Murder Is Easy Page 10

  “You don’t agree.”

  “The man was an absolute ignoramus. Knew nothing of modern discoveries. Doubt if he’d 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 didn’t understand Lydia’s case at all. I gave it him straight from the shoulder and he didn’t like it. Got huffed and backed right out. Said I could send for any other doctor I chose. After that, we had Thomas.”

  “You liked him better?”

  “Altogether 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.”

  “Was it painful?”

  “H’m, yes. Gastritis. Acute pain—sickness—all 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! ‘The patient this’ and ‘the patient that.’” The major shook his head and drained his glass. “Can’t stand hospital nurses! So smug. Lydia insisted they were poisoning her. That wasn’t true, of course—a regular sick fancy—lots of people have it, so Thomas said—but there was this much truth behind it—those women disliked her. That’s the worst of women—always down on their own sex.”

  “I suppose,” said Luke, feeling that he was putting it awkwardly but not seeing how to put it better, “that Mrs. Horton had a lot of devoted friends in Wychwood?”

  “People were very kind,” said the major somewhat grudgingly. “Whitfield sent down grapes and peaches from his hothouse. And the old tabbies used to come and sit with her. Honoria Waynflete and Lavinia Pinkerton.”

  “Miss Pinkerton came often, did she?”

  “Yes. Regular old maid—but 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.”

  Luke nodded comprehendingly.

  “Can’t stand fuss,” said the major. “Too many women in this place. Difficult to get a decent game of golf.”

  “What about the young fellow at the antique shop?” said Luke.

  The major snorted:

  “He doesn’t play golf. Much too much of a Miss Nancy.”

  “Has he been in Wychwood long?”

  “About two years. Nasty sort of fellow. Hate those long-haired purring chaps. Funnily enough Lydia liked him. You can’t trust women’s 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 stuff—swallow it literally too—ha, ha!”

  Luke said, feeling that he was changing the subject rather abruptly, but correctly judging that Major Horton would not be aware of the fact:

  “What sort of fellow is Abbot, the local solicitor? Pretty sound on the law? I’ve got to have some legal advice about something and I thought I might go to him.”

  “They say he’s pretty shrewd,” acknowledged Major Horton. “I don’t know. Matter of fact I’ve had a row with him. Not seen him since he came out here to make Lydia’s will for her just before she died. In my opinion that man’s a cad. But of course,” he added, “that doesn’t affect his ability as a lawyer.”

  “No, of course not,” said Luke. “He seems a quarrelsome sort of man, though. Seems to have fallen out with a good many people from what I hear.”

  “Trouble with him is that he’s so confoundedly touchy,” said Major Horton. “Seems to think he’s God Almighty and that anyone who disagrees with him is committing lèse-majesté. Heard of his row with Humbleby?”

  “They had a row, did they?”

  “First-class row. Mind you, that doesn’t surprise me. Humbleby was an opinionated ass! Still, there it is.”

  “His death was very sad.”

  “Humbleby’s? Yes, I suppose it was. Lack of ordinary care. Blood poisoning’s a damned dangerous thing. Always put iodine on a cut—I do! Simple precaution. Humbleby, who’s a doctor, doesn’t do anything of the sort. It just shows.”

  Luke was not quite sure what it showed, but he let that pass. Glancing at his watch he got up.

  Major Horton said:

  “Getting on for lunchtime? So it is. Well, glad to have had a chat with you. Does me good to see a man who’s been about the world a bit. We must have a yarn some other time. Where was your show? Mayang Straits? Never been there. Hear you’re writing a book. Superstitions and all that.”

  “Yes—I—”

  But Major Horton swept on.

  “I can tell you several very interesting things. When I was in India, my boy—”

  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 major’s 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 it—Luke asked himself the question suddenly—was 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 Whitfield’s 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 Rose’s 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. “Sorry, I’ve gone to pieces.”

  It seemed true enough. Bridget’s 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:

  “Show me the kitchen garden.”

  “Why the kitchen garden?”

  “I have a feeling for cabbages.”

  “Won’t green peas do?”

  “Green peas would be admirable.”

  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.

  “Here are your peas,” said Bridget.

  Luke paid no attention to the object of the visit. He said:

  “Why the hell did you give them the set?”

  Bridget’s eyebrows went up a fraction.

  “I’m sorry. I went to bits. My tennis i
s erratic.”

  “Not so erratic as that! Those double faults of yours wouldn’t deceive a child! And those wild shots—each of them half a mile out!”

  Bridget said calmly:

  “That’s because I’m 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, it’s always on the line and all the good work still to do.”

  “Oh, you admit it then?”

  “Obvious, my dear Watson.”

  “And the reason?”

  “Equally obvious, I should have thought. Gordon doesn’t like losing.”

  “And what about me? Supposing I like to win?”

  “I’m afraid, my dear Luke, that that isn’t equally important.”

  “Would you like to make your meaning just a little clearer still?”

  “Certainly, if you like. One mustn’t quarrel with one’s bread and butter. Gordon is my bread and butter. You are not.”

  Luke drew a deep breath. Then he exploded.

  “What the hell do you mean by marrying that absurd little man? Why are you doing it?”

  “Because 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!”

  “But for somewhat different duties!”

  Bridget said coldly:

  “Must 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!”

  “You’ve got a bitter tongue, haven’t you?”

