didnât like it. Got huffed and backed right out. Said I could send for any other doctor I chose. After that, we had Thomas.â

âYou liked him better?â

âAltogether a much cleverer man. If anyone could have pulled her through her last illness Thomas would have done it. As a matter of fact she was getting better, but she had a sudden relapse.â

âWas it painful?â

âHâm, yes. Gastritis. Acute painâsicknessâall the rest of it. How that poor woman suffered! She was a martyr if there ever was one. And a couple of hospital nurses in the house who were about as sympathetic as a brace of grandfather clocks! âThe patient thisâ and âthe patient that.ââ The major shook his head and drained his glass. âCanât stand hospital nurses! So smug. Lydia insisted they were poisoning her. That wasnât true, of courseâa regular sick fancyâlots of people have it, so Thomas saidâbut there was this much truth behind itâthose women disliked her. Thatâs the worst of womenâalways down on their own sex.â

âI suppose,â said Luke, feeling that he was putting it awkwardly but not seeing how to put it better, âthat Mrs. Horton had a lot of devoted friends in Wychwood?â

âPeople were very kind,â said the major somewhat grudgingly. âWhitfield sent down grapes and peaches from his hothouse. And the old tabbies used to come and sit with her. Honoria Waynflete and Lavinia Pinkerton.â

âMiss Pinkerton came often, did she?â

âYes. Regular old maidâbut a kind creature! Very worried about Lydia she was. Used to inquire into the diet and the medicines. All kindly meant, you know, but what I call a lot of fuss.â

Luke nodded comprehendingly.

âCanât stand fuss,â said the major. âToo many women in this place. Difficult to get a decent game of golf.â

âWhat about the young fellow at the antique shop?â said Luke.

The major snorted:

âHe doesnât play golf. Much too much of a Miss Nancy.â

âHas he been in Wychwood long?â

âAbout two years. Nasty sort of fellow. Hate those long-haired purring chaps. Funnily enough Lydia liked him. You canât trust womenâs judgement about men. They cotton to some amazing bounders. She even insisted on taking some patent quack nostrum of his. Stuff in a purple glass jar with signs of the Zodiac all over it! Supposed to be certain herbs picked at the full of the moon. Lot of tomfoolery, but women swallow that stuffâswallow it literally tooâha, ha!â

Luke said, feeling that he was changing the subject rather abruptly, but correctly judging that Major Horton would not be aware of the fact:

âWhat sort of fellow is Abbot, the local solicitor? Pretty sound on the law? Iâve got to have some legal advice about something and I thought I might go to him.â

âThey say heâs pretty shrewd,â acknowledged Major Horton. âI donât know. Matter of fact Iâve had a row with him. Not seen him since he came out here to make Lydiaâs will for her just before she died. In my opinion that manâs a cad. But of course,â he added, âthat doesnât affect his ability as a lawyer.â

âNo, of course not,â said Luke. âHe seems a quarrelsome sort of man, though. Seems to have fallen out with a good many people from what I hear.â

âTrouble with him is that heâs so confoundedly touchy,â said Major Horton. âSeems to think heâs God Almighty and that anyone who disagrees with him is committing lÃ¨se-majestÃ©. Heard of his row with Humbleby?â

âThey had a row, did they?â

âFirst-class row. Mind you, that doesnât surprise me. Humbleby was an opinionated ass! Still, there it is.â

âHis death was very sad.â

âHumblebyâs? Yes, I suppose it was. Lack of ordinary care. Blood poisoningâs a damned dangerous thing. Always put iodine on a cutâI do! Simple precaution. Humbleby, whoâs a doctor, doesnât do anything of the sort. It just shows.â

Luke was not quite sure what it showed, but he let that pass. Glancing at his watch he got up.

Major Horton said:

âGetting on for lunchtime? So it is. Well, glad to have had a chat with you. Does me good to see a man whoâs been about the world a bit. We must have a yarn some other time. Where was your show? Mayang Straits? Never been there. Hear youâre writing a book. Superstitions and all that.â

âYesâIââ

But Major Horton swept on.

âI can tell you several very interesting things. When I was in India, my boyââ

Luke escaped some ten minutes later after enduring the usual histories of fakirs, rope and mango tricks, dear to the retired Anglo-Indian.

As he stepped out into the open air, and heard the majorâs voice bellowing to Nero behind him, he marvelled at the miracle of married life. Major Horton seemed genuinely to regret a wife who, by all accounts, not excluding his own, must have been nearly allied to a man-eating tiger.

Or was itâLuke asked himself the question suddenlyâwas it an exceedingly clever bluff?

Twelve

PASSAGE OF ARMS

The afternoon of the tennis party was fortunately fine. Lord Whitfield was in his most genial mood, acting the part of the host with a good deal of enjoyment. He referred frequently to his humble origin. The players were eight in all. Lord Whitfield, Bridget, Luke, Rose Humbleby, Mr. Abbot, Dr. Thomas, Major Horton and Hetty Jones, a giggling young woman who was the daughter of the bank manager.

In the second set of the afternoon, Luke found himself partnering Bridget against Lord Whitfield and Rose Humbleby. Rose was a good player with a strong forehand drive and played in county matches. She atoned for Lord Whitfieldâs failures, and Bridget and Luke, who were neither of them particularly strong, made quite an even match of it. They were three games all, and then Luke found a streak of erratic brilliance and he and Bridget forged ahead to five-three.

It was then he observed that Lord Whitfield was losing his temper. He argued over a line ball, declared a serve to be a fault in spite of Roseâs disclaimer, and displayed all the attributes of a peevish child. It was set point, but Bridget sent an easy shot into the net and immediately after served a double fault. Deuce. The next ball was returned down the middle line and as he prepared to take it he and his partner collided. Then Bridget served another double fault and the game was lost.

Bridget apologized. âSorry, Iâve gone to pieces.â

It seemed true enough. Bridgetâs shots were wild and she seemed to be unable to do anything right. The set ended with Lord Whitfield and his partner victorious at the score of eight-six.

There was a momentary discussion as to the composition of the next set. In the end Rose played again with Mr. Abbot as her partner against Dr. Thomas and Miss Jones.

Lord Whitfield sat down, wiping his forehead and smiling complacently, his good humour quite restored. He began to talk to Major Horton on the subject of a series of articles on Fitness for Britain which one of his papers was starring.

Luke said to Bridget:

âShow me the kitchen garden.â

âWhy the kitchen garden?â

âI have a feeling for cabbages.â

âWonât green peas do?â

âGreen peas would be admirable.â

They walked away from the tennis court and came to the walled kitchen garden. It was empty of gardeners this Saturday afternoon and looked lazy and peaceful in the sunshine.

âHere are your peas,â said Bridget.

Luke paid no attention to the object of the visit. He said:

âWhy the hell did you give them the set?â

Bridgetâs eyebrows went up a fraction.

âIâm sorry. I went to bits. My tennis is erratic.â

âNot so erratic as that! Those double faults of yours wouldnât deceive a child! And those wild shotsâeach of them half a mile out!â

Bridget said calmly:

âThatâs because Iâm such a rotten tennis player. If I were a bit better I could perhaps have made it a bit more plausible! But as it is if I try to make a ball go just out, itâs always on the line and all the good work still to do.â

âOh, you admit it then?â

âObvious, my dear Watson.â

âAnd the reason?â

âEqually obvious, I should have thought. Gordon doesnât like losing.â

âAnd what about me? Supposing I like to win?â

âIâm afraid, my dear Luke, that that isnât equally important.â

âWould you like to make your meaning just a little clearer still?â

âCertainly, if you like. One mustnât quarrel with oneâs bread and butter. Gordon is my bread and butter. You are not.â

Luke drew a deep breath. Then he exploded.

âWhat the hell do you mean by marrying that absurd little man? Why are you doing it?â

âBecause as his secretary I get six pounds a week, and as his wife I shall get a hundred thousand settled on me, a jewel case full of pearls and diamonds, a handsome allowance, and various perquisites of the married state!â

âBut for somewhat different duties!â

Bridget said coldly:

âMust we have this melodramatic attitude towards every single thing in life? If you are contemplating a pretty picture of Gordon as an uxorious husband, you can wash it right out! Gordon, as you should have realized, is a small boy who has not quite grown up. What he needs is a mother, not a wife. Unfortunately his mother died when he was four years old. What he wants is someone at hand to whom he can brag, someone who will reassure him about himself and who is prepared to listen indefinitely to Lord Whitfield on the subject of Himself!â

âYouâve got a bitter tongue, havenât you?â

Bridget retorted sharply:

âI donât tell myself fairy stories if thatâs what you mean! Iâm a young woman with a certain amount of intelligence, very moderate looks, and no money. I intend to earn an honest living. My job as Gordonâs wife will be practically indistinguishable from my job as Gordonâs secretary. After a year I doubt if heâll remember to kiss me good night. The only difference is in the salary.â

They looked at each other. Both of them were pale with anger. Bridget said jeeringly:

âGo on. Youâre rather old-fashioned, arenât you, Mr. Fitzwilliam? Hadnât you better trot out the old clichÃ©sâsay that Iâm selling myself for moneyâthatâs always a good one, I think!â

Luke said: âYouâre a cold-blooded little devil!â

âThatâs better than being a hot-blooded little fool!â

âIs it?â

âYes. I know.â

Luke sneered. âWhat do you know?â

âI know what it is to care about a man! Did you ever meet Johnnie Cornish? I was engaged to him for three years. He was adorableâI cared like hell about himâcared so much that it hurt! Well, he threw me over and married a nice plump widow with a North-Country accent and three chins and an income of thirty thousand a year! That sort of thing rather cures one of romance, donât you think?â

Luke turned away with a sudden groan. He said:

âIt might.â

âIt didâ¦.â

There was a pause. The silence lay heavy between them. Bridget broke it at last. She said, but with a slight uncertainty in her tone:

âI hope you realize that you had no earthly right to speak to me as you did. Youâre staying in Gordonâs house and itâs damned bad taste!â

Luke recovered his composure.

âIsnât that rather a clichÃ© too?â he inquired politely.

Bridget flushed. âItâs true, anyway!â

âIt isnât. I had every right.â

âNonsense!â

Luke looked at her. His face had a queer pallor, like a man who is suffering physical pain. He said:

âI have a right. Iâve the right of caring for youâwhat did you say just now?âof caring so much that it hurts!â

She drew back a step. She said: âYouââ

âYes, funny, isnât it? The sort of thing that ought to give you a hearty laugh! I came down here to do a job of work and you came round the corner of that house andâhow can I say itâput a spell on me! Thatâs what it feels like. You mentioned fairy stories just now. Iâm caught up in a fairy story! Youâve bewitched me. Iâve a feeling that if you pointed your finger at me and said: âTurn into a frog,â Iâd go hopping away with my eyes popping out of my head.â

He took a step nearer to her.

âI love you like hell, Bridget Conway. And, loving you like hell, you canât expect me to enjoy seeing you get married to a potbellied pompous little peer who loses his temper when he doesnât win at tennis.â

âWhat do you suggest I should do?â

âI suggest that you should marry me instead! But doubtless that suggestion will give rise to a lot of merry laughter.â

âThe laughter is positively uproarious.â

âExactly. Well, now we know where we are. Shall we return to the tennis court? Perhaps this time you will find me a partner who can play to win!â

âReally,â said Bridget sweetly, âI believe you mind losing just as much as Gordon does!â

Luke caught her suddenly by the shoulders.

âYouâve got a devilish tongue, havenât you, Bridget?â

âIâm afraid you donât like me very much, Luke, however great your passion for me!â

âI donât think I like you at all.â

Bridget said, watching him:

âYou meant to get married and settle down when you came home, didnât you?â

âYes.â

âBut not to someone like me?â

âI never thought of anyone in the least like you.â

âNoâyou wouldnâtâI know your type. I know it exactly.â

âYou are so clever, dear Bridget.â

âA really nice girlâthoroughly Englishâfond of the country and good with dogsâ¦You probably visualized her in a tweed skirt stirring a log fire with the tip of her shoe.â

âThe picture sounds most attractive.â

âIâm sure it does. Shall we return to the tennis court? You can play with Rose Humbleby. Sheâs so good that youâre practically certain to win.â

âBeing old-fashioned I must allow you to have the last word.â

Again there was a pause. Then Luke took his hands slowly from her shoulders. They both stood uncertain as though something still unsaid lingered between them.

Then Bridget turned abruptly and led the way back. The next set was just ending. Rose protested against playing again.

âIâve played two sets running.â

Bridget, however, insisted.

âIâm feeling tired. I donât want to play. You and Mr. Fitzwilliam take on Miss Jones and Major Horton.â

But Rose continued to protest and in the end a menâs four was arranged. Afterwards came tea.

Lord Whitfield conversed with Dr. Thomas, describing at length and with great self-importance a visit he had recently paid to the Wellerman Kreitz Research Laboratories.

âI wanted to understand the trend of the latest scientific discoveries for myself,â he explained earnestly. âIâm responsible for what my papers print. I feel that very keenly. This is a scientific age. Science must be made easily assimilable by the masses.â

âA little science might possibly be a dangerous thing,â said Dr. Thomas with a slight shrug of his shoulders.

âScience in the home, thatâs what we have to aim at,â said Lord Whitfield. âScience mindedââ

âTest tube conscious,â said Bridget gravely.

âI was impressed,â said Lord Whitfield. âWellerman took me round himself, of course. I begged him to leave me to an underling, but he insisted.â

âNaturally,â said Luke.

Lord Whitfield looked gratified.

âAnd he explained everything most clearlyâthe cultureâthe serumâthe whole principle of the thing. He agreed to contribute the first article in the series himself.â

Mrs. Anstruther murmured:

âThey use guinea-pigs, I believeâso cruelâthough of course not so bad as dogsâor even cats.â

âFellows who use dogs ought to be shot,â said Major Horton, hoarsely.

âI really believe, Horton,â said Mr. Abbot, âthat you value canine life above human life.â

âEvery time!â said the major. âDogs canât turn round on you like human beings can. Never get a nasty word from a dog.â

âOnly a nasty tooth stuck into your leg,â said Mr. Abbot. âEh, Horton?â

âDogs are a good judge of character,â said Major Horton.

âOne of your brutes nearly pinned me by the leg last week. What do you say to that, Horton?â

âSame as I said just now!â

Bridget interposed tactfully:

âWhat about some more tennis?â

A couple more sets were played. Then, as Rose Humbleby said good-bye, Luke appeared beside her.

âIâll see you home,â he said. âAnd carry the tennis bat. You havenât got a car, have you?â

âNo, but itâs no distance.â

âIâd like a walk.â

He said no more, merely taking her racquet and shoes from her. They walked down the drive without speaking. Then Rose mentioned one or two trivial matters. Luke answered rather shortly but the girl did not seem to notice.

As they turned into the gate of her house, Lukeâs face cleared.

âIâm feeling better now,â he said.

âWere you feeling badly before?â

âNice of you to pretend you didnât notice it. Youâve exorcised the bruteâs sulky temper, though. Funny, I feel as though Iâd come out of a dark cloud into the sun.â

âSo you have. There was a cloud over the sun when we left the Manor and now itâs passed over.â

âSo itâs literally as well as figuratively. Well, wellâthe worldâs a good place after all.â

âOf course it is.â

âMiss Humbleby, may I be impertinent?â

âIâm sure you couldnât be.â

âOh, donât be too sure of that. I wanted to say that I think Dr. Thomas is a very lucky man.â

Rose blushed and smiled.

She said: âSo youâve heard?â

âWas it supposed to be a secret? Iâm so sorry.â

âOh! Nothing is a secret in this place,â said Rose ruefully.

âSo it is trueâyou and he are engaged?â

Rose nodded.

âOnlyâjust nowâweâre not announcing it officially. You see, daddy was against it and it seemsâwellâunkind toâto blazon it abroad the moment heâs dead.â

âYour father disapproved?â

âWell, not disapproved exactly. Oh, I suppose it did amount to that, really.â

Luke said gently:

âHe thought you were too young?â

âThatâs what he said.â

Luke said acutely: âBut you think there was something more than that?â

Rose bent her head slowly and reluctantly.

âYesâIâm afraid what it really amounted to was that daddy didnâtâwell, didnât really like Geoffrey.â

âThey were antagonistic to each other?â

âIt seemed like that sometimesâ¦Of course, daddy was rather a prejudiced old dear.â

âAnd I suppose he was very fond of you and didnât like the thought of losing you?â

Rose assented but still with a shade of reservation in her manner.

âIt went deeper than that?â asked Luke. âHe definitely didnât want Thomas as a husband for you?â

âNo. You seeâdaddy and Geoffrey are so very unlikeâand in some ways they clashed. Geoffrey was really very patient and good about itâbut knowing daddy didnât like him made him even more reserved and shy in his manner, so that daddy really never got to know him any better.â

âPrejudices are very hard to combat,â said Luke.

âIt was so completely unreasonable!â

âYour father didnât advance any reasons?â

âOh, no. He couldnât! Naturally, I mean, there wasnât anything he could say against Geoffrey except that he didnât like him.â

âI do not like thee, Dr. Fell, the reason why I cannot tell.â

âExactly.â

âNo tangible thing to get hold of? I mean, your Geoffrey doesnât drink or back horses?â

âOh, no. I donât believe Geoffrey even knows what won the Derby.â

âThatâs funny,â said Luke. âYou know, I could swear I saw your Dr. Thomas at Epsom on Derby Day.â

For a moment he was anxious lest he might already have mentioned that he only arrived in England on that day. But Rose responded at once quite unsuspiciously.

âYou thought you saw Geoffrey at the Derby? Oh, no. He couldnât get away, for one thing. He was over at Ashewold nearly all that day at a difficult confinement case.â

âWhat a memory youâve got!â

Rose laughed.

âI remember that, because he told me they called the baby Jujube as a nickname!â

Luke nodded abstractedly.

âAnyway,â said Rose, âGeoffrey never goes to race meetings. Heâd be bored to death.â

She added, in a different tone:

âWonât youâcome in? I think mother would like to see you.â

âIf youâre sure of that?â

Rose led the way into a room where twilight hung rather sadly. A woman was sitting in an armchair in a curiously huddled up position.

âMother, this is Mr. Fitzwilliam.â

Mrs. Humbleby gave a start and shook hands. Rose went quietly out of the room.

âIâm glad to see you, Mr. Fitzwilliam. Some friends of yours knew my husband many years ago, so Rose tells me.â

âYes, Mrs. Humbleby.â He rather hated repeating the lie to the widowed woman, but there was no way out of it.

Mrs. Humbleby said:

âI wish you could have met him. He was a fine man and a great doctor. He cured many people who had been given up as hopeless just by the strength of his personality.â

Luke said gently:

âIâve heard a lot about him since Iâve been here. I know how much people thought of him.â

He could not see Mrs. Humblebyâs face very distinctly. Her voice was rather monotonous, but its very lack of feeling seemed to emphasize the fact that actually feeling was in her, strenuously held back.

She said rather unexpectedly:

âThe world is a very wicked place, Mr. Fitzwilliam. Do you know that?â

Luke was a little surprised.

âYes, perhaps that may be.â

She insisted:

âNo, but do you know it? Itâs important that. Thereâs a lot of wickedness aboutâ¦One must be preparedâto fight it! John was. He knew. He was on the side of the right!â

Luke said gently:

âIâm sure he was.â

âHe knew the wickedness there was in this place,â said Mrs. Humbleby. âHe knewââ

She burst suddenly into tears.

Luke murmured:

âIâm so sorryââ and stopped.

She controlled herself as suddenly as she had lost control.

âYou must forgive me,â she said. She held out her hand and he took it. âDo come and see us while you are here,â she said. âIt would be so good for Rose. She likes you so much.â

âI like her. I think your daughter is the nicest girl Iâve met for a long time, Mrs. Humbleby.â

âSheâs very good to me.â

âDr. Thomas is a very lucky man.â

âYes.â Mrs. Humbleby dropped his hand. Her voice had gone flat again. âI donât knowâitâs all so difficult.â

Luke left her standing in the half gloom, her fingers nervously twisting and untwisting themselves.

As he walked home his mind went over various aspects of the conversation.

Dr. Thomas had been absent from Wychwood for a good part of Derby Day. He had been absent in a car. Wychwood was thirty-five miles from London. Supposedly he had been attending a confinement case. Was there more than his word? The point, he supposed, could be verified. His mind went on to Mrs. Humbleby.

What had she meant by her insistence on that phrase, âThereâs a lot of wickedness aboutâ¦?â

Was she just nervous and overwrought by the shock of her husbandâs death? Or was there something more to it than that?

Did she perhaps know something? Something that Dr. Humbleby had known before he died?

âIâve got to go on with this,â said Luke to himself. âIâve got to go on.â

Resolutely he averted his mind from the passage of arms that had taken place between him and Bridget.

Thirteen

MISS WAYNFLETE TALKS

On the following morning Luke came to a decision. He had, he felt, proceeded as far as he could with indirect inquiries. It was inevitable that sooner or later he would be forced into the open. He felt that the time had come to drop the book-writing camouflage and reveal that he had come to Wychwood with a definite aim in view.

