Murder Is Easy by Agatha Christie
“In a place like this, you see—everything gets round so fast.”
“You mean that everybody will say ‘there goes the tec’ as I walk down the street? I don’t think that really matters now. In fact, I may get more that way.”
“I wasn’t thinking of that.” Miss Waynflete sounded a little breathless. “What I meant was—that he’ll know. He’ll realize that you’re on his track.”
Luke said slowly:
“I suppose he will.”
Miss Waynflete said:
“But don’t you see—that’s horribly dangerous. Horribly!”
“You mean—” Luke grasped her point at last, “you mean that the killer will have a crack at me?”
“Yes.”
“Funny,” said Luke. “I never thought of that! I believe you’re right, though. Well, that might be the best thing that could happen.”
Miss Waynflete said earnestly:
“I don’t think you realize that he’s—he’s a very clever man. He’s cautious, too! And remember, he’s got a great deal of experience—perhaps more than we know.”
“Yes,” said Luke thoughtfully. “That’s probably true.”
Miss Waynflete exclaimed:
“Oh, I don’t like it! Really, I feel quite alarmed!”
Luke said gently:
“You needn’t worry. I shall be very much on my guard I can assure you. You see I’ve narrowed the possibilities down pretty closely. I’ve an idea at any rate who the killer might be….”
She looked up sharply.
Luke came a step nearer. He lowered his voice to a whisper:
“Miss Waynflete, if I were to ask you which of two men you considered the most likely—Dr. Thomas or Mr. Abbot—what would you say?”
“Oh—” said Miss Waynflete. Her hand flew to her breast. She stepped back. Her eyes met Luke’s in an expression that puzzled him. They showed impatience and something closely allied to it that he could not quite place.
She said:
“I can’t say anything—”
She turned away abruptly with a curious sound—half a sigh, half a sob.
Luke resigned himself.
“Are you going home?” he asked.
“No, 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.”
“That will be very nice,” 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.
“It must have been a lovely house in your father’s day,” he said.
Miss Waynflete sighed.
“Yes, we were all very happy there. I am so thankful it hasn’t been pulled down. So many of the old houses are going.”
“I know. It’s sad.”
“And really the new ones aren’t nearly as well built.”
“I doubt if they will stand the test of time as well.”
“But of course,” said Miss Waynflete, “the new ones are convenient—so labour-saving, and not such big draughty passages to scrub.”
Luke assented.
When they arrived at the gate of Dr. Humbleby’s house, Miss Waynflete hesitated and said:
“Such a beautiful evening. I think, if you don’t mind, I will come a little farther. I am enjoying the air.”
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. Humbleby’s 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 chauffeur’s uniform.
“You’re fired,” Lord Whitfield was shouting. “D’you hear? You’re fired.”
“If you’d overlook it, m’lord—just this once.”
“No, I won’t overlook it! Taking my car out. My car—and what’s more you’ve been drinking—yes, you have, don’t deny it! I’ve made it clear there are three things I won’t have on my estate—one’s drunkenness, another’s immorality and the other’s impertinence.”
Though the man was not actually drunk, he had had enough to loosen his tongue. His manner changed.
“You won’t have this and you won’t have that, you old bastard! Your estate! Think we don’t 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, I’d like to know? You’re no better than I am—that’s what you are.”
Lord Whitfield turned purple.
“How dare you speak to me like that? How dare you?”
The young man took a threatening step forward.
“If you wasn’t such a miserable potbellied little swine I’d give you a sock on the jaw—yes, I would.”
Lord Whitfield hastily retreated a step, tripped over a root and went down in a sitting position.
Luke had come up.
“Get out of here,” he said roughly to the chauffeur.
The latter regained sanity. He looked frightened.
“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know what came over me, I’m sure.”
“A couple of glasses too much, I should say,” said Luke.
He assisted Lord Whitfield to his feet.
“I—I beg your pardon, m’lord,” stammered the man.
“You’ll be sorry for this, Rivers,” said Lord Whitfield.
His voice trembled with intense feeling.
The man hesitated a minute, then shambled away slowly.
Lord Whitfield exploded:
“Colossal impertinence! To me. Speaking to me like that. Something very serious will happen to that man! No respect—no proper sense of his station in life. When I think of what I do for these people—good wages—every comfort—a pension when they retire. The ingratitude—the base ingratitude….”
He choked with excitement, then perceived Miss Waynflete who was standing silently by.
“Is that you, Honoria? I’m deeply distressed you should have witnessed such a disgraceful scene. That man’s language—”
“I’m afraid he wasn’t quite himself, Lord Whitfield,” said Miss Waynflete primly.
“He was drunk, that’s what he was, drunk!”
“Just a bit lit up,” said Luke.
“Do you know what he did?” Lord Whitfield looked from one to the other of them. “Took out my car—my car! Thought I shouldn’t be back so soon. Bridget drove me over to Lyne in the two-seater. And this fellow had the impertinence to take a girl—Lucy Carter, I believe—out in my car!”
Miss Waynflete said gently:
“A most improper thing to do.”
Lord Whitfield seemed a little comforted.
“Yes, wasn’t it?”
“But I’m sure he’ll regret it.”
“I shall see that he does!”
“You’ve dismissed him,” Miss Waynflete pointed out.
Lord Whitfield shook his head.
“He’ll come to a bad end, that fellow.”
He threw back his shoulders.
“Come up to the house, Honoria, and have a glass of sherry.”