  Bridget retorted sharply:

  “I don’t tell myself fairy stories if that’s what you mean! I’m 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 Gordon’s wife will be practically indistinguishable from my job as Gordon’s secretary. After a year I doubt if he’ll remember to kiss me good night. The only difference is in the salary.”

  They looked at each other. Both of them were pale with anger. Bridget said jeeringly:

  “Go on. You’re rather old-fashioned, aren’t you, Mr. Fitzwilliam? Hadn’t you better trot out the old clichés—say that I’m selling myself for money—that’s always a good one, I think!”

  Luke said: “You’re a cold-blooded little devil!”

  “That’s better than being a hot-blooded little fool!”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes. I know.”

  Luke sneered. “What do you know?”

  “I 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 adorable—I cared like hell about him—cared 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, don’t you think?”

  Luke turned away with a sudden groan. He said:

  “It might.”

  “It did….”

  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:

  “I hope you realize that you had no earthly right to speak to me as you did. You’re staying in Gordon’s house and it’s damned bad taste!”

  Luke recovered his composure.

  “Isn’t that rather a cliché too?” he inquired politely.

  Bridget flushed. “It’s true, anyway!”

  “It isn’t. I had every right.”

  “Nonsense!”

  Luke looked at her. His face had a queer pallor, like a man who is suffering physical pain. He said:

  “I have a right. I’ve the right of caring for you—what did you say just now?—of caring so much that it hurts!”

  She drew back a step. She said: “You—”

  “Yes, funny, isn’t 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 and—how can I say it—put a spell on me! That’s what it feels like. You mentioned fairy stories just now. I’m caught up in a fairy story! You’ve bewitched me. I’ve a feeling that if you pointed your finger at me and said: ‘Turn into a frog,’ I’d go hopping away with my eyes popping out of my head.”

  He took a step nearer to her.

  “I love you like hell, Bridget Conway. And, loving you like hell, you can’t expect me to enjoy seeing you get married to a potbellied pompous little peer who loses his temper when he doesn’t win at tennis.”

  “What do you suggest I should do?”

  “I suggest that you should marry me instead! But doubtless that suggestion will give rise to a lot of merry laughter.”

  “The laughter is positively uproarious.”

  “Exactly. 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!”

  “Really,” said Bridget sweetly, “I believe you mind losing just as much as Gordon does!”

  Luke caught her suddenly by the shoulders.

  “You’ve got a devilish tongue, haven’t you, Bridget?”

  “I’m afraid you don’t like me very much, Luke, however great your passion for me!”

  “I don’t think I like you at all.”

  Bridget said, watching him:

  “You meant to get married and settle down when you came home, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “But not to someone like me?”

  “I never thought of anyone in the least like you.”

  “No—you wouldn’t—I know your type. I know it exactly.”

  “You are so clever, dear Bridget.”

  “A really nice girl—thoroughly English—fond of the country and good with dogs…You probably visualized her in a tweed skirt stirring a log fire with the tip of her shoe.”

  “The picture sounds most attractive.”

  “I’m sure it does. Shall we return to the tennis court? You can play with Rose Humbleby. She’s so good that you’re practically certain to win.”

  “Being old-fashioned I must allow you to have the last word.”

  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.

  “I’ve played two sets running.”

  Bridget, however, insisted.

  “I’m feeling tired. I don’t want to play. You and Mr. Fitzwilliam take on Miss Jones and Major Horton.”

  But Rose continued to protest and in the end a men’s 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.

  “I wanted to understand the trend of the latest scientific discoveries for myself,” he explained earnestly. “I’m 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.”

  “A little science might possibly be a dangerous thing,” said Dr. Thomas with a slight shrug of his shoulders.

  “Science in the home, that’s what we have to aim at,” said Lord Whitfield. “Science minded—”

  “Test tube conscious,” said Bridget gravely.

  “I was impressed,” said Lord Whitfield. “Wellerman took me round himself, of cours
e. I begged him to leave me to an underling, but he insisted.”

  “Naturally,” said Luke.

  Lord Whitfield looked gratified.

  “And he explained everything most clearly—the culture—the serum—the whole principle of the thing. He agreed to contribute the first article in the series himself.”

  Mrs. Anstruther murmured:

  “They use guinea-pigs, I believe—so cruel—though of course not so bad as dogs—or even cats.”

  “Fellows who use dogs ought to be shot,” said Major Horton, hoarsely.

  “I really believe, Horton,” said Mr. Abbot, “that you value canine life above human life.”

  “Every time!” said the major. “Dogs can’t turn round on you like human beings can. Never get a nasty word from a dog.”

  “Only a nasty tooth stuck into your leg,” said Mr. Abbot. “Eh, Horton?”

  “Dogs are a good judge of character,” said Major Horton.

  “One of your brutes nearly pinned me by the leg last week. What do you say to that, Horton?”

  “Same as I said just now!”

  Bridget interposed tactfully:

  “What about some more tennis?”

  A couple more sets were played. Then, as Rose Humbleby said good-bye, Luke appeared beside her.

  “I’ll see you home,” he said. “And carry the tennis bat. You haven’t got a car, have you?”

  “No, but it’s no distance.”

  “I’d like a walk.”

  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, Luke’s face cleared.

  “I’m feeling better now,” he said.

  “Were you feeling badly before?”

  “Nice of you to pretend you didn’t notice it. You’ve exorcised the brute’s sulky temper, though. Funny, I feel as though I’d come out of a dark cloud into the sun.”

  “So you have. There was a cloud over the sun when we left the Manor and now it’s passed over.”