In pursuance of this plan of campaign he decided to call upon Honoria Waynflete. Not only had he been favourably impressed by that middle-aged spinsterâs air of discretion and a certain shrewdness of outlookâbut he fancied that she might have information that would help him. He believed that she had told him what she knew. He wanted to induce her to tell him what she might have guessed. He had a shrewd idea that Miss Waynfleteâs guesses might be fairly near the truth.

He called immediately after church.

Miss Waynflete received him in a matter-of-fact manner, showing no surprise at his call. As she sat down near him, her prim hands folded and her intelligent eyesâso like an amiable goatâsâfixed on his face, he found little difficulty in coming to the object of his visit.

He said: âI dare say you have guessed, Miss Waynflete, that the reason of my coming here is not merely to write a book on local customs?â

Miss Waynflete inclined her head and continued to listen.

Luke was not minded as yet to go into the full story. Miss Waynflete might be discreetâshe certainly gave him the impression of being soâbut where an elderly spinster was concerned Luke felt he could hardly rely on her resisting the temptation to confide an exciting story to one or two trusted cronies. He thereupon proposed to adopt a middle course.

âI am down here to inquire into the circumstances of the death of that poor girl, Amy Gibbs.â

Miss Waynflete said:

âYou mean you have been sent down by the police?â

âOh, noâIâm not a plainclothes dick.â He added with a slightly humorous inflection, âIâm afraid Iâm that well-known character in fiction, the private investigator.â

âI see. Then it was Bridget Conway who brought you down here?â

Luke hesitated a moment. Then he decided to let it go at that. Without going into the whole Pinkerton story, it was difficult to account for his presence. Miss Waynflete was continuing, a note of gentle admiration in her voice.

âBridget is so practicalâso efficient! Iâm afraid, if it had been left to me, I should have distrusted my own judgementâI mean, that if you are not absolutely sure of a thing, it is so difficult to commit yourself to a definite course of action.â

âBut you are sure, arenât you?â

Miss Waynflete said gravely:

âNo, indeed, Mr. Fitzwilliam. It is not a thing one can be sure about! I mean, it might all be imagination. Living alone, with no one to consult or to talk to, one might easily become melodramatic and imagine things which had no foundation in fact.â

Luke assented readily to this statement, recognizing its inherent truth, but he added gently:

âBut you are sure in your own mind?â

Even here Miss Waynflete showed a little reluctance.

âWe are not talking at cross-purposes, I hope?â she demurred.

Luke smiled.

âYou would like me to put it in plain words? Very well. You do think that Amy Gibbs was murdered?â

Honoria Waynflete flinched a little at the crudity of the language. She said:

âI donât feel at all happy about her death. Not at all happy. The whole thing is profoundly unsatisfactory in my opinion.â

Luke said patiently:

âBut you donât think her death was a natural one?â

âNo.â

âYou donât believe it was an accident?â

âIt seems to me most improbable. There are so manyââ

Luke cut her short.

âYou donât think it was suicide?â

âEmphatically not.â

âThen,â said Luke gently, âyou do think that it was murder?â

Miss Waynflete hesitated, gulped, and bravely took the plunge.

âYes,â she said. âI do!â

âGood. Now we can get on with things.â

âBut I have really no evidence on which to base that belief,â Miss Waynflete explained anxiously. âIt is entirely an idea!â

âQuite so. This is a private conversation. We are merely speaking about what we think and suspect. We suspect Amy Gibbs was murdered. Who do we think murdered her?â

Miss Waynflete shook her head. She was looking very troubled.

Luke said, watching her:

âWho had reason to murder her?â

Miss Waynflete said slowly:

âShe had had a quarrel, I believe, with her young man at the garage, Jim Harveyâa most steady, superior young man. I know one reads in the papers of young men attacking their sweethearts and dreadful things like that, but I really canât believe that Jim would do such a thing.â

Luke nodded.

Miss Waynflete went on.

âBesides, I canât believe that he would do it that way. Climb up to her window and substitute a bottle of poison for the other one with the cough mixture. I mean, that doesnât seemââ

Luke came to the rescue as she hesitated.

âItâs not the act of an angry lover? I agree. In my opinion we can wash Jim Harvey right out. Amy was killed (weâre agreeing she was killed) by someone who wanted to get her out of the way and who planned the crime carefully so that it should appear to be an accident. Now have you any ideaâany hunchâshall we put it like that?âwho that person could be?â

Miss Waynflete said:

âNoâreallyâno, I havenât the least idea!â

âSure?â

âN-noâno, indeed.â

Luke looked at her thoughtfully. The denial, he felt, had not rung quite true. He went on:

âYou know of no motive?â

âNo motive whatever.â

That was more emphatic.

âHad she been in many places in Wychwood?â

âShe was with the Hortons for a year before going to Lord Whitfield.â

Luke summed up rapidly.

âItâs like this, then. Somebody wanted that girl out of the way. From the given facts we assume thatâfirstâit was a man and a man of moderately old-fashioned outlook (as shown by the hat paint touch), and secondly that it must have been a reasonably athletic man since it is clear he must have climbed up over the outhouse to the girlâs window. You agree on those points?â

âAbsolutely,â said Miss Waynflete.

âDo you mind if I go round and have a try myself?â

âNot at all. I think it is a very good idea.â

She led him out by a side door and round to the backyard. Luke managed to reach the outhouse roof without much trouble. From there he could easily raise the sash of the girlâs window and with a slight effort hoist himself into the room. A few minutes later he rejoined Miss Waynflete on the path below, wiping his hands on his handkerchief.

âActually itâs easier than it looks,â he said. âYou want a certain amount of muscle, thatâs all. There were no signs on the sill or outside?â

Miss Waynflete shook her head.

âI donât think so. Of course the constable climbed up this way.â

âSo that if there were any traces they would be taken to be his. How the police force assists the criminal! Well, thatâs that!â

Miss Waynflete led the way back to the house.

âWas Amy Gibbs a heavy sleeper?â he asked.

Miss Waynflete replied acidly:

âIt was extremely difficult to get her up in the morning. Sometimes I would knock again and again, and call out to her before she answered. But then, you know, Mr. Fitzwilliam, thereâs a saying there are none so deaf as those who will not hear!â

âThatâs true,â acknowledged Luke. âWell, now, Miss Waynflete, we come to the question of motive. Starting with the most obvious one, do you think there was anything between that fellow Ellsworthy and the girl?â He added hastily, âThis is just your opinion Iâm asking. Only that.â

âIf itâs a matter of opinion, I would say yes.â

Luke nodded.

âIn your opinion, would the girl Amy have stuck at a spot of blackmail?â

âAgain as a matter of opinion, I should say that that was quite possible.â

âDo you happen to know if she had much money in her possession at the time of her death?â

Miss Waynflete reflected.

âI do not think so. If she had had any unusual amount I think I should have heard about it.â

âAnd she hadnât launched into any unusual extravagance before she died?â

âI donât think so.â

âThat rather militates against the blackmail theory. The victim usually pays once before he decides to proceed to extremes. Thereâs another theory. The girl might know something.â

âWhat kind of thing?â

âShe might have knowledge that was dangerous to someone here in Wychwood. Weâll take a strictly hypothetical case. Sheâd been in service in a good many houses here. Supposing she came to know of something that would damage say, someone like Mr. Abbot, professionally.â

âMr. Abbot?â

Luke said quickly:

âOr possibly some negligence or unprofessional conduct on the part of Dr. Thomas.â

Miss Waynflete began, âBut surelyââ and then stopped.

Luke went on:

âAmy Gibbs was housemaid, you said, in the Hortonsâ house at the time when Mrs. Horton died.â

There was a momentâs pause, then Miss Waynflete said:

âWill you tell me, Mr. Fitzwilliam, why you bring the Hortons into this? Mrs. Horton died over a year ago.â

âYes, and the girl Amy was there at the time.â

âI see. What have the Hortons to do with it?â

âI donât know. Iâjust wondered. Mrs. Horton died of acute gastritis, didnât she?â

âYes.â

âWas her death at all unexpected?â

Miss Waynflete said slowly:

âIt was to me. You see, she had been getting much betterâseemed well on the road to recoveryâand then she had a sudden relapse and died.â

âWas Dr. Thomas surprised?â

âI donât know. I believe he was.â

âAnd the nurses, what did they say?â

âIn my experience,â said Miss Waynflete, âhospital nurses are never surprised at any case taking a turn for the worse! It is recovery that surprises them.â

âBut her death surprised you?â Luke persisted.

âYes. I had been with her only the day before, and she had seemed very much better, talked and seemed quite cheerful.â

âWhat did she think about her own illness?â

âShe complained that the nurses were poisoning her. She had had one nurse sent away, but she said these two were just as bad!â

âI suppose you didnât pay much attention to that?â

âWell, no, I thought it was all part of the illness. And she was a very suspicious woman andâit may be unkind to say soâbut she liked to make herself important. No doctor ever understood her caseâand it was never anything simpleâit must either be some very obscure disease or else somebody was âtrying to get her out of the way.ââ

Luke tried to make his voice casual.

âShe didnât suspect her husband of trying to do her in?â

âOh, no, that idea never occurred to her!â

Miss Waynflete paused a minute, then she asked quietly:

âIs that what you think?â

Luke said slowly:

âHusbands have done that before and got away with it. Mrs. Horton from all accounts was a woman any man might have longed to be rid of! And I understand that he came into a good deal of money on her death.â

âYes, he did.â

âWhat do you think, Miss Waynflete?â

âYou want my opinion?â

âYes, just your opinion.â

Miss Waynflete said quietly and deliberately:

âIn my opinion, Major Horton was quite devoted to his wife and would never have dreamed of doing such a thing.â

Luke looked at her and received the mild amber glance in reply. It did not waver.

âWell,â he said, âI expect youâre right. Youâd probably know if it was the other way round.â

Miss Waynflete permitted herself a smile.

âWe women are good observers, you think?â

âAbsolutely first class. Would Miss Pinkerton have agreed with you, do you think?â

âI donât think I ever heard Lavinia express an opinion.â

âWhat did she think about Amy Gibbs?â

Miss Waynflete frowned a little as though thinking.

âItâs difficult to say. Lavinia had a very curious idea.â

âWhat idea?â

âShe thought that there was something odd going on here in Wychwood.â

âShe thought, for instance, that somebody pushed Tommy Pierce out of that window?â

Miss Waynflete stared at him in astonishment.

âHow did you know that, Mr. Fitzwilliam?â

âShe told me so. Not in these words, but she gave me the general idea.â

Miss Waynflete leant forward, pink with excitement.

âWhen was this, Mr. Fitzwilliam?â

Luke said quietly, âThe day she was killed. We travelled together to London.â

âWhat did she tell you exactly?â

âShe told me that there had been too many deaths in Wychwood. She mentioned Amy Gibbs, and Tommy Pierce and that man Carter. She also said that Dr. Humbleby would be the next to go.â

Miss Waynflete nodded slowly.

âDid she tell you who was responsible?â

âA man with a certain look in his eyes,â said Luke grimly. âA look you couldnât mistake, according to her. Sheâd seen that look in his eye when he was talking to Humbleby. Thatâs why she said Humbleby would be the next to go.â

âAnd he was,â whispered Miss Waynflete. âOh, dear. Oh, dear.â

She leaned back. Her eyes had a stricken look in them.

âWho was the man?â said Luke. âCome now, Miss Waynflete, you know, you must know!â

âI donât. She didnât tell me.â

âBut you can guess,â said Luke keenly. âYouâve a very shrewd idea of who was in her mind.â

Reluctantly Miss Waynflete bowed her head.

âThen tell me.â

But Miss Waynflete shook her head energetically.

âNo, indeed. Youâre asking me to do something that is highly improper! Youâre asking me to guess at what mayâonly may, mind youâhave been in the mind of a friend who is now dead. I couldnât make an accusation of that kind!â

âIt wouldnât be an accusationâonly an opinion.â

But Miss Waynflete was unexpectedly firm.

âIâve nothing to go onânothing whatever,â she said. âLavinia never actually said anything to me. I may think she had a certain ideaâbut you see I might be entirely wrong. And then I should have misled you and perhaps serious consequences might ensue. It would be very wicked and unfair of me to mention a name. And I may be quite, quite wrong! In fact, I probably am wrong!â

And Miss Waynflete set her lips firmly and glared at Luke with a grim determination.

Luke knew how to accept defeat when he met it.

He realized that Miss Waynfleteâs sense of rectitude and something else more nebulous that he could not quite place were both against him.

He accepted defeat with a good grace and rose to say good-bye. He had every intention of returning to the charge later, but he allowed no hint of that to escape into his manner.

âYou must do as you think right, of course,â he said. âThank you for the help you have given me.â

Miss Waynflete seemed to become a little less sure of herself as she accompanied him to the door.

âI hope you donât think,â she began, then changed the form of the sentence. âIf there is anything else I can do to help you, please, please let me know.â

âI will. You wonât repeat this conversation, will you?â

âOf course not. I shanât say a word to anybody.â

Luke hoped that that was true.

âGive my love to Bridget,â said Miss Waynflete. âSheâs such a handsome girl, isnât she? And clever too. IâI hope she will be happy.â

And as Luke looked a question, she added:

âMarried to Lord Whitfield, I mean. Such a great difference in age.â

âYes, there is.â

Miss Waynflete sighed.

âYou know that I was engaged to him once,â she said unexpectedly.

Luke stared in astonishment. She was nodding her head and smiling rather sadly.

âA long time ago. He was such a promising boy. I had helped him, you know, to educate himself. And I was so proud of hisâhis spirit and the way he was determined to succeed.â

She sighed again.

âMy people, of course, were scandalized. Class distinctions in those days were very strong.â She added after a minute or two, âIâve always followed his career with great interest. My people, I think, were wrong.â

Then, with a smile, she nodded a farewell and went back into the house.

Luke tried to collect his thoughts. He had placed Miss Waynflete as definitely âold.â He realized now that she was probably still under sixty. Lord Whitfield must be well over fifty. She might, perhaps, be a year or two older than he, no more.

And he was going to marry Bridget. Bridget, who was twenty-eight. Bridget, who was young and aliveâ¦.

âOh, damn,â said Luke. âDonât let me go on thinking of it. The job. Get on with the job.â

Fourteen

MEDITATIONS OF LUKE

Mrs. Church, Amy Gibbsâs aunt, was definitely an unpleasant woman. Her sharp nose, shifty eyes, and her voluble tongue all alike filled Luke with nausea.

He adopted a curt manner with her and found it unexpectedly successful.

âWhat youâve got to do,â he told her, âis to answer my questions to the best of your ability. If you hold back anything or tamper with the truth the consequences may be extremely serious to you.â

âYes, sir. I see. Iâm sure Iâm only too willing to tell you anything I can. Iâve never been mixed up with the policeââ

âAnd you donât want to be,â finished Luke. âWell, if you do as Iâve told you there wonât be any question of that. I want to know all about your late nieceâwho her friends wereâwhat money she hadâanything she said that might be out of the way. Weâll start with her friends. Who were they?â

Mrs. Church leered at him slyly out of the corner of an unpleasant eye.

âYouâll be meaning gentlemen, sir?â

âHad she any girl friends?â

âWellâhardlyânot to speak of, sir. Of course there was girls sheâd been in service withâbut Amy didnât keep up with them much. You seeââ

âShe preferred the sterner sex. Go on. Tell me about that.â

âIt was Jim Harvey down at the garage she was actually going with, sir. And a nice steady young fellow he was. âYou couldnât do better,â Iâve said to her many a timeââ

Luke cut in:

âAnd the others?â

Again he got the sly look.

âI expect youâre thinking of the gentleman who keeps the curiosity shop? I didnât like it myself, and I tell you that straight, sir! Iâve always been respectable and I donât hold with carrying on! But with what girls are nowadays itâs no use speaking to them. They go their own way. And often they live to regret it.â

âDid Amy live to regret it?â asked Luke bluntly.

âNo, sirâthat I do not think.â

âShe went to consult Dr. Thomas on the day of her death. That wasnât the reason?â

âNo, sir, Iâm nearly sure it wasnât. Oh! Iâd take my oath on it! Amy had been feeling ill and out of sorts, but it was just a bad cough and cold she had. It wasnât anything of the kind you suggest, Iâm sure it wasnât, sir.â

âIâll take your word for that. How far had matters gone between her and Ellsworthy?â

Mrs. Church leered.

âI couldnât exactly say, sir. Amy wasnât one for confiding in me.â

Luke said curtly:

âBut theyâd gone pretty far?â

Mrs. Church said smoothly:

âThe gentleman hasnât got at all a good reputation here, sir. All sorts of goings on. And friends down from town and many very queer happenings. Up in the Witchesâ Meadow in the middle of the night.â

âDid Amy go?â

âShe did go once, sir, I believe. Stayed out all night and his lordship found out about it (she was at the Manor then) and spoke to her pretty sharp, and she sauced him back and he gave her notice for it, which was only to be expected.â

âDid she ever talk to you much about what went on in the places she was in?â

Mrs. Church shook her head.

âNot very much, sir. More interested in her own doings, she was.â

âShe was with Major and Mrs. Horton for a while, wasnât she?â

âNearly a year, sir.â

âWhy did she leave?â

âJust to better herself. There was a place going at the Manor, and of course the wages was better there.â

Luke nodded.

âShe was with the Hortons at the time of Mrs. Hortonâs death?â he asked.

âYes, sir. She grumbled a lot about thatâwith two hospital nurses in the house, and all the extra work nurses make, and the trays and one thing and another.â

âShe wasnât with Mr. Abbot, the lawyer, at all?â

âNo, sir. Mr. Abbot has a man and wife do for him. Amy did go to see him once at his office, but I donât know why.â

Luke stored away that small fact as possibly relevant. Since Mrs. Church, however, clearly knew nothing more about it, he did not pursue the subject.

âAny other gentlemen in the town who were friends of hers?â

âNothing that Iâd care to repeat.â

âCome now, Mrs. Church. I want the truth, remember.â

âIt wasnât a gentleman, sir, very far from it. Demeaning herself, thatâs what it was, and so I told her.â

âDo you mind speaking more plainly, Mrs. Church?â

âYouâll have heard of the Seven Stars, sir? Not a good-class house, and the landlord, Harry Carter, a low-class fellow and half-seas over most of the time.â

âAmy was a friend of his?â

âShe went a walk with him once or twice. I donât believe there was more in it than that. I donât indeed, sir.â

Luke nodded thoughtfully and changed the subject.

âDid you know a small boy, Tommy Pierce?â

âWhat? Mrs. Pierceâs son? Of course I did. Always up to mischief.â

âHe ever see much of Amy?â

âOh, no, sir. Amy would soon send him off with a flea in his ear if he tried any of his tricks on her.â

âWas she happy in her place with Miss Waynflete?â

âShe found it a bit dull, sir, and the pay wasnât high. But of course after sheâd been dismissed the way she was from Ashe Manor, it wasnât so easy to get another good place.â

âShe could have gone away, I suppose?â

âTo London, you mean?â

âOr some other part of the country?â

Mrs. Church shook her head. She said slowly:

âAmy didnât want to leave Wychwoodânot as things were.â

âHow do you mean, as things were?â

âWhat with Jim and the gentleman at the curio shop.â

Luke nodded thoughtfully. Mrs. Church went on:

âMiss Waynflete is a very nice lady, but very particular about brass and silver and everything being dusted and the mattresses turned. Amy wouldnât have put up with the fussing if she hadnât been enjoying herself in other ways.â

âI can imagine that,â said Luke drily.

He turned things over in his mind. He could see no further questions to ask. He was fairly certain that he had extracted all that Mrs. Church knew. He decided on one last tentative attack.

âI dare say you can guess the reason of all these questions. The circumstances of Amyâs death were rather mysterious. Weâre not entirely satisfied as to its being an accident. If not, you realize what it must have been.â

Mrs. Church said with a certain ghoulish relish:

âFoul play!â

âQuite so. Now supposing your niece did meet with foul play, who do you think is likely to be responsible for her death?â

Mrs. Church wiped her hands on her apron.

âThereâd be a reward, as likely as not, for setting the police on the right track,â she inquired meaningly.

âThere might be,â said Luke.

âI wouldnât like to say anything definite.â Mrs. Church passed a hungry tongue over her thin lips. âBut the gentleman at the curio shop is a queer one. Youâll remember the Castor case, sirâand how they found little bits of the poor girl pinned up all over Castorâs seaside bungalow and how they found five or six other poor girls heâd served the same way. Maybe this Mr. Ellsworthy is one of that kind?â

âThatâs your suggestion, is it?â

âWell, it might be that way, sir, mightnât it?â

Luke admitted that it might. Then he said:

âWas Ellsworthy away from here on the afternoon of Derby Day? Thatâs a very important point.â

Mrs. Church stared.

âDerby Day?â

âYesâa fortnight ago last Wednesday.â

She shook her head.

âReally, I couldnât say as to that. He usually was away on Wednesdaysâwent up to town as often as not. Itâs early closing Wednesday, you see.â

âOh,â said Luke. âEarly closing.â

He took his leave of Mrs. Church, disregarding her insinuations that her time had been valuable and that she was therefore entitled to monetary compensation. He found himself disliking Mrs. Church intensely. Nevertheless the conversation he had had with her, though not strikingly illuminative in any way, had provided several suggestive small points.

He went over things carefully in his mind.

Yes, it still boiled down to those four people. Thomas, Abbot, Horton and Ellsworthy. The attitude of Miss Waynflete seemed to him to prove that.