“Thank you, Lord Whitfield, but I must go to Mrs. Humbleby with these books. Good night, Mr. Fitzwilliam. You’ll be quite all right now.”
&nb
Lord Whitfield’s voice interrupted his meditations.
“Very capable woman, Honoria Waynflete.”
“Very, I should think.”
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.
“I was engaged to Honoria once—years ago. She was a nice-looking girl—not so skinny as she is today. Seems funny to think of now. Her people were the nobs of this place.”
“Yes?”
Lord Whitfield ruminated:
“Old Colonel Waynflete bossed the show. One had to come out and touch one’s cap pretty sharp. One of the old school he was, and proud as Lucifer.”
He chuckled again.
“The 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.”
“So her family broke up the romance?”
Lord Whitfield rubbed his nose.
“Well—not exactly. Matter of fact we had a bit of a row over something. Blinking bird she had—one of those beastly twittering canaries—always hated them—bad business—wrung its neck. Well—no good dwelling on all that now. Let’s forget it.”
He shook his shoulders like a man who throws off an unpleasant memory.
Then he said, rather jerkily:
“Don’t think she’s ever forgiven me. Well, perhaps it’s only natural….”
“I think she’s forgiven you all right,” said Luke.
Lord Whitfield brightened up.
“Do 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.”
He looked up and his voice changed.
“Hallo,” he said. “Here comes Bridget.”
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:
“I was beginning to wonder what on earth had become of you, Gordon?”
Lord Whitfield grunted:
“Had a bit of a dust up! That fellow Rivers had the impertinence to take the Rolls out this afternoon.”
“Lèse-majesté,” said Bridget.
“It’s no good making a joke out of it, Bridget. The thing’s serious. He took a girl out.”
“I don’t suppose it would have given him any pleasure to go solemnly for a drive by himself!”
Lord Whitfield drew himself up.
“On my estate I’ll have decent moral behaviour.”
“It isn’t actually immoral to take a girl joyriding.”
“It is when it’s my car.”
“That, of course, is worse than immorality! It practically amounts to blasphemy. But you can’t cut out the sex stuff altogether, Gordon. The moon is at the full and it’s actually Midsummer Eve.”
“Is it, by Jove?” said Luke.
Bridget threw him a glance.
“That seems to interest you?”
“It does.”
Bridget turned back to Lord Whitfield.
“Three 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: ‘Someone has whispered that there will be gay doings in the Witches’ Meadow tonight.’”
Lord Whitfield turned purple and said:
“I won’t have it!”
“You can’t help it, darling. The Witches’ Meadow is public property.”
“I won’t have this irreligious mumbo jumbo going on down here! I’ll expose it in Scandals.” He paused, then said, “Remind me to make a note about that and get Siddely on to it. I must go up to town tomorrow.”
“Lord Whitfield’s campaign against witchcraft,” said Bridget flippantly. “Medieval superstitions still rife in quiet country village.”
Lord Whitfield stared at her with a puzzled frown, then he turned and went into the house.
Luke said pleasantly:
“You must do your stuff better than that, Bridget!”
“What do you mean?”
“It would be a pity if you lost your job! That hundred thousand isn’t 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.”
Her glance met his coolly.
“You are so thoughtful, dear Luke. It’s kind of you to take my future so much to heart!”
“Kindness and consideration have always been my strong points.”
“I hadn’t noticed it.”
“No? You surprise me.”
Bridget twitched the leaf off a creeper. She said:
“What have you been doing today?”
“The usual spot of sleuthing.”
“Any results?”
“Yes and no, as the politicians say. By the way, have you got any tools in the house?”
“I expect so. What kind of tools?”
“Oh, any handy little gadgets. Perhaps I could inspect some.”
Ten minutes later Luke had made a selection from a cupboard shelf.
“That little lot will do nicely,” he said, slapping the pocket in which he had stowed them away.
“Are you thinking of doing a spot of forcing and entering?”
“Maybe.”
“You’re very uncommunicative on the subject.”
“Well, after all, the situation bristles with difficulties. I’m in the hell of a position. After our little knock up on Saturday I suppose I ought to clear out of here.”
“To behave as a perfect gentleman, you should.”
“But since I’m convinced that I am pretty hot on the trail of a homicidal maniac, I’m 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 goodness’ sake trot it out.”
Bridget shook her head.
“That’s not feasible—you being a cousin and all that. Besides, the inn is full of Mr. Ellsworthy’s friends. They only run to three guest rooms.”
“So I am forced to remain, painful as it must be for you.”
Bridget smiled sweetly at him.
“Not at all. I can always do with a few scalps to dangle.”
“That,” said Luke appreciatively, “was 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.”
The evening passed uneventfully. Luke won Lord Whitfield’s approval even more deeply than before by the apparent absorbed interest with which he listened to the other’s nightly discourse.
When they came into the drawing room Bridget said:
“You men have been a long time.”
Luke replied:
“Lord Whitfield was being so interesting that the time passed like a flash. He was telling me how he founded his first newspaper.”
Mrs. Anstruther said:
“These new little fruiting trees in pots are perfectly marvellous, I believe. You ought to try them along the terrace, Gordon.”
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. Ellsworthy’s 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. Ellsworthy’s 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 sparingly—a 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. Ellsworthy’s correspondence was unilluminating, but some of his books—those tucked away at the back of a cupboard—repaid attention.
Besides these, Luke accumulated three meagre but suggestive scraps of information. The first was a pencil scrawl in a little notebook. “Settle with Tommy Pierce”—the date being a couple of days before the boy’s 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.