Her distress and reluctance to mention a name. Surely that meant, that must mean, that the person in question was someone of standing in Wychwood, someone whom a chance insinuation might definitely injure. It tallied, too, with Miss Pinkertonâs determination to take her suspicions to headquarters. The local police would ridicule her theory.

It was not a case of the butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker. It was not a case of a mere garage mechanic. The person in question was one against whom an accusation of murder was a fantastic and, moreover, a serious matter.

There were four possible candidates. It was up to him to go carefully once more into the case against each one and make up his own mind.

First to examine the reluctance of Miss Waynflete. She was a conscientious and scrupulous person. She believed that she knew the man whom Miss Pinkerton had suspected, but it was, she pointed out, only a belief on her part. It was possible that she was mistaken.

Who was the person in Miss Waynfleteâs mind?

Miss Waynflete was distressed lest an accusation by her might injure an innocent man. Therefore the object of her suspicions must be a man of high standing, generally liked and respected by the community.

Therefore, Luke argued, that automatically barred out Ellsworthy. He was practically a stranger to Wychwood, his local reputation was bad, not good. Luke did not believe that, if Ellsworthy was the person in Miss Waynfleteâs mind, she would have had any objection to mentioning him. Therefore as far as Miss Waynflete was concerned, wash out Ellsworthy.

Now as to the others. Luke believed that he could also eliminate Major Horton. Miss Waynflete had rebutted with some warmth the suggestion that Horton might have poisoned his wife. If she had suspected him of later crimes, she would hardly have been so positive about his innocence of the death of Mrs. Horton.

That left Dr. Thomas and Mr. Abbot. Both of them fulfilled the necessary requirements. They were men of high professional standing against whom no word of scandal had ever been uttered. They were, on the whole, both popular and well liked, and were known as men of integrity and rectitude.

Luke proceeded to another aspect of the matter. Could he, himself, eliminate Ellsworthy and Horton? Immediately he shook his head. It was not so simple. Miss Pinkerton had knownâreally knownâwho the man was. That was proved, in the first case by her own death, and in the second case, by the death of Dr. Humbleby. But Miss Pinkerton had never actually mentioned a name to Honoria Waynflete. Therefore, though Miss Waynflete thought she knew, she might quite easily be wrong. We often know what other people are thinkingâbut sometimes we find out that we did not know after allâand have, in fact, made an egregious mistake!

Therefore the four candidates were still in the field. Miss Pinkerton was dead and could give no further assistance. It was up to Luke to do what he had done before, on the day after he came to Wychwood, weigh up the evidence and consider the probabilities.

He began with Ellsworthy. On the face of it Ellsworthy was the likeliest starter. He was abnormal and had possibly a perverted personality. He might quite easily be a âlust killer.â

âLetâs take it this way,â said Luke to himself. âSuspect everyone in turn. Ellsworthy, for instance. Letâs say heâs the killer! For the moment, letâs take it quite definitely that I know that. Now weâll take the possible victims in chronological order. First, Mrs. Horton. Difficult to see what motive Ellsworthy could have had for doing away with Mrs. Horton. But there was a means. Horton spoke of some quack nostrum that she got from him and took. Some poison like arsenic could have been given that way. The question isâWhy?

âNow the others. Amy Gibbs. Why did Ellsworthy kill Amy Gibbs? The obvious reasonâshe was being a nuisance! Threatened an action for breach of promise, perhaps? Or had she assisted at a midnight orgy? Did she threaten to talk? Lord Whitfield has a good deal of influence in Wychwood and Lord Whitfield, according to Bridget, is a very moral man. He might have taken up the matter against Ellsworthy if the latter had been up to anything particularly obscene. Soâexit Amy. Not, I think, a sadistic murder. The method employed is against that.

âWhoâs nextâCarter? Why Carter? Unlikely he would know about midnight orgies (or did Amy tell him?). Was the pretty daughter mixed up in it? Did Ellsworthy start making love to her? (Must have a look at Lucy Carter.) Perhaps he was just abusive to Ellsworthy, and Ellsworthy in his catlike feline way, resented it. If heâd already committed one or two murders he would be getting sufficiently callous to contemplate a killing for a very slight reason.

âNow Tommy Pierce. Why did Ellsworthy kill Tommy Pierce? Easy. Tommy had assisted at a midnight ritual of some kind. Tommy threatened to talk about it. Perhaps Tommy was talking about it. Shut Tommyâs mouth.

âDr. Humbleby. Why did Ellsworthy kill Dr. Humbleby? Thatâs the easiest of the lot! Humbleby was a doctor and heâd noticed that Ellsworthyâs mental balance was none too good. Probably was getting ready to do something about it. So Humbleby was doomed. Thereâs a stumbling block there in the method. How did Ellsworthy ensure that Humbleby should die of blood poisoning? Or did Humbleby die of something else? Was the poisoned finger a coincidence?

âLast of all, Miss Pinkerton. Wednesdayâs early closing. Ellsworthy might have gone up to town that day. Has he a car, I wonder? Never seen him in one, but that proves nothing. He knew sheâd suspected him and he was going to take no chances of Scotland Yard believing her story. Perhaps they already knew something about him then?

âThatâs the case against Ellsworthy! Now what is there for him? Well, for one thing, heâs certainly not the man Miss Waynflete thought Miss Pinkerton meant. For another, he doesnât fitâquiteâwith my own vague impression. When she was talking I got a picture of a manâand it wasnât a man like Ellsworthy. The impression she gave me was of a very normal manâoutwardly, that isâthe kind of man nobody would suspect. Ellsworthy is the kind of man you would suspect. No, I got more the impression of a man likeâDr. Thomas.

âThomas, now. What about Thomas? I wiped him clean off the list after Iâd had a chat with him. Nice unassuming fellow. But the whole point of this murdererâunless Iâve got the whole thing wrongâis that he would be a nice unassuming fellow. The last person youâd think ever would be a murderer! Which, of course, is exactly what one feels about Thomas.

âNow then, letâs go through it all again. Why did Dr. Thomas kill Amy Gibbs? Really, it seems most unlikely that he did! But she did go to see him that day, and he did give her that bottle of cough mixture. Suppose that was really oxalic acid. That would be very simple and clever! Who was called in, I wonder, when she was found poisonedâHumbleby or Thomas? If it was Thomas he might just come along with an old bottle of hat paint in his pocket, put it down unobtrusively on the tableâand take off both bottles to be analysed as bold as brass! Something like that. It could be done if you were cool enough!

âTommy Pierce? Again I canât see a likely motive. Thatâs the difficulty with our Dr. Thomasâmotive. Thereâs not even a crazy motive! Same with Carter. Why should Dr. Thomas want to dispose of Carter? One can only assume that Amy, Tommy and the publican all knew something about Dr. Thomas that it was unhealthy to know. Ah! Supposing now that that something was the death of Mrs. Horton. Dr. Thomas attended her. And she died of a rather unexpected relapse. He could have managed that easily enough. And Amy Gibbs, remember, was in the house at the time. She might have seen or heard something. That would account for her. Tommy Pierce, we have it on good authority, was a particularly inquisitive small boy. He may have got wise to something. Canât get Carter in. Amy Gibbs told him something. He may have repeated it in his cups, and Thomas may have decided to silence him too. All this, of course, is pure conjecture. But what else can one do?

âNow Humbleby. Ah! At last we come to a perfectly plausible murder. Adequate motive and ideal means! If Dr. Thomas couldnât give his partner blood poisoning, no one could! He could reinfect the wound every time he dressed it! I wish the earlier killings were a little more plausible.

âMiss Pinkerton? Sheâs more difficult, but there is one definite fact. Dr. Thomas was not in Wychwood for at least a good part of the day. He gave out that he was attending a confinement. That may be. But the fact remains that he was away from Wychwood in a car.

âIs there anything else? Yes, just one thing. The look he gave me when I went away from the house the other day. Superior, condescending, the smile of a man whoâd just led me up the garden path and knew it.â

Luke sighed, shook his head and went on with his reasoning.

âAbbot? Heâs the right kind of man too. Normal, well-to-do, respected, last sort of man, etc., etc. Heâs conceited, too, and confident. Murderers usually are! Theyâve got overweening conceit! Always think theyâll get away with it. Amy Gibbs paid him a visit once. Why? What did she want to see him for? To get legal advice? Why? Or was it a personal matter? Thereâs that mention of âa letter from a ladyâ that Tommy saw. Was that letter from Amy Gibbs? Or was it a letter written by Mrs. Hortonâa letter, perhaps, that Amy Gibbs had got hold of? What other lady could there be writing to Mr. Abbot on a matter so private that he loses control when the office boy inadvertently sees it? What else can we think of re Amy Gibbs? The hat paint? Yes, right kind of old-fashioned touchâmen like Abbot are usually well behind the times where women are concerned. The old-world style of philanderer! Tommy Pierce? Obviousâon account of the letter (really, it must have been a very damning letter!). Carter? Well, there was trouble about Carterâs daughter. Abbot wasnât going to have a scandalâa low-down ruffianly half-wit like Carter dare to threaten him! He who had got away with two clever killings! Away with Mr. Carter! Dark night and a well-directed push. Really, this killing business is almost too easy.

âHave I got the Abbot mentality? I think so. Nasty look in an old ladyâs eye. Sheâs thinking things about himâ¦Then, row with Humbleby. Old Humbleby daring to set himself against Abbot, the clever solicitor and murderer. The old foolâhe little knows whatâs in store for him! Heâs for it! Daring to browbeat me!

âAnd thenâwhat? Turning to catch Lavinia Pinkertonâs eyes. And his own eyes falterâshow a consciousness of guilt. He who was boasting of being unsuspected has definitely aroused suspicion. Miss Pinkerton knows his secretâ¦She knows what he has doneâ¦Yes, but she canât have proof. But suppose she goes about looking for itâ¦Suppose she talksâ¦Supposeâ¦Heâs quite a shrewd judge of character. He guesses what she will finally do. If she goes with this tale of hers to Scotland Yard they may believe herâthey may start making inquiries. Something pretty desperate has got to be done. Has Abbot got a car or did he hire one in London? Anyway, he was away from here on Derby Dayâ¦.â

Again Luke paused. He was so entering into the spirit of the thing that he found it hard to make a transition from one suspect to another. He had to wait a minute before he could force himself into the mood where he could visualize Major Horton as a successful murderer.

âHorton murdered his wife. Letâs start with that! He had ample provocation and he gained considerably by her death. In order to carry it off successfully he had to make a good show of devotion. Heâs had to keep that up. Sometimes, shall we say, he overdoes it a bit?

âVery good, one murder successfully accomplished. Whoâs the next? Amy Gibbs. Yes, perfectly credible. Amy was in the house. She may have seen somethingâthe major administering a soothing cup of beef tea or gruel? She maynât have realized the point of what she saw till some time later. The hat paint trick is the sort of thing that would occur to the major quite naturallyâa very masculine man with little knowledge of womenâs fripperies.

âAmy Gibbs all serene and accounted for.

âThe drunken Carter? Same suggestion as before. Amy told him something. Another straightforward murder.

âNow Tommy Pierce. Weâve got to fall back on his inquisitive nature. I suppose the letter in Abbotâs office couldnât have been a complaint from Mrs. Horton that her husband was trying to poison her? Thatâs a wild suggestion, but it might be so. Anyway, the major becomes alive to the fact that Tommy is a menace, so Tommy joins Amy and Carter. All quite simple and straightforward and according to Cocker. Easy to kill? My God, yes.

âBut now we come to something rather more difficult. Humbleby! Motive? Very obscure. Humbleby was attending Mrs. Horton originally. Did he get puzzled by the illness, and did Horton influence his wife to change to the younger, more unsuspicious doctor? But if so, what made Humbleby a danger so long after? Difficult, thatâ¦The manner of his death, too. A poisoned finger. Doesnât connect up with the major.

âMiss Pinkerton? Thatâs perfectly possible. He has a car. I saw it. And he was away from Wychwood that day, supposedly gone to the Derby. It might beâyes. Is Horton a cold-blooded killer? Is he? Is he? I wish I knewâ¦.â

Luke stared ahead of him. His brow was puckered with thought.

âItâs one of themâ¦I donât think itâs Ellsworthyâbut it might be! Heâs the most obvious one! Thomas is wildly unlikelyâif it werenât for the manner of Humblebyâs death. That blood poisoning definitely points to a medical murderer! It could be Abbotâthereâs not as much evidence against him as against the othersâbut I can see him in the part, somehowâ¦Yesâhe fits as the others donât. And it could be Horton! Bullied by his wife for years, feeling his insignificanceâyes, it could be! But Miss Waynflete doesnât think it is, and sheâs no foolâand she knows the place and the people in itâ¦.

âWhich does she suspect, Abbot or Thomas? It must be one of these twoâ¦If I tackled her outrightââWhich of them is it?ââIâd get it out of her then, perhaps.

âBut even then she might be wrong. Thereâs no way of proving her rightâlike Miss Pinkerton proved herself. More evidenceâthatâs what I want. If there were to be one more caseâjust one moreâthen Iâd knowââ

He stopped himself with a start.

âMy God,â he said under his breath. âWhat Iâm asking for is another murderâ¦.â

Fifteen

IMPROPER CONDUCT OF A CHAUFFEUR

In the bar of the Seven Stars Luke drank his pint and felt somewhat embarrassed. The stare of half a dozen bucolic pairs of eyes followed his least movement, and conversation had come to a standstill upon his entrance. Luke essayed a few comments of general interest such as the crops, the state of the weather, and football coupons, but to none did he get any response.

He was reduced to gallantry. The fine-looking girl behind the counter with her black hair and red cheeks he rightly judged to be Miss Lucy Carter.

His advances were received in a pleasant spirit. Miss Carter duly giggled and said, âGo on with you! Iâm sure you donât think nothing of the kind! Thatâs telling!ââand other such rejoinders. But the performance was clearly mechanical.

Luke, seeing no advantage to be gained by remaining, finished his beer and departed. He walked along the path to where the river was spanned by a footbridge. He was standing looking at this when a quavering voice behind him said:

âThatâs it, mister, thatâs where old Harry went over.â

Luke turned to see one of his late fellow drinkers, one who had been particularly unresponsive to the topic of crops, weather and coupons. He was now clearly about to enjoy himself as a guide to the macabre.

âWent over into the mud he did,â said the ancient labourer. âRight into the mud and stuck in it head downwards.â

âOdd he should have fallen off here,â said Luke.

âHe were drunk, he were,â said the rustic indulgently.

âYes, but he must have come this way drunk many times before.â

âMost every night,â said the other. âAlways in liquor, Harry were.â

âPerhaps someone pushed him over,â said Luke, making the suggestion in a casual fashion.

âThey might of,â the rustic agreed. âBut I donât know whoâd go for to do that,â he added.

âHe might have made a few enemies. He was fairly abusive when he was drunk, wasnât he?â

âHis language was a treat to hear! Didnât mince his words, Harry didnât. But no one would go for to push a man whatâs drunk.â

Luke did not combat this statement. It was evidently regarded as wildly unsporting for advantage to be taken of a manâs state of intoxication. The rustic had sounded quite shocked at the idea.

âWell,â he said vaguely, âit was a sad business.â

âNone so sad for his missus,â said the old man. âReckon her and Lucy havenât no call to be sad about it.â

âThere may be other people who are glad to have him out of the way.â

The old man was vague about that.

âMaybe,â he said. âBut he didnât mean no harm, Harry didnât.â

On this epitaph for the late Mr. Carter, they parted.

Luke bent his steps towards the old Hall. The library transacted its business in the two front rooms. Luke passed on to the back through a door which was labelled Museum. There he moved from case to case, studying the not very inspiring exhibits. Some Roman pottery and coins. Some South Sea curiosities, a Malay headdress. Various Indian gods âpresented by Major Horton,â together with a large and malevolent-looking Buddha, and a case of doubtful-looking Egyptian beads.

Luke wandered out again into the hall. There was no one about. He went quietly up the stairs. There was a room with magazines and papers there, and a room filled with nonfiction books.

Luke went a storey higher. Here were rooms filled with what he designated to himself as junk. Stuffed birds removed from the museum owing to the moth having attacked them, stacks of torn magazines and a room whose shelves were covered with out-of-date works of fiction and childrenâs books.

Luke approached the window. Here it must have been that Tommy Price had sat, possibly whistling and occasionally rubbing a pane of glass vigorously when he heard anyone coming.

Somebody had come in. Tommy had shown his zealâsitting half out of the window and polishing with zest. And then that somebody had come up to him, and while talking, had given a sudden sharp push.

Luke turned away. He walked down the stairs and stood a minute or two in the hall. Nobody had noticed him come in. Nobody had seen him go upstairs.

âAnyone might have done it!â said Luke. âEasiest thing in the world.â

He heard footsteps coming from the direction of the library proper. Since he was an innocent man with no objection to being seen, he could remain where he was. If he had not wanted to be seen, how easy just to step back inside the door of the museum room!

Miss Waynflete came out from the library, a little pile of books under her arm. She was pulling on her gloves. She looked very happy and busy. When she saw him her face lit up and she exclaimed:

âOh, Mr. Fitzwilliam, have you been looking at the museum? Iâm afraid there isnât very much there, really. Lord Whitfield is talking of getting us some really interesting exhibits.â

âReally?â

âYes, something modern, you know, and up-to-date. Like they have at the Science Museum in London. He suggests a model aeroplane and a locomotive and some chemical things too.â

âThat would, perhaps, brighten things up.â

âYes, I donât think a museum should deal solely with the past, do you?â

âPerhaps not.â

âThen some food exhibits, tooâcalories and vitaminsâall that sort of thing. Lord Whitfield is so keen on the Greater Fitness Campaign.â

âSo he was saying the other night.â

âItâs the thing at present, isnât it? Lord Whitfield was telling me how heâd been to the Wellerman Instituteâand seen such a lot of germs and cultures and bacteriaâit quite made me shiver. And he told me all about mosquitoes and sleeping sickness and something about a liver fluke that Iâm afraid was a little too difficult for me.â

âIt was probably too difficult for Lord Whitfield,â said Luke cheerfully. âIâll bet he got it all wrong! Youâve got a much clearer brain than he has, Miss Waynflete.â

Miss Waynflete said sedately:

âThatâs very nice of you, Mr. Fitzwilliam, but Iâm afraid women are never quite such deep thinkers as men.â

Luke repressed a desire to criticize adversely Lord Whitfieldâs processes of thought. Instead he said:

âI did look into the museum but afterwards I went up to have a look at the top windows.â

âYou mean where Tommyââ Miss Waynflete shivered. âItâs really very horrible.â

âYes, itâs not a nice thought. Iâve spent about an hour with Mrs. ChurchâAmyâs auntânot a nice woman!â

âNot at all.â

âI had to take rather a strong line with her,â said Luke. âI fancy she thinks Iâm a kind of super policeman.â

He stopped as he noted a sudden change of expression on Miss Waynfleteâs face.

âOh, Mr. Fitzwilliam, do you think that was wise?â

Luke said:

âI donât really know. I think it was inevitable. The book story was wearing thinâI canât get much further on that. I had to ask the kind of questions that were directly to the point.â

Miss Waynflete shook her headâthe troubled expression still on her face.

âIn a place like this, you seeâeverything gets round so fast.â

âYou mean that everybody will say âthere goes the tecâ as I walk down the street? I donât think that really matters now. In fact, I may get more that way.â

âI wasnât thinking of that.â Miss Waynflete sounded a little breathless. âWhat I meant wasâthat heâll know. Heâll realize that youâre on his track.â

Luke said slowly:

âI suppose he will.â

Miss Waynflete said:

âBut donât you seeâthatâs horribly dangerous. Horribly!â

âYou meanââ Luke grasped her point at last, âyou mean that the killer will have a crack at me?â

âYes.â

âFunny,â said Luke. âI never thought of that! I believe youâre right, though. Well, that might be the best thing that could happen.â

Miss Waynflete said earnestly:

âI donât think you realize that heâsâheâs a very clever man. Heâs cautious, too! And remember, heâs got a great deal of experienceâperhaps more than we know.â

âYes,â said Luke thoughtfully. âThatâs probably true.â

Miss Waynflete exclaimed:

âOh, I donât like it! Really, I feel quite alarmed!â

Luke said gently:

âYou neednât worry. I shall be very much on my guard I can assure you. You see Iâve narrowed the possibilities down pretty closely. Iâve an idea at any rate who the killer might beâ¦.â

She looked up sharply.

Luke came a step nearer. He lowered his voice to a whisper:

âMiss Waynflete, if I were to ask you which of two men you considered the most likelyâDr. Thomas or Mr. Abbotâwhat would you say?â

âOhââ said Miss Waynflete. Her hand flew to her breast. She stepped back. Her eyes met Lukeâs in an expression that puzzled him. They showed impatience and something closely allied to it that he could not quite place.

She said:

âI canât say anythingââ

She turned away abruptly with a curious soundâhalf a sigh, half a sob.

Luke resigned himself.

âAre you going home?â he asked.

âNo, I was going to take these books to Mrs. Humbleby. That lies on your way back to the Manor. We might go part of the way together.â

âThat will be very nice,â said Luke.

They went down the steps, turned to the left skirting the village green.

Luke looked back at the stately lines of the house they had left.

âIt must have been a lovely house in your fatherâs day,â he said.

Miss Waynflete sighed.

âYes, we were all very happy there. I am so thankful it hasnât been pulled down. So many of the old houses are going.â

âI know. Itâs sad.â

âAnd really the new ones arenât nearly as well built.â

âI doubt if they will stand the test of time as well.â

âBut of course,â said Miss Waynflete, âthe new ones are convenientâso labour-saving, and not such big draughty passages to scrub.â

Luke assented.

When they arrived at the gate of Dr. Humblebyâs house, Miss Waynflete hesitated and said:

âSuch a beautiful evening. I think, if you donât mind, I will come a little farther. I am enjoying the air.â

Somewhat surprised, Luke expressed pleasure politely. It was hardly what he would have described as a beautiful evening. There was a strong wind blowing, turning back the leaves viciously on the trees. A storm, he thought, might come at any minute.

Miss Waynflete, however, clutching her hat with one hand, walked by his side with every appearance of enjoyment, talking as she went in little gasps.

It was a somewhat lonely lane they were taking, since from Dr. Humblebyâs house the shortest way to Ashe Manor was not by the main road, but by a side lane which led to one of the back gates of the Manor House. This gate was not of the same ornate ironwork but had two handsome gate pillars surmounted by two vast pink pineapples. Why pineapples, Luke had been unable to discover! But he gathered that to Lord Whitfield pineapples spelt distinction and good taste.

As they approached the gate the sound of voices raised in anger came to them. A moment later they came in sight of Lord Whitfield confronting a young man in chauffeurâs uniform.

âYouâre fired,â Lord Whitfield was shouting. âDâyou hear? Youâre fired.â

âIf youâd overlook it, mâlordâjust this once.â

âNo, I wonât overlook it! Taking my car out. My carâand whatâs more youâve been drinkingâyes, you have, donât deny it! Iâve made it clear there are three things I wonât have on my estateâoneâs drunkenness, anotherâs immorality and the otherâs impertinence.â

Though the man was not actually drunk, he had had enough to loosen his tongue. His manner changed.

âYou wonât have this and you wonât have that, you old bastard! Your estate! Think we donât all know your father kept a boot-shop down here? Makes us laugh ourselves sick, it does, seeing you strutting about as cock of the walk! Who are you, Iâd like to know? Youâre no better than I amâthatâs what you are.â

Lord Whitfield turned purple.

âHow dare you speak to me like that? How dare you?â

The young man took a threatening step forward.

âIf you wasnât such a miserable potbellied little swine Iâd give you a sock on the jawâyes, I would.â

Lord Whitfield hastily retreated a step, tripped over a root and went down in a sitting position.

Luke had come up.

âGet out of here,â he said roughly to the chauffeur.

The latter regained sanity. He looked frightened.

âIâm sorry, sir. I donât know what came over me, Iâm sure.â

âA couple of glasses too much, I should say,â said Luke.

He assisted Lord Whitfield to his feet.

âIâI beg your pardon, mâlord,â stammered the man.

âYouâll be sorry for this, Rivers,â said Lord Whitfield.

His voice trembled with intense feeling.

The man hesitated a minute, then shambled away slowly.

Lord Whitfield exploded:

âColossal impertinence! To me. Speaking to me like that. Something very serious will happen to that man! No respectâno proper sense of his station in life. When I think of what I do for these peopleâgood wagesâevery comfortâa pension when they retire. The ingratitudeâthe base ingratitudeâ¦.â

He choked with excitement, then perceived Miss Waynflete who was standing silently by.

âIs that you, Honoria? Iâm deeply distressed you should have witnessed such a disgraceful scene. That manâs languageââ

âIâm afraid he wasnât quite himself, Lord Whitfield,â said Miss Waynflete primly.

âHe was drunk, thatâs what he was, drunk!â

âJust a bit lit up,â said Luke.

âDo you know what he did?â Lord Whitfield looked from one to the other of them. âTook out my carâmy car! Thought I shouldnât be back so soon. Bridget drove me over to Lyne in the two-seater. And this fellow had the impertinence to take a girlâLucy Carter, I believeâout in my car!â

Miss Waynflete said gently:

âA most improper thing to do.â

Lord Whitfield seemed a little comforted.

âYes, wasnât it?â

âBut Iâm sure heâll regret it.â

âI shall see that he does!â

âYouâve dismissed him,â Miss Waynflete pointed out.

Lord Whitfield shook his head.

âHeâll come to a bad end, that fellow.â

He threw back his shoulders.

âCome up to the house, Honoria, and have a glass of sherry.â

âThank you, Lord Whitfield, but I must go to Mrs. Humbleby with these books. Good night, Mr. Fitzwilliam. Youâll be quite all right now.â

She gave him a smiling nod and walked briskly away. It was so much the attitude of a nurse who delivers a child at a party that Luke caught his breath as a sudden idea struck him. Was it possible that Miss Waynflete had accompanied him solely in order to protect him? The idea seemed ludicrous, butâ

Lord Whitfieldâs voice interrupted his meditations.

âVery capable woman, Honoria Waynflete.â

âVery, I should think.â

Lord Whitfield began to walk towards the house. He moved rather stiffly and his hand went to his posterior and rubbed it gingerly.

Suddenly he chuckled.

âI was engaged to Honoria onceâyears ago. She was a nice-looking girlânot so skinny as she is today. Seems funny to think of now. Her people were the nobs of this place.â

âYes?â

Lord Whitfield ruminated:

âOld Colonel Waynflete bossed the show. One had to come out and touch oneâs cap pretty sharp. One of the old school he was, and proud as Lucifer.â

He chuckled again.

âThe fat was in the fire all right when Honoria announced she was going to marry me! Called herself a Radical, she did. Very earnest. Was all for abolishing class distinctions. She was a serious kind of girl.â

âSo her family broke up the romance?â

Lord Whitfield rubbed his nose.

âWellânot exactly. Matter of fact we had a bit of a row over something. Blinking bird she hadâone of those beastly twittering canariesâalways hated themâbad businessâwrung its neck. Wellâno good dwelling on all that now. Letâs forget it.â

He shook his shoulders like a man who throws off an unpleasant memory.

Then he said, rather jerkily:

âDonât think sheâs ever forgiven me. Well, perhaps itâs only naturalâ¦.â

âI think sheâs forgiven you all right,â said Luke.

Lord Whitfield brightened up.

âDo you? Glad of that. You know I respect Honoria. Capable woman and a lady! That still counts even in these days. She runs that library business very well.â

He looked up and his voice changed.

âHallo,â he said. âHere comes Bridget.â

Sixteen

THE PINEAPPLE

Luke felt a tightening of his muscles as Bridget approached.

He had had no word alone with her since the day of the tennis party. By mutual consent they had avoided each other. He stole a glance at her now.

She looked provokingly calm, cool and indifferent.

She said lightly:

âI was beginning to wonder what on earth had become of you, Gordon?â

Lord Whitfield grunted:

âHad a bit of a dust up! That fellow Rivers had the impertinence to take the Rolls out this afternoon.â

âLÃ¨se-majestÃ©,â said Bridget.

âItâs no good making a joke out of it, Bridget. The thingâs serious. He took a girl out.â

âI donât suppose it would have given him any pleasure to go solemnly for a drive by himself!â

Lord Whitfield drew himself up.

âOn my estate Iâll have decent moral behaviour.â

âIt isnât actually immoral to take a girl joyriding.â

âIt is when itâs my car.â

âThat, of course, is worse than immorality! It practically amounts to blasphemy. But you canât cut out the sex stuff altogether, Gordon. The moon is at the full and itâs actually Midsummer Eve.â

âIs it, by Jove?â said Luke.

Bridget threw him a glance.

âThat seems to interest you?â

âIt does.â

Bridget turned back to Lord Whitfield.

âThree extraordinary people have arrived at the Bells and Motley. Item one, a man with shorts, spectacles and a lovely plum-coloured silk shirt! Item two, a female with no eyebrows, dressed in a peplum, a pound of assorted sham Egyptian beads and sandals. Item three, a fat man in a lavender suit and co-respondent shoes. I suspect them of being friends of our Mr. Ellsworthy! Says the gossip writer: âSomeone has whispered that there will be gay doings in the Witchesâ Meadow tonight.ââ

Lord Whitfield turned purple and said:

âI wonât have it!â

âYou canât help it, darling. The Witchesâ Meadow is public property.â

âI wonât have this irreligious mumbo jumbo going on down here! Iâll expose it in Scandals.â He paused, then said, âRemind me to make a note about that and get Siddely on to it. I must go up to town tomorrow.â

âLord Whitfieldâs campaign against witchcraft,â said Bridget flippantly. âMedieval superstitions still rife in quiet country village.â

Lord Whitfield stared at her with a puzzled frown, then he turned and went into the house.

Luke said pleasantly:

âYou must do your stuff better than that, Bridget!â

âWhat do you mean?â

âIt would be a pity if you lost your job! That hundred thousand isnât yours yet. Nor are the diamonds and pearls. I should wait until after the marriage ceremony to exercise your sarcastic gifts if I were you.â

Her glance met his coolly.

âYou are so thoughtful, dear Luke. Itâs kind of you to take my future so much to heart!â

âKindness and consideration have always been my strong points.â

âI hadnât noticed it.â

âNo? You surprise me.â

Bridget twitched the leaf off a creeper. She said:

âWhat have you been doing today?â

âThe usual spot of sleuthing.â

âAny results?â

âYes and no, as the politicians say. By the way, have you got any tools in the house?â

âI expect so. What kind of tools?â

âOh, any handy little gadgets. Perhaps I could inspect some.â

Ten minutes later Luke had made a selection from a cupboard shelf.

âThat little lot will do nicely,â he said, slapping the pocket in which he had stowed them away.

âAre you thinking of doing a spot of forcing and entering?â

âMaybe.â

âYouâre very uncommunicative on the subject.â

âWell, after all, the situation bristles with difficulties. Iâm in the hell of a position. After our little knock up on Saturday I suppose I ought to clear out of here.â

âTo behave as a perfect gentleman, you should.â

âBut since Iâm convinced that I am pretty hot on the trail of a homicidal maniac, Iâm more or less forced to remain. If you could think of any convincing reason for me to leave here and take up my quarters at the Bells and Motley, for goodnessâ sake trot it out.â

Bridget shook her head.

âThatâs not feasibleâyou being a cousin and all that. Besides, the inn is full of Mr. Ellsworthyâs friends. They only run to three guest rooms.â

âSo I am forced to remain, painful as it must be for you.â

Bridget smiled sweetly at him.

âNot at all. I can always do with a few scalps to dangle.â

âThat,â said Luke appreciatively, âwas a particularly dirty crack. What I admire about you, Bridget, is that you have practically no instincts of kindness. Well, well. The rejected lover will now go and change for dinner.â

The evening passed uneventfully. Luke won Lord Whitfieldâs approval even more deeply than before by the apparent absorbed interest with which he listened to the otherâs nightly discourse.

When they came into the drawing room Bridget said:

âYou men have been a long time.â

Luke replied:

âLord Whitfield was being so interesting that the time passed like a flash. He was telling me how he founded his first newspaper.â

Mrs. Anstruther said:

âThese new little fruiting trees in pots are perfectly marvellous, I believe. You ought to try them along the terrace, Gordon.â

The conversation then proceeded on normal lines.

Luke retired early.

He did not, however, go to bed. He had other plans.

It was just striking twelve when he descended the stairs noiselessly in tennis shoes, passed through the library and let himself out by a window.

The wind was still blowing in violent gusts interspersed with brief lulls. Clouds scudded across the sky, obliterating the moon so that darkness alternated with bright moonlight.

Luke made his way by a circuitous route to Mr. Ellsworthyâs establishment. He saw his way clear to doing a little investigation. He was fairly certain that Ellsworthy and his friends would be out together on this particular date. Midsummer Eve, Luke thought, was sure to be marked by some ceremony or other. Whilst this was in progress, it would be a good opportunity to search Mr. Ellsworthyâs house.

He climbed a couple of walls, got round to the back of the house, took the assorted tools from his pocket and selected a likely implement. He found a scullery window amenable to his efforts. A few minutes later he had slipped back the catch, raised the sash and hoisted himself over.

He had a torch in his pocket. He used it sparinglyâa brief flash to show him his way and to avoid running into things.

In a quarter of an hour he had satisfied himself that the house was empty. The owner was out and abroad on his own affairs.

Luke smiled with satisfaction and settled down to his task.

He made a minute and thorough search of every available nook and corner. In a locked drawer, below two or three innocuous water-colour sketches, he came upon some artistic efforts which caused him to lift his eyebrows and whistle. Mr. Ellsworthyâs correspondence was unilluminating, but some of his booksâthose tucked away at the back of a cupboardârepaid attention.

Besides these, Luke accumulated three meagre but suggestive scraps of information. The first was a pencil scrawl in a little notebook. âSettle with Tommy Pierceââthe date being a couple of days before the boyâs death. The second was a crayon sketch of Amy Gibbs with a furious red cross right across the face. The third was a bottle of cough mixture. None of these things were in any way conclusive, but taken together they might be considered as encouraging.

Luke was just restoring some final order, replacing things in their place, when he suddenly stiffened and switched off his torch.

He had heard the key inserted in the lock of a side door.

He stepped across to the door of the room he was in, and applied an eye to a crack. He hoped Ellsworthy, if it was he, would go straight upstairs.

The side door opened and Ellsworthy stepped in, switching on a hall light as he did so.

As he passed along the hall, Luke saw his face and caught his breath.

It was unrecognizable. There was foam on the lips, the eyes were alight with a strange mad exultation as he pranced along the hall in little dancing steps.

But what caused Luke to catch his breath was the sight of Ellsworthyâs hands. They were stained a deep brownish redâthe colour of dried bloodâ¦.

He disappeared up the stairs. A moment later the light in the hall was extinguished.

Luke waited a little longer, then very cautiously he crept out of the hall, made his way to the scullery and left by the window. He looked up at the house, but it was dark and silent.

He drew a deep breath.

âMy God,â he said, âthe fellowâs mad all right! I wonder what heâs up to? Iâll swear that was blood on his hands!â

He made a detour round the village and returned to Ashe Manor by a roundabout route. It was as he was turning into the side lane that a sudden rustle of leaves made him swing round.

âWhoâs there?â

A tall figure wrapped in a dark cloak came out from the shadow of a tree. It looked so eerie that Luke felt his heart miss a beat. Then he recognized the long pale face under the hood.

âBridget? How you startled me!â

She said sharply:

âWhere have you been? I saw you go out.â

âAnd you followed me?â

âNo. Youâd gone too far. Iâve been waiting till you came back.â

âThat was a damned silly thing to do,â Luke grumbled.

She repeated her question impatiently.

âWhere have you been?â

Luke said gaily:

âRaiding our Mr. Ellsworthy!â

Bridget caught her breath.

âDid youâfind anything?â

âI donât know. I know a bit more about the swineâhis pornographical tastes and all that, and there are three things that might be suggestive.â

She listened attentively as he recounted the result of his search.

âItâs very slight evidence, though,â he ended. âBut, Bridget, just as I was leaving Ellsworthy came back. And I tell you thisâthe manâs as mad as a hatter!â

âYou really think so?â

âI saw his faceâit wasâunspeakable! God knows what heâd been up to! He was in a delirium of mad excitement. And his hands were stained. Iâll swear with blood.â

Bridget shivered.

âHorribleâ¦â she murmured.

Luke said irritably:

âYou shouldnât have come out by yourself, Bridget. It was absolute madness. Somebody might have knocked you on the head.â

She laughed shakily.

âThe same applies to you, my dear.â

âI can look after myself.â

âIâm pretty good at taking care of myself, too. Hard-boiled, I should think youâd call me.â

A sharp gust of wind came. Luke said suddenly:

âTake off that hood thing.â

âWhy?â

With an unexpected movement he snatched at her cloak and whipped it away. The wind caught her hair and blew it out straight up from her head. She stared at him, her breath coming fast.

Luke said:

âYou certainly are incomplete without a broomstick, Bridget. Thatâs how I saw you first.â He stared a minute longer and said, âYouâre a cruel devil.â

With a sharp impatient sigh he tossed the cloak back to her.

âThereâput it on. Letâs get home.â

âWaitâ¦.â

âWhy?â

She came up to him. She spoke in a low, rather breathless voice.

âBecause Iâve got something to say to youâthatâs partly why I waited for you hereâoutside the Manor. I want to say it to you nowâbefore we go insideâinto Gordonâs propertyâ¦.â

âWell?â

She gave a short, rather bitter laugh.

âOh, itâs quite simple. You win, Luke. Thatâs all!â

He said sharply:

âWhat do you mean?â

âI mean that Iâve given up the idea of being Lady Whitfield.â

He took a step nearer.

âIs that true?â he demanded.

âYes, Luke.â

âYouâll marry me?â

âYes.â

âWhy, I wonder?â

âI donât know. You say such beastly things to meâand I seem to like itâ¦.â

He took her in his arms and kissed her. He said:

âItâs a mad world!â

âAre you happy, Luke?â

âNot particularly.â

âDo you think youâll ever be happy with me?â

âI donât know. Iâll risk it.â

âYesâthatâs what I feelâ¦.â

He slipped his arm through hers.

âWeâre rather queer about all this, my sweet. Come along. Perhaps we shall be more normal in the morning.â

âYesâitâs rather frightening the way things happen to oneâ¦â She looked down and tugged him to a standstill. âLukeâLukeâwhatâs thatâ¦?â

The moon had come out from the clouds. Luke looked down to where Bridgetâs shoe trembled by a huddled mass.

With a startled exclamation he dragged his arm free and knelt down. He looked from the shapeless heap to the gatepost above. The pineapple was gone.

He stood up at last. Bridget was standing, her hands pressed together on her mouth.

He said:

âItâs the chauffeurâRivers. Heâs deadâ¦.â

âThat beastly stone thingâitâs been loose for some timeâI suppose it blew down on him?â

Luke shook his head.

âThe wind wouldnât do a thing like that. Oh! thatâs what itâs meant to look likeâthatâs what itâs meant to beâanother accident! But itâs a fake. Itâs the killer againâ¦.â

âNoâno, Lukeââ

âI tell you it is. Do you know what I felt on the back of his headâin with the stickiness and messâgrains of sand. Thereâs no sand about here. I tell you, Bridget, somebody stood here and slugged him as he came through the gate back to his cottage. Then laid him down and rolled that pineapple thing down on top of him.â

Bridget said faintly:

âLukeâthereâs bloodâon your handsâ¦.â

Luke said grimly:

âThere was blood on someone elseâs hands. Do you know what I was thinking this afternoonâthat if there were to be one more crime weâd surely know. And we do know! Ellsworthy! He was out tonight and he came in with blood on his hands capering and prancing and madâdrunk with the homicidal maniacâs expressionâ¦.â

Looking down, Bridget shivered and said in a low voice: âPoor Riversâ¦.â

Luke said pityingly:

âYes, poor fellow. Itâs damnable bad luck. But this will be the last, Bridget! Now we know, weâll get him!â

He saw her sway and in two steps he had caught her in his arms.

She said in a small childlike voice:

âLuke, Iâm frightenedâ¦.â

He said, âItâs all over, darling. Itâs all overâ¦.â

She murmured:

âBe kind to meâplease. Iâve been hurt so much.â

He said: âWeâve hurt each other. We wonât do that anymore.â

Seventeen

LORD WHITFIELD TALKS

Dr. Thomas stared across his consulting room desk at Luke.

âRemarkable,â he said. âRemarkable! You are really serious, Mr. Fitzwilliam?â

âAbsolutely. I am convinced that Ellsworthy is a dangerous maniac.â

âI have not paid special attention to the man. I should say, though, that he is possibly an abnormal type.â

âIâd go a good deal further than that,â said Luke grimly.

âYou seriously believe that this man Rivers was murdered?â

âI do. You noticed the grains of sand in the wound?â

Dr. Thomas nodded.

âI looked out for them after your statement. I am bound to say that you were correct.â

âThat makes it clear, does it not, that the accident was faked and that the man was killed by a blow from a sandbagâor at any rate was stunned by one.â

âNot necessarily.â

âWhat do you mean?â

Dr. Thomas leaned back and joined his fingertips together.

âSupposing that this man Rivers had been lying out in a sand-pit during the dayâthere are several about in this part of the world. That might account for grains of sand in the hair.â

âMan, I tell you he was murdered!â

âYou may tell me so,â said Dr. Thomas drily, âbut that doesnât make it a fact.â

Luke controlled his exasperation.

âI suppose you donât believe a word of what Iâm telling you.â

Dr. Thomas smiled, a kindly superior smile.

âYou must admit, Mr. Fitzwilliam, that itâs rather a wild story. You assert that this man Ellsworthy has killed a servant girl, a small boy, a drunken publican, my own partner and finally this man Rivers.â

âYou donât believe it?â

Dr. Thomas shrugged his shoulders.

âI have some knowledge of Humblebyâs case. It seems to me quite out of the question that Ellsworthy could have caused his death, and I really cannot see that you have any evidence at all that he did so.â

âI donât know how he managed it,â confessed Luke, âbut it all hangs together with Miss Pinkertonâs story.â

âThere again you assert that Ellsworthy followed her up to London and ran her down in a car. Again you havenât a shadow of proof that happened! Itâs allâwellâromancing!â

Luke said sharply:

âNow that I know where I am it will be my business to get proofs. Iâm going up to London tomorrow to see an old pal of mine. I saw in the paper two days ago that heâd been made Assistant Commissioner of Police. He knows me and heâll listen to what I have to say. One thing Iâm sure of, heâll order a thorough investigation of the whole business.â

Dr. Thomas stroked his chin thoughtfully.

âWellâno doubt that should be very satisfactory. If it turns out that youâre mistakenââ

Luke interrupted him.

âYou definitely donât believe a word of all this?â

âIn wholesale murder?â Dr. Thomas raised his eyebrows. âQuite frankly, Mr. Fitzwilliam, I donât. The thing is too fantastic.â

âFantastic, perhaps. But it hangs together. Youâve got to admit it hangs together. Once you accept Miss Pinkertonâs story as true.â

Dr. Thomas was shaking his head. A slight smile came to his lips. âIf you knew some of these old maids as well as I do,â he murmured.

Luke rose, trying to control his annoyance.

âAt any rate, youâre well named,â he said. âA doubting Thomas, if there ever was one!â

Thomas replied good-humouredly:

âGive me a few proofs, my dear fellow. Thatâs all I ask. Not just a long melodramatic rigmarole based on what an old lady fancied she saw.â

âWhat old ladies fancy they see is very often right. My Aunt Mildred was positively uncanny! Have you got any aunts yourself, Thomas?â

âWellâerâno.â

âA mistake!â said Luke. âEvery man should have aunts. They illustrate the triumph of guesswork over logic. It is reserved for aunts to know that Mr. A. is a rogue because he looks like a dishonest butler they once had. Other people say reasonably enough that a respectable man like Mr. A. couldnât be a crook. The old ladies are right every time.â

Dr. Thomas smiled his superior smile again.

Luke said, his exasperation mounting once more:

âDonât you realize that Iâm a policeman myself? Iâm not the complete amateur.â

Dr. Thomas smiled and murmured:

âIn the Mayang Straits!â

âCrime is crime even in the Mayang Straits.â

âOf courseâof course.â

Luke left Dr. Thomasâs surgery in a state of suppressed irritation.

He joined Bridget, who said:

âWell, how did you get on?â

âHe didnât believe me,â said Luke. âWhich, when you come to think of it, is hardly surprising. Itâs a wild story with no proofs. Dr. Thomas is emphatically not the sort of man who believes six impossible things before breakfast!â

âWill anybody believe you?â

âProbably not, but when I get hold of old Billy Bones tomorrow, the wheels will start turning. Theyâll check up on our long-haired friend, Ellsworthy, and in the end theyâre bound to get somewhere.â

Bridget said thoughtfully:

âWeâre coming out into the open very much, arenât we?â

âWeâve got to. We canâtâwe simply canât afford anymore murders.â

Bridget shivered.

âFor Godâs sake be careful, Luke.â

âIâm being careful all right. Donât walk near gates with pineapples on them, avoid the lonely wood at nightfall, watch out for your food and drink. I know all the ropes.â

âItâs horrible feeling youâre a marked man.â

âSo long as youâre not a marked woman, my sweet.â

âPerhaps I am.â

âI donât think so. But I donât intend to take risks! Iâm watching over you like an old-fashioned guardian angel.â

âIs it any good saying anything to the police here?â

Luke considered.

âNo, I donât think it isâbetter go straight to Scotland Yard.â

Bridget murmured:

âThatâs what Miss Pinkerton thought.â

âYes, but I shall be watching out for trouble.â

Bridget said:

âI know what Iâm going to do tomorrow. I shall march Gordon down to that bruteâs shop and make him buy things.â

âThereby ensuring that our Mr. Ellsworthy is not lying in ambush for me on the steps of Whitehall?â

âThatâs the idea.â

Luke said with some slight embarrassment: âAbout Whitfieldââ

Bridget said quickly:

âLetâs leave it till you come back tomorrow. Then weâll have it out.â

âWill he be very cut up, do you think?â

âWellââ Bridget considered the question. âHeâll be annoyed.â

âAnnoyed? Ye gods! Isnât that putting it a bit mildly?â

âNo. Because you see Gordon doesnât like being annoyed! It upsets him!â

Luke said soberly, âI feel rather uncomfortable about it all.â

That feeling was uppermost in his mind when he prepared that evening to listen for the twentieth time to Lord Whitfield on the subject of Lord Whitfield. It was, he admitted, a cadâs trick to stay in a manâs house and steal his fiancÃ©e. He still felt, however, that a potbellied, pompous, strutting little nincompoop like Lord Whitfield ought never to have aspired to Bridget at all!

But his conscience so far chastened him that he listened with an extra dose of fervent attention and in consequence made a thoroughly favourable impression on his host.

Lord Whitfield was in high good humour this evening. The death of his erstwhile chauffeur seemed to have exhilarated rather than depressed him.

âTold you that fellow would come to a bad end,â he crowed, holding up a glass of port to the light and squinting through it. âDidnât I tell you so yesterday evening?â

âYou did, indeed, sir.â

âAnd you see I was right! Itâs amazing how often Iâm right!â

âThat must be splendid for you,â said Luke.

âIâve had a wonderful lifeâyes, a wonderful life! My pathâs been smoothed clear before me. Iâve always had great faith and trust in Providence. Thatâs the secret, Fitzwilliam, thatâs the secret.â

âYes?â

âIâm a religious man. I believe in good and evil and eternal justice. There is such a thing as divine justice, Fitzwilliam, not a doubt of it!â

âI believe in justice, too,â said Luke.

Lord Whitfield, as usual, was not interested in the beliefs of other people.

âDo right by your Creator and your Creator will do right by you! Iâve always been an upright man. Iâve subscribed to charity, and Iâve made my money honestly. Iâm not beholden to any man! I stand alone. You remember in the Bible how the patriarchs became prosperous, herds and flocks were added to them, and their enemies were smitten down!â

Luke stifled a yawn and said:

âQuiteâquite.â

âItâs remarkableâabsolutely remarkable,â said Lord Whitfield. âThe way that a righteous manâs enemies are struck down! Look at yesterday. That fellow abuses meâeven goes so far as to try to raise his hand against me. And what happens? Where is he today?â

He paused rhetorically and then answered himself in an impressive voice:

âDead! Struck down by divine wrath!â

Opening his eyes a little, Luke said:

âRather an excessive punishment, perhaps, for a few hasty words uttered after a glass too much.â

Lord Whitfield shook his head.

âItâs always like that! Retribution comes swiftly and terribly. And thereâs good authentic authority for it. Remember the children that mocked Elishaâhow the bears came out and devoured them. Thatâs the way things happen, Fitzwilliam.â

âI always thought that was rather unnecessarily vindictive.â

âNo, no. Youâre looking at it the wrong way. Elisha was a great and holy man. No one could be suffered to mock at him and live! I understand that because of my own case!â

Luke looked puzzled.

Lord Whitfield lowered his voice.

âI could hardly believe it at first. But it happened every time! My enemies and detractors were cast down and exterminated.â

âExterminated?â

Lord Whitfield nodded gently and sipped his port.

âTime after time. One case quite like Elishaâa little boy. I came upon him in the gardens hereâhe was employed by me then. Do you know what he was doing? He was giving an imitation of Meâof ME! Mocking me! Strutting up and down with an audience to watch him. Making fun of me on my own ground! Dâyou know what happened to him? Not ten days later he fell out of an upper window and was killed!

âThen there was that ruffian Carterâa drunkard and a man of evil tongue. He came here and abused me. What happened to him? A week later he was deadâdrowned in the mud. There had been a servant girl, too. She lifted her voice and called me names. Her punishment soon came. She drank poison by mistake! I could tell you heaps more. Humbleby dared to oppose me over the Water scheme. He died of blood poisoning. Oh, itâs been going on for yearsâMrs. Horton, for instance, was abominably rude to me and it wasnât long before she passed away.â

He paused and leaning forward passed the port decanter round to Luke.

âYes,â he said. âThey all died. Amazing, isnât it?â

Luke stared at him. A monstrous, an incredible suspicion leapt into his mind! With new eyes, he stared at the small fat man who sat at the head of the table, who was gently nodding his head and whose light protuberant eyes met Lukeâs with a smiling insouciance.

A rush of disconnected memories flashed rapidly through Lukeâs brain. Major Horton saying âLord Whitfield was very kind. Sent down grapes and peaches from his hothouse.â It was Lord Whitfield who so graciously allowed Tommy Pierce to be employed on window cleaning at the library. Lord Whitfield holding forth on his visit to the Wellerman Kreutz Institute with its serums and germ cultures just a short time before Dr. Humblebyâs death. Everything pointing plainly in one direction and he, fool that he had been, never even suspectingâ¦.

Lord Whitfield was still smiling. A quiet happy smile. He nodded his head gently at Luke.

âThey all die,â said Lord Whitfield.

Eighteen

CONFERENCE IN LONDON

Sir William Ossington, known to the cronies of earlier days as Billy Bones, stared incredulously at his friend.

âDidnât you have enough crime out in Mayang?â he asked plaintively. âHave you got to come home and do our work for us here?â

âCrime in Mayang isnât on a wholesale basis,â said Luke. âWhat Iâm up against now is a man whoâs done a round half-dozen murders at leastâand got away with it without a breath of suspicion!â

Sir William sighed.

âIt does happen. Whatâs his specialityâwives?â

âNo, heâs not that kind. He doesnât actually think heâs God yetâbut he soon will.â

âMad?â

âOh, unquestionably, I should say.â

âAh! but he probably isnât legally mad. Thereâs a difference, you know.â

âI should say he knows the nature and consequence of his acts,â said Luke.

âExactly,â said Billy Bones.

âWell, donât letâs quibble about legal technicalities. Weâre not nearly at that stage yet. Perhaps we never shall be. What I want from you, old boy, is a few facts. There was a street accident took place on Derby Day between five and six oâclock in the afternoon. Old lady run over in Whitehall and the car didnât stop. Her name was Lavinia Pinkerton. I want you to dig up all facts you can about that.â

Sir William sighed. âI can soon get hold of that for you. Twenty minutes ought to do it.â

He was as good as his word. In less than that time Luke was talking to the police officer in charge of the matter.

âYes, sir, I remember the details. Iâve got most of them written down here.â He indicated the sheet that Luke was studying. âAn inquest was heldâMr. Satcherverell was the Coroner. Censure of the driver of the car.â

âDid you ever get him?â

âNo, sir.â

âWhat make of car was it?â

âIt seems pretty certain it was a Rollsâbig car driven by a chauffeur. All witnesses unanimous on that point. Most people know a Rolls by sight.â

âYou didnât get the number?â

âNo, unfortunately, nobody thought to look at it. There was a note of a number FZX 4498âbut it was the wrong number, a woman spotted it and mentioned it to another woman who gave it to me. I donât know whether the second woman got it wrong but anyway it was no good.â

Luke asked sharply: âHow did you know it was no good?â

The young officer smiled.

âFZX 4498 is the number of Lord Whitfieldâs car. That car was standing outside Boomington House at the time in question and the chauffeur was having tea. He had a perfect alibiâno question of his being concerned and the car never left the building till 6:30 when his lordship came out.â

âI see,â said Luke.

âItâs always the way, sir,â the man sighed, âhalf the witnesses have disappeared before a constable can get there and take down particulars.â

Sir William nodded.

âWe assumed it was probably a number not unlike that FZX 4498âa number beginning probably with two fours. We did our best, but could not trace any car. We investigated several likely numbers but they could all give satisfactory accounts of themselves.â

Sir William looked at Luke questioningly.

Luke shook his head. Sir William said:

âThanks, Bonner, that will do.â

When the man had gone out, Billy Bones looked inquiringly at his friend.

âWhatâs it all about, Fitz?â

Luke sighed. âIt all tallies. Lavinia Pinkerton was coming up to blow the gaffâto tell the clever people at Scotland Yard all about the wicked murderer. I donât know whether youâd have listened to herâprobably notââ

âWe might,â said Sir William. âThings do come through to us that way. Just hearsay and gossipâwe donât neglect that sort of thing, I assure you.â

âThatâs what the murderer thought. He wasnât going to risk it. He eliminated Lavinia Pinkerton and although one woman was sharp enough to spot his number no one believed her.â

Billy Bones sprang upright in his chair.

âYou donât meanââ

âYes, I do. Iâll bet you anything you like it was Whitfield who ran her down. I donât know how he managed it. The chauffeur was away at tea. Somehow or other, I suppose, he sneaked away putting on a chauffeurâs coat and cap. But he did it, Billy!â

âImpossible!â

âNot at all. Lord Whitfield has committed at least seven murders to my certain knowledge and probably a lot more.â

âImpossible,â said Sir William again.

âMy dear fellow, he practically boasted to me of it last night!â

âHeâs mad, then?â

âHeâs mad, all right, but heâs a cunning devil. Youâll have to go warily. Donât let him know we suspect him.â

Billy Bones murmured: âIncredibleâ¦.â

Luke said: âBut true!â

He laid a hand on his friendâs shoulder.

âLook here, Billy, old son, we must get right down to this. Here are the facts.â

The two men talked long and earnestly.

On the following day Luke returned to Wychwood. He drove down early in the morning. He could have returned the night before but he felt a marked distaste for sleeping under Lord Whitfieldâs roof or accepting his hospitality under the circumstances.

On his way through Wychwood, he drew up his car at Miss Waynfleteâs house. The maid who opened the door stared at him in astonishment but showed him into the little dining room where Miss Waynflete was sitting at breakfast.

She rose to receive him in some surprise.

He did not waste time. âI must apologize for breaking in on you at this hour.â

He looked round. The maid had left the room, shutting the door. âIâm going to ask you a question, Miss Waynflete. Itâs rather a personal one, but I think you will forgive me for asking it.â

âPlease ask me anything you like. I am quite sure your reason for doing so will be a good one.â

âThank you.â

He paused.

âI want to know exactly why you broke off your engagement to Lord Whitfield all those years ago.â

She had not expected that. The colour rose in her cheeks and one hand went to her breast.

âHas he told you anything?â

Luke replied: âHe told me there was something about a birdâa bird whose neck was wrungâ¦.â

âHe said that?â Her voice was wondering. âHe admitted it? Thatâs extraordinary!â

âWill you tell me, please.â

âYes, I will tell you. But I beg that you will never speak of the matter to himâto Gordon. It is all pastâall over and finished withâI donât want itâraked up.â

She looked at him appealingly.

Luke nodded.

âIt is only for my personal satisfaction,â he said. âI shall not repeat what you tell me.â

âThank you.â She had recovered her composure. Her voice was quite steady as she went on. âIt was like this. I had a little canaryâI was very fond of itâandâperhapsârather silly about itâgirls were, then. They were ratherâwellâcoy about their pets. It must have been irritating to a manâI do realize that.â

âYes,â said Luke as she paused.

âGordon was jealous of the bird. He said one day quite ill-temperedly, âI believe you prefer that bird to me.â And I, in the rather silly way girls went on in those days, laughed and held it up on my finger saying something like: âOf course I love you, dicky bird, better than a great silly boy! Of course I do!â Thenâoh, it was frighteningâGordon snatched the bird from me and wrung its neck. It was such a shockâI shall never forget it!â

Her face had gone very pale.

âAnd so you broke off the engagement?â said Luke.

âYes. I couldnât feel the same afterwards. You see, Mr. Fitzwilliamââ she hesitated. âIt wasnât just the actionâthat might have been done in a fit of jealousy and temperâit was the awful feeling I had that heâd enjoyed doing itâit was that that frightened me!â

âEven long ago,â murmured Luke. âEven in these daysâ¦.â

She laid a hand on his arm.

âMr. Fitzwilliamââ

He met the frightened appeal in her eyes with a grave steady look.

âIt is Lord Whitfield who committed all these murders!â he said. âYouâve known that all along, havenât you?â

She shook her head with vigour.

âNot known it! If I had known it, thenâthen of course I would have spoken outâno, it was just a fear.â

âAnd yet you never gave me a hint?â

She clasped her hands in a sudden anguish.

âHow could I? How could I? I was fond of him onceâ¦.â

âYes,â said Luke gently. âI see.â

She turned away, fumbled in her bag, and a small lace-edged handkerchief was pressed for a moment to her eyes. Then she turned back again, dry-eyed, dignified and composed.

âI am so glad,â she said, âthat Bridget has broken off her engagement. She is going to marry you instead, is she not?â

âYes.â

âThat will be much more suitable,â said Miss Waynflete rather primly.

Luke was unable to help smiling a little.

But Miss Waynfleteâs face grew grave and anxious. She leaned forward and once more laid a hand on his arm.

âBut be very careful,â she said. âBoth of you must be very careful.â

âYou meanâwith Lord Whitfield?â

âYes. It would be better not to tell him.â

Luke frowned. âI donât think either of us would like the idea of that.â

âOh! what does that matter? You donât seem to realize that heâs madâmad. He wonât stand itânot for a moment! If anything happens to herââ

âNothing shall happen to her!â

âYes, I knowâbut do realize that youâre not a match for him! Heâs so dreadfully cunning! Take her away at onceâitâs the only hope. Make her go abroad! Youâd better both go abroad!â

Luke said slowly:

âIt might be as well if she went. I shall stay.â

âI was afraid you would say that. But at any rate get her away. At once, mind!â

Luke nodded slowly.

âI think,â he said, âthat youâre right.â

âI know Iâm right! Get her awayâbefore itâs too late.â

Nineteen

BROKEN ENGAGEMENT

Bridget heard Luke drive up. She came out on the steps to meet him.

She said without preamble:

âIâve told him.â

âWhat?â Luke was taken aback.

His dismay was so patent that Bridget noticed it.

âLukeâwhat is it? You seem quite upset.â

He said slowly:

âI thought we agreed to wait until I came back.â

âI know, but I thought it was better to get it over. He was making plansâfor our marriageâour honeymoonâall that! I simply had to tell him!â

She addedâa touch of reproach in her voice:

âIt was the only decent thing to do.â

He acknowledged it.

âFrom your point of view, yes. Oh, yes, I see that.â

âFrom every point of view I should have thought!â

Luke said slowly:

âThere are times when one canât affordâdecency!â

âLuke, what do you mean?â

He made an impatient gesture.

âI canât tell you now and here. How did Whitfield take it?â

Bridget said slowly:

âExtraordinarily well. Really extraordinarily well. I felt ashamed. I believe, Luke, that Iâve underestimated Gordonâjust because heâs rather pompous and occasionally futile. I believe really heâs ratherâwellâa great little man!â

Luke nodded.

âYes, possibly he is a great manâin ways we havenât suspected. Look here, Bridget, you must get out of here as soon as possible.â

âNaturally, I shall pack up my things and leave today. You might drive me up to town. I suppose we canât both go and stay at the Bells and Motleyâthat is, if the Ellsworthy contingent have left?â

Luke shook his head.

âNo, youâd better go back to London. Iâll explain presently. In the meantime I suppose Iâd better see Whitfield.â

âI suppose itâs the thing to doâitâs all rather beastly, isnât it? I feel such a rotten little gold digger.â

Luke smiled at her.

âIt was a fair enough bargain. Youâd have played straight with him. Anyway, itâs no use lamenting over things that are past and done with! Iâll go in and see Whitfield now.â

He found Lord Whitfield striding up and down the drawing room. He was outwardly calm, there was even a slight smile on his lips. But Luke noticed that a pulse in his temple was beating furiously.

He wheeled round as Luke entered.

âOh! there you are, Fitzwilliam.â

Luke said:

âItâs no good my saying Iâm sorry for what Iâve doneâthat would be hypocritical! I admit that from your point of view Iâve behaved badly and Iâve very little to say in defence. These things happen.â

Lord Whitfield resumed his pacing.

âQuiteâquite!â He waved a hand.

Luke went on:

âBridget and I have treated you shamefully. But there it is! We care for each otherâand thereâs nothing to be done about itâexcept tell you the truth and clear out.â

Lord Whitfield stopped. He looked at Luke with pale protuberant eyes.

âNo,â he said, âthereâs nothing you can do about it!â

There was a very curious tone in his voice. He stood looking at Luke, gently shaking his head as though in commiseration.

Luke said sharply: âWhat do you mean?â

âThereâs nothing you can do!â said Lord Whitfield. âItâs too late!â

Luke took a step nearer him.

âTell me what you mean.â

Lord Whitfield said unexpectedly:

âAsk Honoria Waynflete. Sheâll understand. She knows what happens. She spoke to me about it once!â

âWhat does she understand?â

Lord Whitfield said:

âEvil doesnât go unpunished. There must be justice! Iâm sorry because Iâm fond of Bridget. In a way Iâm sorry for you both!â

Luke said:

âAre you threatening us?â

Lord Whitfield seemed genuinely shocked.

âNo, no, my dear fellow. Iâve no feeling in the matter! When I did Bridget the honour to choose her as my wife, she accepted certain responsibilities. Now, she repudiates themâbut thereâs no going back in this life. If you break laws you pay the penaltyâ¦.â

Luke clenched both hands. He said:

âYou mean that something is going to happen to Bridget? Now understand me, Whitfield, nothing is going to happen to Bridgetânor to me! If you attempt anything of that kind itâs the finish. Youâd better be careful! I know a good deal about you!â

âItâs nothing to do with me,â said Lord Whitfield. âIâm only the instrument of a higher Power. What that Power decrees happens!â

âI see you believe that,â said Luke.

âBecause itâs the truth! Anyone who goes against me pays the penalty. You and Bridget will be no exception.â

Luke said:

âThatâs where youâre wrong. However long a run of luck may be, it breaks in the end. Yours is very near breaking now.â

Lord Whitfield said gently:

âMy dear young man, you donât know who it is youâre talking to. Nothing can touch Me!â

âCanât it? Weâll see. Youâd better watch your step, Whitfield.â

A little ripple of movement passed over the other. His voice had changed when he spoke.

âIâve been very patient,â said Lord Whitfield. âDonât strain my patience too far. Get out of here.â

âIâm going,â said Luke. âAs quick as I can. Remember that Iâve warned you.â

He turned on his heel and went quickly out of the room. He ran upstairs. He found Bridget in her room superintending the packing of her clothes by a housemaid.

âReady soon?â

âIn ten minutes.â

Her eyes asked a question which the presence of the maid prevented her from putting into words.

Luke gave a short nod.

He went to his own room and flung his things hurriedly into his suitcase.

He returned ten minutes later to find Bridget ready for departure.

âShall we go now?â

âIâm ready.â

As they descended the staircase they met the butler ascending.

âMiss Waynflete has called to see you, miss.â

âMiss Waynflete? Where is she?â

âIn the drawing room with his lordship.â

Bridget went straight to the drawing room, Luke close behind her.

Lord Whitfield was standing by the window talking to Miss Waynflete. He had a knife in his handâa long slender blade.

âPerfect workmanship,â he was saying. âOne of my young men brought it back to me from Morocco where heâd been special correspondent. Itâs Moorish, of course, a Riff knife.â He drew a finger lovingly along the blade. âWhat an edge!â

Miss Waynflete said sharply:

âPut it away, Gordon, for goodnessâ sake!â

He smiled and laid it down among a collection of other weapons on a table.

âI like the feel of it,â he said softly.

Miss Waynflete had lost some of her usual poise. She looked white and nervous.

âAh, there you are, Bridget, my dear,â she said.

Lord Whitfield chuckled.

âYes, thereâs Bridget. Make the most of her, Honoria. She wonât be with us long.â

Miss Waynflete said, sharply:

âWhat dâyou mean?â

âMean? I mean sheâs going to London. Thatâs right, isnât it? Thatâs all I meant.â

He looked round at them all.

âIâve got a bit of news for you, Honoria,â he said. âBridget isnât going to marry me after all. She prefers Fitzwilliam here. A queer thing, life. Well, Iâll leave you to have your talk.â

He went out of the room, his hands jingling the coins in his pockets.

âOh, dearââ said Miss Waynflete. âOh, dearââ

The deep distress in her voice was so noticeable that Bridget looked slightly surprised. She said uncomfortably:

âIâm sorry. I really am frightfully sorry.â

Miss Waynflete said:

âHeâs angryâheâs frightfully angryâoh, dear, this is terrible. What are we going to do?â

Bridget stared.

âDo? What do you mean?â

Miss Waynflete said, including them both in her reproachful glance:

âYou should never have told him!â

Bridget said:

âNonsense. What else could we do?â

âYou shouldnât have told him now. You should have waited till youâd got right away.â

Bridget said shortly:

âThatâs a matter of opinion. I think myself itâs better to get unpleasant things over as quickly as possible.â

âOh, my dear, if it were only a question of thatââ

She stopped. Then her eyes asked a question of Luke.

Luke shook his head. His lips formed the words, âNot yet.â

Miss Waynflete murmured, âI see.â

Bridget said with some slight exasperation:

âDid you want to see me about something in particular, Miss Waynflete?â

âWellâyes. As a matter of fact I came to suggest that you should come and pay me a little visit. I thoughtâerâyou might find it uncomfortable to remain on here and that you might want a few days toâerâwell, mature your plans.â

âThank you, Miss Waynflete, that was very kind of you.â

âYou see, youâd be quite safe with me andââ

Bridget interrupted:

âSafe?â

Miss Waynflete, a little flustered, said hurriedly:

âComfortableâthatâs what I meantâquite comfortable with me. I mean, not nearly so luxurious as here, naturallyâbut the hot water is hot and my little maid Emily really cooks quite nicely.â

âOh, Iâm sure everything would be lovely, Miss Waynflete,â said Bridget mechanically.

âBut, of course, if you are going up to town, that is much betterâ¦.â

Bridget said slowly:

âItâs a little awkward. My aunt went off early to a flower show today. I havenât had a chance yet to tell her what has happened. I shall leave a note for her telling her Iâve gone up to the flat.â

âYouâre going to your auntâs flat in London?â

âYes. Thereâs no one there. But I can go out for meals.â

âYouâll be alone in that flat? Oh, dear, I shouldnât do that. Not stay there alone.â

âNobody will eat me,â said Bridget impatiently. âBesides, my aunt will come up tomorrow.â

Miss Waynflete shook her head in a worried manner.

Luke said:

âBetter go to a hotel.â

Bridget wheeled round on him.

âWhy? Whatâs the matter with you all? Why are you treating me as though I was an imbecile child?â

âNo, no, dear,â protested Miss Waynflete. âWe just want you to be carefulâthatâs all!â

âBut why? Why? Whatâs it all about?â

âLook here, Bridget,â said Luke. âI want to have a talk with you. But I canât talk here. Come with me now in the car and weâll go somewhere quiet.â

He looked at Miss Waynflete.

âMay we come to your house in about an hourâs time? There are several things I want to say to you.â

âPlease do. I will wait for you there.â

Luke put his hand on Bridgetâs arm. He gave a nod of thanks to Miss Waynflete.

He said: âWeâll pick up the luggage later. Come on.â

He led her out of the room and along the hall to the front door. He opened the door of the car. Bridget got in. Luke started the engine and drove rapidly down the drive. He gave a sigh of relief as they emerged from the iron gates.

âThank God Iâve got you out of there safely,â he said.

âHave you gone quite mad, Luke? Why all this âhush hushâI canât tell you what I mean nowââbusiness?â

Luke said grimly:

âWell, there are difficulties, you know, in explaining that a manâs a murderer when youâre actually under his roof!â

Twenty

WEâRE IN ITâTOGETHER

Bridget sat for a minute motionless beside him. She said:

âGordon?â

Luke nodded.

âGordon? Gordonâa murderer? Gordon the murderer? I never heard anything so ridiculous in all my life!â

âThatâs how it strikes you?â

âYes, indeed. Why, Gordon wouldnât hurt a fly.â

Luke said grimly:

âThat may be true. I donât know. But he certainly killed a canary bird, and Iâm pretty certain heâs killed a large number of human beings as well.â

âMy dear Luke, I simply canât believe it!â

âI know,â said Luke. âIt does sound quite incredible. Why, he never even entered my head as a possible suspect until the night before last.â

Bridget protested:

âBut I know all about Gordon! I know what heâs like! Heâs really a sweet little manâpompous, yes, but rather pathetic really.â

Luke shook his head. âYouâve got to readjust your ideas about him, Bridget.â

âItâs no good, Luke, I simply canât believe it! What put such an absurd idea into your head? Why, two days ago you were quite positive it was Ellsworthy.â

Luke winced slightly.

âI know. I know. You probably think that tomorrow I shall suspect Thomas, and the day after I shall be convinced that itâs Horton Iâm after! Iâm not really so unbalanced as that. I admit the ideaâs completely startling when it first comes to you, but if you look into it a bit closer, youâll see that it all fits in remarkably well. No wonder Miss Pinkerton didnât dare to go to the local authorities. She knew theyâd laugh at her! Scotland Yard was her only hope.â

âBut what possible motive could Gordon have for all this killing business? Oh, itâs all so silly!â

âI know. But donât you realize that Gordon Whitfield has a very exalted opinion of himself?â

Bridget said: âHe pretends to be very wonderful and very important. Thatâs just inferiority complex, poor lamb!â

âPossibly thatâs at the root of the trouble. I donât know. But think, Bridgetâjust think a minute. Remember all the phrases youâve used laughingly yourself about himâlÃ¨se-majestÃ©, etc. Donât you realize that the manâs ego is swollen out of all proportion? And itâs allied with religion. My dear girl, the manâs as mad as a hatter!â

Bridget thought for a minute.

She said at last: âI still canât believe it. What evidence have you got, Luke?â

âWell, there are his own words. He told me, quite plainly and distinctly, the night before last, that anyone who opposed him in any way always died.â

âGo on.â

âI canât quite explain to you what I meanâbut it was the way he said it. Quite calm and complacent andâhow shall I put it?âquite used to the idea! He just sat there smiling to himselfâ¦It was uncanny and rather horrible, Bridget!â

âGo on.â

âWell, then he went on to give me a list of people whoâd passed out because theyâd incurred his sovereign displeasure! And, listen to this, Bridget, the people he mentioned were Mrs. Horton, Amy Gibbs, Tommy Pierce, Harry Carter, Humbleby, and that chauffeur fellow, Rivers.â

Bridget was shaken at last. She went very pale.

âHe mentioned those actual people?â

âThose actual people! Now do you believe?â

âOh, God, I suppose I mustâ¦What were his reasons?â

âHorribly trivialâthatâs what made it so frightening. Mrs. Horton had snubbed him, Tommy Pierce had done imitations of him and made the gardeners laugh, Harry Carter had abused him, Amy Gibbs had been grossly impertinent, Humbleby had dared to oppose him publicly, Rivers threatened him before me and Miss Waynfleteââ

Bridget put her hands to her eyes.

âHorribleâ¦Quite horribleâ¦â she murmured.

âI know. Then thereâs some other outside evidence. The car that ran down Miss Pinkerton in London was a Rolls, and its number was the number of Lord Whitfieldâs car.â

âThat definitely clinches it,â said Bridget slowly.

âYes. The police thought the woman who gave them that number must have made a mistake. Mistake indeed!â

âI can understand that,â said Bridget. âWhen it comes to a rich, powerful man like Lord Whitfield, naturally his story is the one to be believed!â

âYes. One appreciates Miss Pinkertonâs difficulty.â

Bridget said thoughtfully:

âOnce or twice she said rather queer things to me. As though she were warning me against somethingâ¦I didnât understand in the least at the timeâ¦I see now!â

âIt all fits in,â said Luke. âThatâs the way of it. At first one says (as you said), âImpossible!â and then once one accepts the idea, everything fits in! The grapes he sent to Mrs. Hortonâand she thought the nurses were poisoning her! And that visit of his to the Wellerman Kreutz Instituteâsomehow or other he must have got hold of some culture of germs and infected Humbleby.â

âI donât see how he managed that.â

âI donât either, but the connection is there. One canât get away from that.â

âNoâ¦As you say, if fits. And of course he could do things that other people couldnât! I mean he would be so completely above suspicion!â

âI think Miss Waynflete suspected. She mentioned that visit to the institute. Brought it into conversation quite casuallyâbut I believe she hoped Iâd act upon it.â

âShe knew, then, all along?â

âShe had a very strong suspicion. I think she was handicapped by having once been in love with him.â

Bridget nodded.

âYes, that accounts for several things. Gordon told me they had once been engaged.â

âShe wanted, you see, not to believe it was him. But she became more and more sure that it was. She tried to give me hints, but she couldnât bear to do anything outright against him! Women are odd creatures! I think, in a way, she still cares about himâ¦.â

âEven after he jilted her?â

âShe jilted him. It was rather an ugly story. Iâll tell you.â

He recounted the short, ugly episode. Bridget stared at him.

âGordon did that?â

âYes. Even in those days, you see, he canât have been normal!â

Bridget shivered and murmured:

âAll those years agoâ¦all those yearsâ¦.â

Luke said:

âHe may have got rid of a lot more people than we shall ever know about! Itâs just the rapid succession of deaths lately that drew attention to him! As though heâd got reckless with success!â

Bridget nodded. She was silent for a minute or two, thinking, then she asked abruptly:

âWhat exactly did Miss Pinkerton say to youâin the train that day? How did she begin?â

Luke cast his mind back.

âTold me she was going to Scotland Yard, mentioned the village constable, said he was a nice fellow but not up to dealing with murder.â

âThat was the first mention of the word?â

âYes.â

âGo on.â

âThen she said, âYouâre surprised, I can see. I was myself at first. I really couldnât believe it. I thought I must be imagining things.ââ

âAnd then?â

âI asked her if she was sure she wasnâtâimagining things, I meanâand she said quite placidly, âOh, no! I might have been the first time, but not the second, or the third or the fourth. After that one knows.ââ

âMarvellous,â commented Bridget. âGo on.â

âSo of course I humoured herâsaid I was sure she was doing the right thing. I was an unbelieving Thomas if there ever was one!â

âI know. So easy to be wise after the event! Iâd have felt the same, nice and superior to the poor old dame! How did the conversation go on?â

âLet me seeâoh! she mentioned the Abercrombie caseâyou know, the Welsh poisoner. Said she hadnât really believed that there had been a lookâa special lookâthat he gave his victims. But that she believed it now because she had seen it herself.â

âWhat words did she use exactly?â

Luke thought, creasing his brow.

âShe said, still in that nice ladylike voice, âOf course, I didnât really believe that when I read about itâbut itâs true.â And I said, âWhatâs true?â And she said, âThe look on a personâs face.â And by Jove, Bridget, the way she said that absolutely got me! Her quiet voice and the look on her faceâlike someone who had really seen something almost too horrible to speak about!â

âGo on, Luke. Tell me everything.â

âAnd then she enumerated the victimsâAmy Gibbs and Carter and Tommy Pierce, and said that Tommy was a horrid boy and Carter drank. And then she said, âBut nowâyesterdayâit was Dr. Humblebyâand heâs such a good manâa really good man.â And she said if she went to Humbleby and told him, he wouldnât believe her, heâd only laugh!â

Bridget gave a deep sigh.

âI see,â she said. âI see.â

Luke looked at her.

âWhat is it, Bridget? What are you thinking of?â

âSomething Mrs. Humbleby once said. I wonderedâno, never mind, go on. What was it she said to you right at the end?â

Luke repeated the words soberly. They had made an impression on him and he was not likely to forget them.

âIâd said it was difficult to get away with a lot of murders, and she answered, âNo, no, my dear boy, thatâs where youâre wrong. Itâs very easy to killâso long as no one suspects you. And you see, the person in question is just the last person anyone would suspectâ¦.ââ

He was silent. Bridget said with a shiver:

âEasy to kill? Horribly easyâthatâs true enough! No wonder those words stuck in your mind, Luke. Theyâll stick in mineâall my life! A man like Gordon Whitfieldâoh! of course itâs easy.â

âItâs not so easy to bring it home to him,â said Luke.

âDonât you think so? Iâve an idea I can help there.â

âBridget, I forbid youââ

âYou canât. One canât just sit back and play safe. Iâm in this, Luke. It may be dangerousâyes, Iâll admit thatâbut Iâve got to play my part.â

âBridgetââ

âIâm in this, Luke! I shall accept Miss Waynfleteâs invitation and stay down here.â

âMy darling, I implore youââ

âItâs dangerous for both of us. I know that. But weâre in it, Lukeâweâre in itâtogether!â

Twenty-one

âO WHY DO YOU WALK THROUGH THE FIELDS IN GLOVES?â

The calm interior of Miss Waynfleteâs house was almost an anti-climax after that tense moment in the car.

Miss Waynflete received Bridgetâs acceptance of her invitation a little doubtfully, hastening, however, to reiterate her offer of hospitality by way of showing that her doubts were due to quite another cause than unwillingness to receive the girl.

Luke said:

âI really think it will be the best thing, since you are so kind, Miss Waynflete. I am staying at the Bells and Motley. Iâd rather have Bridget under my eye than up in town. After all, remember what happened there before.â

Miss Waynflete said:

âYou meanâLavinia Pinkerton?â

âYes. You would have said, wouldnât you, that anyone would be quite safe in the middle of a crowded city.â

âYou mean,â said Miss Waynflete, âthat anyoneâs safety depends principally on the fact that nobody wishes to kill them?â

âExactly. We have come to depend upon what has been called the goodwill of civilization.â

Miss Waynflete nodded her head thoughtfully.

Bridget said:

âHow long have you known thatâthat Gordon was the killer, Miss Waynflete?â

Miss Waynflete sighed.

âThat is a difficult question to answer, my dear. I suppose that I have been quite sure, in my inmost heart, for sometimeâ¦But I did my best not to recognize that belief! You see, I didnât want to believe it and so I pretended to myself that it was a wicked and monstrous idea on my part.â

Luke said bluntly:

âHave you never been afraidâfor yourself?â

Miss Waynflete considered.

âYou mean that if Gordon had suspected that I knew, he would have found some means of getting rid of me?â

âYes.â

Miss Waynflete said gently:

âI have, of course, been alive to that possibilityâ¦I tried to beâcareful of myself. But I do not think that Gordon would have considered me a real menace.â

âWhy?â

Miss Waynflete flushed a little.

âI donât think that Gordon would ever believe that I would do anything toâto bring him into danger.â

Luke said abruptly:

âYou went as far, didnât you, as to warn him?â

âYes. That is, I did hint to him that it was odd that anyone who displeased him should shortly meet with an accident.â

Bridget demanded:

âAnd what did he say?â

A worried expression passed over Miss Waynfleteâs face.

âHe didnât react at all in the way I meant. He seemedâreally itâs most extraordinary!âhe seemed pleasedâ¦He said, âSo youâve noticed that?â He quiteâquite preened himself, if I may use that expression.â

âHeâs mad, of course,â said Luke.

Miss Waynflete agreed eagerly.

âYes, indeed, there isnât any other explanation possible. Heâs not responsible for his acts.â She laid a hand on Lukeâs arm. âTheyâthey wonât hang him, will they, Mr. Fitzwilliam?â

âNo, no. Send him to Broadmoor, I expect.â

Miss Waynflete sighed and leaned back.

âIâm so glad.â

Her eyes rested on Bridget, who was frowning down at the carpet.

Luke said:

âBut weâre a long way from all that still. Iâve notified the powers that be and I can say this much, theyâre prepared to take the matter seriously. But you must realize that weâve got remarkably little evidence to go upon.â

âWeâll get evidence,â said Bridget.

Miss Waynflete looked up at her. There was some quality in her expression that reminded Luke of someone or something that he had seen not long ago. He tried to pin down the elusive memory but failed.

Miss Waynflete said doubtfully:

âYou are confident, my dear. Well, perhaps you are right.â

Luke said:

âIâll go along with the car, Bridget, and fetch your things from the Manor.â

Bridget said immediately:

âIâll come too.â

âIâd rather you didnât.â

âYes, but Iâd rather come.â

Luke said irritably:

âDonât do the mother and child act with me, Bridget! I refuse to be protected by you.â

Miss Waynflete murmured:

âI really think, Bridget, that it will be quite all rightâin a carâand in daylight.â

Bridget gave a slightly shamefaced laugh.

âIâm being rather an idiot. This business gets on oneâs nerves.â

Luke said:

âMiss Waynflete protected me home the other night. Come now, Miss Waynflete, admit it! You did, didnât you?â

She admitted it, smiling.

âYou see, Mr. Fitzwilliam, you were so completely unsuspicious! And if Gordon Whitfield had really grasped the fact that you were down here to look into this business and for no other reasonâwell, it wasnât very safe. And thatâs a very lonely laneâanything might have happened!â

âWell, Iâm alive to the danger now all right,â said Luke grimly. âI shanât be caught napping, I can assure you.â

Miss Waynflete said anxiously:

âRemember, he is very cunning. And much cleverer than you would ever imagine! Really, a most ingenious mind.â

âIâm forewarned.â

âMen have courageâone knows that,â said Miss Waynflete, âbut they are more easily deceived than women.â

âThatâs true,â said Bridget.

Luke said:

âSeriously, Miss Waynflete, do you really think that I am in any danger? Do you think, in film parlance, that Lord Whitfield is really out to get me?â

Miss Waynflete hesitated.

âI think,â she said, âthat the principal danger is to Bridget. It is her rejection of him that is the supreme insult! I think that after he has dealt with Bridget he will turn his attention to you. But I think that undoubtedly he will try for her first.â

Luke groaned.

âI wish to goodness youâd go abroadânowâat once, Bridget.â

Bridgetâs lips set themselves together.

âIâm not going.â

Miss Waynflete sighed.

âYou are a brave creature, Bridget. I admire you.â

âYouâd do the same in my place.â

âWell, perhaps.â

Bridget said, her voice dropping to a full, rich note:

âLuke and I are in this together.â

She went out with him to the door. Luke said:

âIâll give you a ring from the Bells and Motley when Iâm safely out of the lionâs den.â

âYes, do.â

âMy sweet, donât letâs get all het up! Even the most accomplished murderers have to have a little time to mature their plans! I should say weâre quite all right for a day or two. Superintendent Battle is coming down from London today. From then on Whitfield will be under observation.â

âIn fact, everything is OK, and we can cut out the melodrama.â

Luke said gravely, laying a hand on her shoulder:

âBridget, my sweet, you will oblige me by not doing anything rash!â

âSame to you, darling Luke.â

He squeezed her shoulder, jumped into the car and drove off.

Bridget returned to the sitting room. Miss Waynflete was fussing a little in a gentle spinsterish manner.

âMy dear, your roomâs not quite ready yet. Emily is seeing to it. Do you know what Iâm going to do? Iâm going to get you a nice cup of tea! Itâs just what you need after all these upsetting incidents.â

âItâs frightfully kind of you, Miss Waynflete, but I really donât want any.â

What Bridget would have liked was a strong cocktail, mainly composed of gin, but she rightly judged that that form of refreshment was not likely to be forthcoming. She disliked tea intensely. It usually gave her indigestion. Miss Waynflete, however, had decided that tea was what her young guest needed. She bustled out of the room and reappeared about five minutes later, her face beaming, carrying a tray on which stood two dainty Dresden cups full of a fragrant, steaming beverage.

âReal Lapsang Souchong,â said Miss Waynflete proudly.

Bridget, who disliked China tea even more than Indian, gave a wan smile.

At that moment Emily, a small clumsy-looking girl with pronounced adenoids, appeared in the doorway and said:

âIf you please, bissâdid you bean the frilled billowcases?â

Miss Waynflete hurriedly left the room, and Bridget took advantage of the respite to pour her tea out of the window, narrowly escaping scalding Wonky Pooh, who was on the flower bed below.

Wonky Pooh accepted her apologies, sprang up on the windowsill and proceeded to wind himself in and out over Bridgetâs shoulders, purring in an affected manner.

âHandsome!â said Bridget, drawing a hand down his back.

Wonky Pooh arched his tail and purred with redoubled vigour.

âNice pussy,â said Bridget, tickling his ears.

Miss Waynflete returned at that minute.

âDear me,â she exclaimed. âWonky Pooh has quite taken to you, hasnât he? Heâs so standoffish as a rule! Mind his ear, my dear, heâs had a bad ear lately and itâs still very painful.â

The injunction came too late. Bridgetâs hand had tweaked the painful ear. Wonky Pooh spat at her and retired, a mass of orange offended dignity.

âOh, dear, has he scratched you?â cried Miss Waynflete.

âNothing much,â said Bridget, sucking a diagonal scratch on the back of her hand.

âShall I put some iodine on?â

âOh, no, itâs quite all right. Donât letâs fuss.â

Miss Waynflete seemed a little disappointed. Feeling that she had been ungracious, Bridget said hastily:

âI wonder how long Luke will be?â

âNow donât worry, my dear. Iâm sure Mr. Fitzwilliam is well able to look after himself.â

âOh, Lukeâs tough all right!â

At that moment the telephone rang. Bridget hurried to it. Lukeâs voice spoke.

âHallo? That you, Bridget? Iâm at the Bells and Motley. Can you wait for your traps till after lunch? Because Battle has arrived hereâyou know who I meanââ

âThe superintendent man from Scotland Yard?â

âYes. And he wants to have a talk with me right away.â

âThatâs all right by me. Bring my things round after lunch and tell me what he says about it all.â

âRight. So long, my sweet.â

âSo long.â

Bridget replaced the receiver and retailed the conversation to Miss Waynflete. Then she yawned. A feeling of fatigue had succeeded her excitement.

Miss Waynflete noticed it.

âYouâre tired, my dear! Youâd better lie downâno, perhaps that would be a bad thing just before lunch. I was just going to take some old clothes to a woman in a cottage not very far awayâquite a pretty walk over the fields. Perhaps youâd care to come with me? Weâll just have time before lunch.â

Bridget agreed willingly.

They went out the back way. Miss Waynflete wore a straw hat and, to Bridgetâs amusement, had put on gloves.

âWe might be going to Bond Street!â she thought to herself.

Miss Waynflete chatted pleasantly of various small village matters as they walked. They went across two fields, crossed a rough lane and then took a path leading through a ragged copse. The day was hot and Bridget found the shade of the trees pleasant.

Miss Waynflete suggested that they should sit down and rest a minute.

âItâs really rather oppressively warm today, donât you think? I fancy there must be thunder about!â

Bridget acquiesced somewhat sleepily. She lay back against the bankâher eyes half-closedâsome lines of poetry wandering through her brain.

âO why do you walk through the fields in gloves

O fat white woman whom nobody loves?â

But that wasnât quite right! Miss Waynflete wasnât fat. She amended the words to fit the case.

âO why do you walk through the fields in gloves,

O lean grey woman whom nobody loves?â

Miss Waynflete broke in upon her thoughts.

âYouâre very sleepy, dear, arenât you?â

The words were said in a gentle everyday tone, but something in them jerked Bridgetâs eyes suddenly open.

Miss Waynflete was leaning forward towards her. Her eyes were eager, her tongue passed gently over her lips. She repeated her question:

âYouâre very sleepy, arenât you?â

This time there was no mistaking the definite significance of the tone. A flash passed through Bridgetâs brainâa lightning flash of comprehension, succeeded by one of contempt at her own density!

She had suspected the truthâbut it had been no more than a dim suspicion. She had meant, working quietly and secretly, to make sure. But not for one moment had she realized that anything was to be attempted against herself. She had, she thought, concealed her suspicious entirely. Nor would she have dreamed that anything would be contemplated so soon. Foolâseven times fool!

And she thought suddenly:

âThe teaâthere was something in the tea. She doesnât know I never drank it. Nowâs my chance! I must pretend! What stuff was it, I wonder? Poison? Or just sleeping stuff? She expects me to be sleepyâthatâs evident.â

She let her eyelids droop again. In what she hoped was a natural drowsy voice, she said:

âI doâfrightfullyâ¦How funny! I donât know when Iâve felt so sleepy.â

Miss Waynflete nodded softly.

Bridget watched the older woman narrowly through her almost closed eyes.

She thought:

âIâm a match for her anyway! My muscles are pretty toughâsheâs a skinny frail old pussy. But Iâve got to make her talkâthatâs itâmake her talk!â

Miss Waynflete was smiling. It was not a nice smile. It was sly and not very human.

Bridget thought:

âSheâs like a goat. God! how like a goat she is! A goatâs always been an evil symbol! I see why now! I was rightâI was right in that fantastic idea of mine! Hell hath no fury like a woman scornedâ¦That was the start of itâitâs all there.â

She murmured, and this time her voice held a definite note of apprehension.

âI donât know whatâs the matter with meâ¦I feel so queerâso very queer!â

Miss Waynflete gave a swift glance round her. The spot was entirely desolate. It was too far from the village for a shout to be heard. There were no houses or cottages near. She began to fumble with the parcel she carriedâthe parcel that was supposed to contain old clothes. Apparently it did. The paper came apart, revealing a soft woolly garment. And still those gloved hands fumbled and fumbled.

âO why do you walk through the fields in gloves?â

âYesâwhy? Why gloves?â

Of course! Of course! The whole thing so beautifully planned!

The wrapping fell aside. Carefully, Miss Waynflete extracted the knife, holding it very carefully so as not to obliterate the fingerprints which were already on itâwhere the short podgy fingers of Lord Whitfield had held it earlier that day in the drawing room at Ashe Manor.

The Moorish knife with the sharp blade.

Bridget felt slightly sick. She must play for timeâyes and she must make the woman talkâthis lean, grey woman whom nobody loved. It ought not to be difficultânot really. Because she must want to talk, oh, so badlyâand the only person she could ever talk to was someone like Bridgetâsomeone who was going to be silenced for ever.

Bridget saidâin a faint, thick voice:

âWhatâsâthatâknife?â

And then Miss Waynflete laughed.

It was a horrible laugh, soft and musical and ladylike, and quite inhuman. She said:

âItâs for you, Bridget. For you! Iâve hated you, you know, for a very long time.â

Bridget said:

âBecause I was going to marry Gordon Whitfield?â

Miss Waynflete nodded.

âYouâre clever. Youâre quite clever! This, you see, will be the crowning proof against him. Youâll be found here, with your throat cutâandâhis knife, and his fingerprints on the knife! Clever the way I asked to see it this morning!

âAnd then I slipped it into my bag wrapped in a handkerchief whilst you were upstairs. So easy! But the whole thing has been easy. I would hardly have believed it.â

Bridget saidâstill in the thick, muffled voice of a person heavily drugged:

âThatâsâbecauseâyouâreâsoâdevilishlyâcleverâ¦.â

Miss Waynflete laughed her ladylike little laugh again. She said with a horrible kind of pride:

âYes, I always had brains, even as a girl! But they wouldnât let me do anythingâ¦I had to stay at homeâdoing nothing. And then Gordonâjust a common boot-makerâs son, but he had ambition, I knew. I knew he would rise in the world. And he jilted meâjilted me! All because of that ridiculous business with the bird.â

Her hands made a queer gesture as though she were twisting something.

Again a wave of sickness passed over Bridget.

âGordon Ragg daring to jilt meâColonel Waynfleteâs daughter! I swore Iâd pay him out for that! I used to think about it night after nightâ¦And then we got poorer and poorer. The house had to be sold. He bought it! He came along patronizing me, offering me a job in my own old home. How I hated him then! But I never showed my feelings. We were taught that as girlsâa most valuable training. That, I always think, is where breeding tells.â

She was silent a minute. Bridget watched her, hardly daring to breathe lest she should stem the flow of words.

Miss Waynflete went on softly:

âAll the time I was thinking and thinkingâ¦First of all I just thought of killing him. Thatâs when I began to read up criminologyâquietly, you knowâin the library. And really I found my reading came in most useful more than once later. The door of Amyâs room, for instance, turning the key in the lock from the outside with pincers after Iâd changed the bottles by her bed. How she snored, that girl, quite disgusting, it was!â

She paused.

âLet me see, where was I?â

That gift which Bridget had cultivated, which had charmed Lord Whitfield, the gift of the perfect listener, stood her in good stead now. Honoria Waynflete might be a homicidal maniac but she was also something much more common than that. She was a human being who wanted to talk about herself. And with that class of human being Bridget was well fitted to cope.

She said, and her voice had exactly the right invitation in it:

âYou meant at first to kill himââ

âYes, but that didnât satisfy meâmuch too ordinaryâit had to be something better than just killing. And then I got this idea. It just came to me. He should suffer for committing a lot of crimes of which he was quite innocent. He should be a murderer! He should be hanged for my crimes. Or else theyâd say he was mad and he would be shut up all his lifeâ¦That might be even better.â

She giggled now. A horrible little giggleâ¦Her eyes were light and staring with queer elongated pupils.

âAs I told you, I read a lot of books on crime. I chose my victims carefullyâthere was not to be too much suspicion at first. You see,â her voice deepened, âI enjoyed the killingâ¦That disagreeable woman, Lydia Hortonâsheâd patronized meâonce she referred to me as an old maid. I was glad when Gordon quarrelled with her. Two birds with one stone, I thought! Such fun, sitting by her bedside and slipping the arsenic in her tea, and then going out and telling the nurse how Mrs. Horton had complained of the bitter taste of Lord Whitfieldâs grapes! The stupid woman never repeated that, which was such a pity.

âAnd then the others! As soon as I heard that Gordon had a grievance against anyone, it was so easy to arrange for an accident! And he was such a foolâsuch an incredible fool! I made him believe that there was something very special about him! That anyone who went against him suffered. He believed it quite easily. Poor dear Gordon, heâd believe anything. So gullible!â

Bridget thought of herself saying to Luke scornfully:

âGordon! He could believe anything!â

Easy? How easy! Poor pompous credulous little Gordon.

But she must learn more! Easy? This was easy too! Sheâd done it as a secretary for years. Quietly encouraged her employers to talk about themselves. And this woman wanted badly to talk, to boast about her own cleverness.

Bridget murmured:

âBut how did you manage it all? I donât see how you could.â

âOh, it was quite easy! It just needed organisation! When Amy was discharged from the Manor I engaged her at once. I think the hat paint idea was quite cleverâand the door being locked on the inside made me quite safe. But of course I was always safe because I never had any motive, and you canât suspect anyone of murder if there isnât a motive. Carter was quite easy tooâhe was lurching about in the fog and I caught up with him on the footbridge and gave him a quick push. Iâm really very strong, you know.â

She paused and the soft horrible little giggle came again.

âThe whole thing was such fun! I shall never forget Tommyâs face when I pushed him off the windowsill that day. He hadnât the least ideaâ¦.â

She leaned towards Bridget confidentially.

âPeople are really very stupid, you know. Iâd never realized that before.â

Bridget said very softly:

âBut thenâyouâre unusually clever.â

âYesâyesâperhaps youâre right.â

Bridget said:

âDr. Humblebyâthat must have been more difficult?â

âYes, it was really amazing how that succeeded. It might not have worked, of course. But Gordon had been talking to everybody of his visit to the Wellerman Kreutz Institute, and I thought if I could manage it so that people remembered that visit and connected it afterwards. And Wonky Poohâs ear was really very nasty, a lot of discharge. I managed to run the point of my scissors into the doctorâs hand, and then I was so distressed and insisted on putting on a dressing and bandaging it up. He didnât know the dressing had been infected first from Wonky Poohâs ear. Of course, it mightnât have workedâit was just a long shot. I was delighted when it didâespecially as Wonky Pooh had been Laviniaâs cat.â

Her face darkened.

âLavinia Pinkerton! She guessedâ¦It was she who found Tommy that day. And then when Gordon and old Dr. Humbleby had that row, she caught me looking at Humbleby. I was off my guard. I was just wondering exactly how Iâd do itâ¦And she knew! I turned round to find her watching me andâI gave myself away. I saw that she knew. She couldnât prove anything, of course. I knew that. But I was afraid all the same someone might believe her. I was afraid they might believe her at Scotland Yard. I felt sure that was where she was going that day. I was in the same train and I followed her.

âThe whole thing was so easy. She was on an island crossing Whitehall. I was close behind her. She never saw me. A big car came along and I shoved with all my might. Iâm very strong! She went right down in front of it. I told the woman next to me Iâd seen the number of the car and gave her the number of Gordonâs Rolls. I hoped sheâd repeat it to the police.

âIt was lucky the car didnât stop. Some chauffeur joyriding without his masterâs knowledge, I suspect. Yes, I was lucky there. Iâm always lucky. That scene the other day with Rivers, and Luke Fitzwilliam as witness. Iâve had such fun leading him along! Odd how difficult it was to make him suspect Gordon. But after Riversâs death he would be sure to do so. He must!

âAnd nowâwell, this will just finish the whole thing nicely.â

She got up and came towards Bridget. She said softly:

âGordon jilted me! He was going to marry you. All my life Iâve been disappointed. Iâve had nothingânothing at allâ¦.â

âO lean grey woman whom nobody lovesâ¦â

She was bending over her, smiling, with mad light eyesâ¦The knife gleamedâ¦.

With all her youth and strength, Bridget sprang. Like a tiger cat, she flung herself full force on the other woman, knocking her back, seizing her right wrist.

Taken by surprise, Honoria Waynflete fell back before the onslaught. But then, after a momentâs inertia, she began to fight. In strength there was no comparison between them. Bridget was young and healthy with muscles toughened by games. Honoria Waynflete was a slender-built, frail creature.

But there was one factor on which Bridget had not reckoned. Honoria Waynflete was mad. Her strength was the strength of the insane. She fought like a devil and her insane strength was stronger than the sane muscled strength of Bridget. They swayed to and fro, and still Bridget strove to wrest the knife away from her, and still Honoria Waynflete hung on to it.

And then, little by little, the mad womanâs strength began to prevail. Bridget cried out now:

âLukeâ¦Helpâ¦Helpâ¦â

But she had no hope of help coming. She and Honoria Waynflete were alone. Alone in a dead world. With a supreme effort she wrenched the otherâs wrist back, and at last she heard the knife fall.

The next minute Honoria Waynfleteâs two hands had fastened round her neck in a maniac grasp, squeezing the life out of her. She gave one last choked cryâ¦.

Twenty-two

MRS. HUMBLEBY SPEAKS

Luke was favourably impressed by the appearance of Superintendent Battle. He was a solid, comfortable-looking man with a broad red face and a large handsome moustache. He did not exactly express brilliance at a first glance, but a second glance was apt to make an observant person thoughtful, for Superintendent Battleâs eye was unusually shrewd.

Luke did not make the mistake of underestimating him. He had met men of Battleâs type before. He knew that they could be trusted, and that they invariably got results. He could not have wished for a better man to be put in charge of the case.

When they were alone together Luke said:

âYouâre rather a big noise to be sent down on a case like this?â

Superintendent Battle smiled.

âIt may turn out to be a serious business, Mr. Fitzwilliam. When a man like Lord Whitfield is concerned, we donât want to have any mistakes.â

âI appreciate that. Are you alone?â

âOh, no. Got a detective-sergeant with me. Heâs at the other pub, the Seven Stars, and his job is to keep an eye on his lordship.â

âI see.â

Battle asked:

âIn your opinion, Mr. Fitzwilliam, thereâs no doubt whatever? Youâre pretty sure of your man?â

âOn the facts I donât see that any alternative theory is possible. Do you want me to give you the facts?â

âIâve had them, thank you, from Sir William.â

âWell, what do you think? I suppose it seems to you wildly unlikely that a man in Lord Whitfieldâs position should be a homicidal criminal?â

âVery few things seem unlikely to me,â said Superintendent Battle. âNothingâs impossible in crime. Thatâs what Iâve always said. If you were to tell me that a dear old maiden lady, or an archbishop, or a schoolgirl, was a dangerous criminal, I wouldnât say no. Iâd look into the matter.â

âIf youâve heard the main facts of the case from Sir William, Iâll just tell you what happened this morning,â said Luke.

He ran over briefly the main lines of his scene with Lord Whitfield. Superintendent Battle listened with a good deal of interest.

He said:

âYou say he was fingering a knife. Did he make a special point of that knife, Mr. Fitzwilliam? Was he threatening with it?â

âNot openly. He tested the edge in a rather nasty wayâa kind of Ã¦sthetic pleasure about that that I didnât care about. Miss Waynflete felt the same, I believe.â

âThatâs the lady you spoke aboutâthe one whoâs known Lord Whitfield all her life, and was once engaged to marry him?â

âThatâs right.â

Superintendent Battle said:

âI think you can make your mind easy about the young lady, Mr. Fitzwilliam. Iâll have someone put on to keep a sharp watch on her. With that, and with Jackson tailing his lordship, there ought to be no danger of anything happening.â

âYou relieve my mind a good deal,â said Luke.

The superintendent nodded sympathetically.

âItâs a nasty position for you, Mr. Fitzwilliam. Worrying about Miss Conway. Mind you, I donât expect this will be an easy case. Lord Whitfield must be a pretty shrewd man. He will probably lie low for a good long while. That is, unless heâs got to the last stage.â

âWhat do you call the last stage?â

âA kind of swollen egoism where a criminal thinks he simply canât be found out! Heâs too clever and everybody else is too stupid! Then, of course, we get him!â

Luke nodded. He rose.

âWell,â he said, âI wish you luck. Let me help in any way I can.â

âCertainly.â

âThereâs nothing that you can suggest?â

Battle turned the question over in his mind.

âI donât think so. Not at the moment. I just want to get the general hang of things in the place. Perhaps I could have another word with you in the evening?â

âRather.â

âI shall know better where we are then.â

Luke felt vaguely comforted and soothed. Many people had had that feeling after an interview with Superintendent Battle.

He glanced at his watch. Should he go round and see Bridget before lunch?

Better not, he thought. Miss Waynflete might feel that she had to ask him to stay for the meal, and it might disorganize her housekeeping. Middle-aged ladies, Luke knew from experience with aunts, were liable to be fussed over problems of housekeeping. He wondered if Miss Waynflete was an aunt? Probably.

He had strolled out to the door of the inn. A figure in black hurrying down the street stopped suddenly when she saw him.

âMr. Fitzwilliam.â

âMrs. Humbleby.â

He came forward and shook hands.

She said:

âI thought you had left?â

âNoâonly changed my quarters. Iâm staying here now.â

âAnd Bridget? I heard she had left Ashe Manor?â

âYes, she has.â

Mrs. Humbleby sighed.

âI am so gladâso very glad she has gone right away from Wychwood.â

âOh, sheâs still here. As a matter of fact, sheâs staying with Miss Waynflete.â

Mrs. Humbleby moved back a step. Her face, Luke noted with surprise, looked extraordinarily distressed.

âStaying with Honoria Waynflete? Oh, but why?â

âMiss Waynflete very kindly asked her to stay for a few days.â

Mrs. Humbleby gave a little shiver. She came close to Luke and laid a hand on his arm.

âMr. Fitzwilliam, I know I have no right to say anythingâanything at all. I have had a lot of sorrow and grief lately andâperhapsâit makes me fanciful! These feelings of mine may be only sick fancies.â

Luke said gently:

âWhat feelings?â

âThis conviction I have ofâof evil!â

She looked timidly at Luke. Seeing that he merely bowed his head gravely and did not appear to question her statement, she went on:

âSo much wickednessâthat is the thought that is always with meâwickedness here in Wychwood. And that woman is at the bottom of it all. I am sure of it!â

Luke was mystified.

âWhat woman?â

Mrs. Humbleby said:

âHonoria Waynflete is, I am sure, a very wicked woman! Oh, I see, you donât believe me! No one believed Lavinia Pinkerton either. But we both felt it. She, I think, knew more than I didâ¦Remember, Mr. Fitzwilliam, if a woman is not happy she is capable of terrible things.â

Luke said gently:

âThat may beâyes.â

Mrs. Humbleby said quickly:

âYou donât believe me? Well, why should you? But I canât forget the day when John came home with his hand bound up from her house, though he pooh-poohed it and said it was only a scratch.â

She turned.

âGood-bye. Please forget what I have just said. IâI donât feel quite myself these days.â

Luke watched her go. He wondered why Mrs. Humbleby called Honoria Waynflete a wicked woman. Had Dr. Humbleby and Honoria Waynflete been friends, and was the doctorâs wife jealous?

What had she said? âNobody believed Lavinia Pinkerton either.â Then Lavinia Pinkerton must have confided some of her suspicions to Mrs. Humbleby.

With a rush the memory of the railway carriage came back, and the worried face of a nice old lady. He heard again an earnest voice saying, âThe look on a personâs face.â And the way her own face had changed as though she were seeing something very clearly in her mind. Just for a moment, he thought, her face had been quite different, the lips drawn back from the teeth and a queer, almost gloating look in her eyes.

He suddenly thought: But Iâve seen someone look just like thatâthat same expressionâ¦Quite latelyâwhen? This morning! Of course! Miss Waynflete, when she was looking at Bridget in the drawing room at the Manor.

And quite suddenly another memory assailed him. One of many years ago. His Aunt Mildred saying, âShe looked, you know, my dear, quite half-witted!â and just for a minute her own sane comfortable face had borne an imbecile, mindless expressionâ¦.

Lavinia Pinkerton had been speaking of the look she had seen on a manâsâno, a personâs face. Was it possible that, just for a second, her vivid imagination had reproduced the look that she sawâthe look of a murderer looking at his next victimâ¦.

Half unaware of what he was doing, Luke quickened his pace towards Miss Waynfleteâs house.

A voice in his brain was saying over and over again:

âNot a manâshe never mentioned a manâyou assumed it was a man because you were thinking of a manâbut she never said soâ¦Oh, God, am I quite mad? It isnât possible what Iâm thinkingâ¦surely it isnât possibleâit wouldnât make senseâ¦But I must get to Bridget. I must know sheâs all rightâ¦Those eyesâthose queer, light amber eyes. Oh, Iâm mad! I must be mad! Whitfieldâs the criminal! He must be. He practically said so!â

And still, like a nightmare, he saw Miss Pinkertonâs face in its momentary impersonation of something horrible and not quite sane.

The stunted little maid opened the door to him. A little startled by his vehemence, she said:

âThe ladyâs gone out. Miss Waynflete told me so. Iâll see if Miss Waynfleteâs in.â

He pushed past her, went into the drawing room. Emily ran upstairs. She came down breathless.

âThe mistress is out too.â

Luke took her by the shoulder.

âWhich way? Where did they go?â

She gaped at him.

âThey must have gone out by the back. Iâd have seen them if theyâd gone out frontways because the kitchen looks out there.â

She followed him as he raced out through the door into the tiny garden and out beyond. There was a man clipping a hedge. Luke went up to him and asked a question, striving to keep his voice normal.

The man said slowly:

âTwo ladies? Yes. Some while since. I was having my dinner under the hedge. Reckon they didnât notice me.â

âWhich way did they go?â

He strove desperately to make his voice normal. Yet the otherâs eyes opened a little wider as he replied slowly:

âAcross them fieldsâ¦Over that way. I donât know where after that.â

Luke thanked him and began to run. His strong feeling of urgency was deepened. He must catch up with themâhe must! He might be quite mad. In all probability they were just taking an amicable stroll, but something in him clamoured for haste. More haste!

He crossed the two fields, stood hesitating in a country lane. Which way now?

And then he heard the callâfaint, far away, but unmistakableâ¦.

âLuke, help.â And again, âLukeâ¦â

Unerringly he plunged into the wood and ran in the direction from which the cry had come. There were more sounds nowâscufflingâpantingâa low gurgling cry.

He came through the trees in time to tear a mad womanâs hands from her victimâs throat, to hold her, struggling, foaming, cursing, till at last she gave a convulsive shudder and turned rigid in his grasp.

Twenty-three

NEW BEGINNING

âBut I donât understand,â said Lord Whitfield. âI donât understand.â

He strove to maintain his dignity, but beneath the pompous exterior a rather pitiable bewilderment was evident. He could hardly credit the extraordinary things that were being told him.

âItâs like this, Lord Whitfield,â said Battle patiently. âTo begin with there is a touch of insanity in the family. Weâve found that out now. Often the way with these old families. I should say she had a predisposition that way. And then she was an ambitious ladyâand she was thwarted. First her career and then her love affair.â He coughed. âI understand it was you who jilted her?â

Lord Whitfield said stiffly:

âI donât like the term jilt.â

Superintendent Battle amended the phrase.

âIt was you who terminated the engagement?â

âWellâyes.â

âTell us why, Gordon,â said Bridget.

Lord Whitfield got rather red. He said:

âOh, very well, if I must. Honoria had a canary. She was very fond of it. It used to take sugar from her lips. One day it pecked her violently instead. She was angry and picked it upâandâwrung its neck! IâI couldnât feel the same after that. I told her I thought weâd both made a mistake.â

Battle nodded. He said:

âThat was the beginning of it! As she told Miss Conway, she turned her thoughts and her undoubted mental ability to one aim and purpose.â

Lord Whitfield said incredulously:

âTo get me convicted as a murderer? I canât believe it.â

Bridget said, âItâs true, Gordon. You know, you were surprised yourself at the extraordinary way that everybody who annoyed you was instantly struck down.â

âThere was a reason for that.â

âHonoria Waynflete was the reason,â said Bridget. âDo get it into your head, Gordon, that it wasnât Providence that pushed Tommy Pierce out of the window, and all the rest of them. It was Honoria.â

Lord Whitfield shook his head.

âIt all seems to me quite incredible!â he said.

Battle said:

âYou say you got a telephone message this morning?â

âYesâabout twelve oâclock. I was asked to go to the Shaw Wood at once as you, Bridget, had something to say to me. I was not to come by car but to walk.â

Battle nodded.

âExactly. That would have been the finish. Miss Conway would have been found with her throat cut; and beside her your knife with your fingerprints on it! And you yourself would have been seen in the vicinity at the time! You wouldnât have had a leg to stand upon. Any jury in the world would have convicted you.â

âMe?â said Lord Whitfield, startled and distressed. âAnyone would have believed a thing like that of Me?â

Bridget said gently:

âI didnât, Gordon. I never believed it.â

Lord Whitfield looked at her coldly, then he said stiffly:

âIn view of my character and my standing in the county, I do not believe that anyone for one moment would have believed in such a monstrous charge!â

He went out with dignity and closed the door behind him.

Luke said:

âHeâll never realize that he was really in danger!â

Then he said:

âGo on, Bridget, tell me how you came to suspect the Waynflete woman.â

Bridget explained:

âIt was when you were telling me that Gordon was the killer. I couldnât believe it! You see, I knew him so well. Iâd been his secretary for two years! I knew him in and out! I knew that he was pompous and petty and completely self-absorbed, but I knew, too, that he was a kindly person and almost absurdly tenderhearted. It worried him even to kill a wasp. That story about his killing Miss Waynfleteâs canaryâit was all wrong. He just couldnât have done it. Heâd told me once that he had jilted her. Now you insisted that it was the other way about. Well, that might be so! His pride might not have allowed him to admit that she had thrown him over. But not the canary story! That simply wasnât Gordon! He didnât even shoot because seeing things killed made him feel sick.

âSo I simply knew that that part of the story was untrue. But if so, Miss Waynflete must have lied. And it was really, when you came to think of it, a very extraordinary lie! And I wondered suddenly if sheâd told anymore lies. She was a very proud womanâone could see that. To be thrown over must have hurt her pride horribly. It would probably make her feel very angry and revengeful against Lord Whitfieldâespecially, I felt, if he turned up again later all rich and prosperous and successful. I thought, âYes, sheâd probably enjoy helping to fix a crime upon him.â And then a curious sort of whirling feeling came in my brain and I thoughtâbut suppose everything she says is a lieâand I suddenly saw how easily a woman like that could make a fool of a man! And I thought, âItâs fantastic, but suppose it was she who killed all these people and fed Gordon up with the idea that it was a kind of divine retribution!â It would be quite easy for her to make him believe that. As I told you once, Gordon would believe anything! And I thought, âCould she have done all those murders?â And I saw that she could! She could give a shove to a drunken manâand push a boy out of a window, and Amy Gibbs had died in her house. Mrs. Horton, tooâHonoria Waynflete used to go and sit with her when she was ill. Dr. Humbleby was more difficult. I didnât know then that Wonky Pooh had a nasty septic ear and that she infected the dressing she put on his hand. Miss Pinkertonâs death was even more difficult, because I couldnât imagine Miss Waynflete dressed up as a chauffeur driving a Rolls.

âAnd then, suddenly, I saw that that was the easiest of the lot! It was the old shove from behindâeasily done in a crowd. The car didnât stop and she saw a fresh opportunity and told another woman she had seen the number of the car, and gave the number of Lord Whitfieldâs Rolls.

âOf course, all this only came very confusedly through my head. But if Gordon definitely hadnât done the murdersâand I knewâyes, knew that he hadnâtâwell, who had? And the answer seemed quite clear. âSomeone who hates Gordon!â Who hates Gordon? Honoria Waynflete, of course.

âAnd then I remembered that Miss Pinkerton had definitely spoken of a man as the killer. That knocked out all my beautiful theory, because, unless Miss Pinkerton was right, she wouldnât have been killedâ¦So I got you to repeat exactly Miss Pinkertonâs words and I soon discovered that she hadnât actually said âmanâ once. Then I felt that I was definitely on the right track! I decided to accept Miss Waynfleteâs invitation to stay with her and I resolved to try to ferret out the truth.â

âWithout saying a word to me?â said Luke angrily.

âBut, my sweet, you were so sureâand I wasnât sure a bit! It was all vague and doubtful. But I never dreamed that I was in any danger. I thought Iâd have plenty of timeâ¦.â

She shivered.

âOh, Luke, it was horribleâ¦Her eyesâ¦And that dreadful, polite, inhuman laughâ¦.â

Luke said with a slight shiver:

âI shanât forget how I only got there just in time.â

He turned to Battle. âWhatâs she like now?â

âGone right over the edge,â said Battle. âThey do, you know. They canât face the shock of not having been as clever as they thought they were.â

Luke said ruefully:

âWell, Iâm not much of a policeman! I never suspected Honoria Waynflete once. Youâd have done better, Battle.â

âMaybe, sir, maybe not. Youâll remember my saying that nothingâs impossible in crime. I mentioned a maiden lady, I believe.â

âYou also mentioned an archbishop and a schoolgirl! Am I to understand that you consider all these people as potential criminals?â

Battleâs smile broadened to a grin.

âAnyone may be a criminal, sir, thatâs what I meant.â

âExcept Gordon,â said Bridget. âLuke, letâs go and find him.â

They found Lord Whitfield in his study busily making notes.

âGordon,â said Bridget in a small meek voice. âPlease, now that you know everything, will you forgive us?â

Lord Whitfield looked at her graciously.

âCertainly, my dear, certainly. I realize the truth. I was a busy man. I neglected you. The truth of the matter is as Kipling so wisely puts it: âHe travels the fastest who travels alone. My path in life is a lonely one.ââ He squared his shoulders. âI carry a big responsibility. I must carry it alone. For me there can be no companionship, no easing of the burdenâI must go through life aloneâtill I drop by the wayside.â

Bridget said:

âDear Gordon! You really are sweet!â

Lord Whitfield frowned.

âIt is not a question of being sweet. Let us forget all this nonsense. I am a busy man.â

âI know you are.â

âI am arranging for a series of articles to start at once. Crimes committed by Women through the Ages.â

Bridget gazed at him with admiration.

âGordon, I think thatâs a wonderful idea.â

Lord Whitfield puffed out his chest.

âSo please leave me now. I must not be disturbed. I have a lot of work to get through.â

Luke and Bridget tiptoed from the room.

âBut he really is sweet!â said Bridget.

âBridget, I believe you were really fond of that man!â

âDo you know, Luke, I believe I was.â

Luke looked out of the window.

âIâll be glad to get away from Wychwood. I donât like this place. Thereâs a lot of wickedness here, as Mrs. Humbleby would say. I donât like the way Ashe Ridge broods over the village.â

âTalking of Ashe Ridge, what about Ellsworthy?â

Luke laughed a little shamefacedly.

âThat blood on his hands?â

âYes.â

âTheyâd sacrificed a white cock apparently!â

âHow perfectly disgusting!â

âI think something unpleasant is going to happen to our Mr. Ellsworthy. Battle is planning a little surprise.â

Bridget said:

âAnd poor Major Horton never even attempted to kill his wife, and Mr. Abbot, I suppose, just had a compromising letter from a lady, and Dr. Thomas is just a nice unassuming young doctor.â

âHeâs a superior ass!â

âYou say that because youâre jealous of his marrying Rose Humbleby.â

âSheâs much too good for him.â

âI always have felt you liked that girl better than me!â

âDarling, arenât you being rather absurd?â

âNo, not really.â

She was silent a minute and then said:

âLuke, do you like me now?â

He made a movement towards her but she warded him off.

âI said like, Lukeânot love.â

âOh! I seeâ¦Yes, I doâ¦I like you, Bridget, as well as loving you.â

Bridget said:

âI like you, Lukeâ¦.â

They smiled at each otherâa little timidlyâlike children who have made friends at a party.

Bridget said:

âLiking is more important than loving. It lasts. I want what is between us to last, Luke. I donât want us just to love each other and marry and get tired of each other and then want to marry someone else.â

âOh! my dear Love, I know. You want reality. So do I. Whatâs between us will last forever because itâs founded on reality.â

âIs that true, Luke?â

âItâs true, my sweet. Thatâs why, I think, I was afraid of loving you.â

âI was afraid of loving you, too.â

âAre you afraid now?â

âNo.â

He said:

âWeâve been close to Death for a long time. Nowâthatâs over! Nowâweâll begin to Liveâ¦.â

The Agatha Christie Collection

THE HERCULE POIROT MYSTERIES

Match your wits with the famous Belgian detective.

Â 

The Mysterious Affair at Styles

The Murder on the Links

Poirot Investigates

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd

The Big Four

The Mystery of the Blue Train

Peril at End House

Lord Edgware Dies

Murder on the Orient Express

Three Act Tragedy

Death in the Clouds

The A.B.C. Murders

Murder in Mesopotamia

Cards on the Table

Murder in the Mews

Dumb Witness

Death on the Nile

Appointment with Death

Hercule Poirotâ€™s Christmas

Sad Cypress

One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

Evil Under the Sun

Five Little Pigs

The Hollow

The Labors of Hercules

Taken at the Flood

The Underdog and Other Stories

Mrs. McGintyâ€™s Dead

After the Funeral

Hickory Dickory Dock

Dead Manâ€™s Folly

Cat Among the Pigeons

The Clocks

Third Girl

Halloweâ€™en Party

Elephants Can Remember

Curtain: Poirotâ€™s Last Case

Â 

Explore more at www.AgathaChristie.com

Â 

The Agatha Christie Collection

THE MISS MARPLE MYSTERIES

Join the legendary spinster sleuth from St. Mary Mead in solving murders far and wide.

Â 

The Murder at the Vicarage

The Body in the Library

The Moving Finger

A Murder Is Announced

They Do It with Mirrors

A Pocket Full of Rye

4:50 From Paddington

The Mirror Crackâ€™d from Side to Side

A Caribbean Mystery

At Bertramâ€™s Hotel

Nemesis

Sleeping Murder

Miss Marple: The Complete Short Stories

THE TOMMY AND TUPPENCE MYSTERIES

Jump on board with the entertaining crime-solving couple from Young Adventurers Ltd.

The Secret Adversary

Partners in Crime

N or M?

By the Pricking of My Thumbs

Postern of Fate

Â 

Explore more at www.AgathaChristie.com

Â 

The Agatha Christie Collection

Donâ€™t miss a single one of Agatha Christieâ€™s stand-alone novels and short-story collections.

The Man in the Brown Suit

The Secret of Chimneys

The Seven Dials Mystery

The Mysterious Mr. Quin

The Sittaford Mystery

Parker Pyne Investigates

Why Didnâ€™t They Ask Evans?

Murder Is Easy

The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories

And Then There Were None

Towards Zero

Death Comes as the End

Sparkling Cyanide

The Witness for the Prosecution and Other Stories

Crooked House

Three Blind Mice and Other Stories

They Came to Baghdad

Destination Unknown

Ordeal by Innocence

Double Sin and Other Stories

The Pale Horse

Star over Bethlehem: Poems and Holiday Stories

Endless Night

Passenger to Frankfurt

The Golden Ball and Other Stories

The Mousetrap and Other Plays

The Harlequin Tea Set

Â 

Explore more at www.AgathaChristie.com

About the Author

Agatha Christie is the most widely published author of all time and in any language, outsold only by the Bible and Shakespeare. Her books have sold more than a billion copies in English and another billion in a hundred foreign languages. She is the author of eighty crime novels and short-story collections, nineteen plays, two memoirs, and six novels written under the name Mary Westmacott.

She first tried her hand at detective fiction while working in a hospital dispensary during World War I, creating the now legendary Hercule Poirot with her debut novel The Mysterious Affair at Styles. With The Murder in the Vicarage, published in 1930, she introduced another beloved sleuth, Miss Jane Marple. Additional series characters include the husband-and-wife crime-fighting team of Tommy and Tuppence Beresford, private investigator Parker Pyne, and Scotland Yard detectives Superintendent Battle and Inspector Japp.

Many of Christieâ€™s novels and short stories were adapted into plays, films, and television series. The Mousetrap, her most famous play of all,opened in 1952 and is the longest-running play in history. Among herbest-known film adaptations are Murder on the Orient Express (1974) and Death on the Nile (1978), with Albert Finney and Peter Ustinov playing Hercule Poirot, respectively. On the small screen Poirot has been mostmemorably portrayed by David Suchet, and Miss Marple by Joan Hicksonand subsequently Geraldine McEwan and Julia McKenzie.

Christie was first married to Archibald Christie and then to archaeologist Sir Max Mallowan, whom she accompanied on expeditions tocountries that would also serve as the settings for many of her novels. In 1971 she achieved one of Britainâ€™s highest honors when she was made a Dame of the British Empire. She died in 1976 at the age of eighty-five. Her one hundred and twentieth anniversary was celebrated around the world in 2010.

www.AgathaChristie.com

Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

THE AGATHA CHRISTIE COLLECTION

The Man in the Brown Suit

The Secret of Chimneys

The Seven Dials Mystery

The Mysterious Mr. Quin

The Sittaford Mystery

Parker Pyne Investigates

Why Didnâ€™t They Ask Evans?

Murder Is Easy

The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories

And Then There Were None

Towards Zero

Death Comes as the End

Sparkling Cyanide

The Witness for the Prosecution and Other Stories

Crooked House

Three Blind Mice and Other Stories

They Came to Baghdad

Destination Unknown

Ordeal by Innocence

Double Sin and Other Stories

The Pale Horse

Star over Bethlehem: Poems and Holiday Stories

Endless Night

Passenger to Frankfurt

The Golden Ball and Other Stories

The Mousetrap and Other Plays

The Harlequin Tea Set

The Hercule Poirot Mysteries

The Mysterious Affair at Styles

The Murder on the Links

Poirot Investigates

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd

The Big Four

The Mystery of the Blue Train

Peril at End House

Lord Edgware Dies

Murder on the Orient Express

Three Act Tragedy

Death in the Clouds

The A.B.C. Murders

Murder in Mesopotamia

Cards on the Table

Murder in the Mews

Dumb Witness

Death on the Nile

Appointment with Death

Hercule Poirotâ€™s Christmas

Sad Cypress

One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

Evil Under the Sun

Five Little Pigs

The Hollow

The Labors of Hercules

Taken at the Flood

The Underdog and Other Stories

Mrs. McGintyâ€™s Dead

After the Funeral

Hickory Dickory Dock

Dead Manâ€™s Folly

Cat Among the Pigeons

The Clocks

Third Girl

Halloweâ€™en Party

Elephants Can Remember

Curtain: Poirotâ€™s Last Case

The Miss Marple Mysteries

The Murder at the Vicarage

The Body in the Library

The Moving Finger

A Murder Is Announced

They Do It with Mirrors

A Pocket Full of Rye

4:50 from Paddington

The Mirror Crackâ€™d from Side to Side

A Caribbean Mystery

At Bertramâ€™s Hotel

Nemesis

Sleeping Murder

Miss Marple: The Complete Short Stories

The Tommy and Tuppence Mysteries

The Secret Adversary

Partners in Crime

N or M?

By the Pricking of My Thumbs

Postern of Fate

Memoirs

An Autobiography

Come, Tell Me How You Live

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the authorâ€™s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

This title was previously published as Easy to Kill.

AGATHA CHRISTIEÂ® MURDER IS EASYâ„¢. Copyright Â© 1939 Agatha Christie Limited (a Chorion company). All rights reserved.

MURDER IS EASY Â© 1939. Published by permission of G.P. Putnamâ€™s Sons, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

ISBN 978-0-06-207380-8

EPub Edition Â© JUNE 2011 ISBN: 978-0-06-211343-6

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