Murder Is Easy Page 9

  Luke said—rather inadequately:

  “I say—you’re—you’re all right, aren’t you?”

  It was a minute or two before she answered—as 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:

  “Of course I’m all right. Why shouldn’t I be?”

  And now her voice was sharp and almost hostile.

  Luke grinned.

  “I’m hanged if I know. I got the wind up about you suddenly.”

  “Why?”

  “Mainly, I think, because of the melodramatic atmosphere in which I’m 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.”

  “Heroines are never killed,” said Bridget.

  “No, but—”

  Luke stopped—just in time.

  “What were you going to say?”

  “Nothing.”

  Thank goodness he had just stopped himself in time. One couldn’t very well say to an attractive young woman, “But you’re not the heroine.”

  Bridget went on:

  “They are abducted, imprisoned, left to die of sewer gas or be drowned in cellars—they are always in danger, but they don’t ever die.”

  “Nor even fade away,” said Luke.

  He went on:

  “So this is the Witches’ Meadow?”

  “Yes.”

  He looked down at her.

  “You only need a broomstick,” he said kindly.

  “Thank you. Mr. Ellsworthy said much the same.”

  “I met him just now,” said Luke.

  “Did you talk to him at all?”

  “Yes. I think he tried to annoy me.”

  “Did he succeed?”

  “His methods were rather childish.” He paused and then went on abruptly. “He’s an odd sort of fellow. One minute you think he’s just a mess—and then suddenly one wonders if there isn’t a bit more to it than that.”

  Bridget looked up at him.

  “You’ve felt that too?”

  “You agree then?”

  “Yes.”

  Luke waited.

  Bridget said:

  “There’s something—odd about him. I’ve been wondering you know…I lay awake last night racking my brains. About the whole business. It seemed to me that if there was a—a 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 this—if there is a killer, he must definitely be mad.”

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

  “You don’t think that a murderer can be as sane as you or I?”

  “Not 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, he’s the only one who is definitely queer. He is queer, you can’t get away from it!”

  Luke said doubtfully:

  “There are a good many of his sort, dilettanti, poseurs—usually quite harmless.”

  “Yes. But I think there might be a little more than that. He’s got such nasty hands.”

  “You noticed that? Funny, I did too!”

  “They’re not just white—they’re green.”

  “They do give one that effect. All the same, you can’t convict a man of being a murderer because of the colour of his flesh tints.”

  “Oh, quite. What we want is evidence.”

  “Evidence!” growled Luke. “Just the one thing that’s absolutely lacking. The man’s been too careful. A careful murderer! A careful lunatic!”

  “I’ve been trying to help,” said Bridget.

  “With Ellsworthy, you mean?”

  “Yes. I thought I could probably tackle him better than you could. I’ve made a beginning.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Well, it seems that he has a kind of little coterie—a band of nasty friends. They come down here from time to time and celebrate.”

  “Do you mean what are called nameless orgies?”

  “I don’t know about nameless but certainly orgies. Actually it all sounds very silly and childish.”

  “I suppose they worship the devil and do obscene dances.”

  “Something of the kind. Apparently they get a kick out of it.”

  “I can contribute something to this,” said Luke. “Tommy Pierce took part in one of their ceremonies. He was an acolyte. He had a red cassock.”

  “So he knew about it?”

  “Yes. And that might explain his death.”

  “You mean he talked about it?”

  “Yes—or he may have tried a spot of quiet blackmail.”

  Bridget said thoughtfully:

  “I know it’s all fantastic—but it doesn’t seem quite so fantastic when applied to Ellsworthy as it does to anyone else.”

  “No, I agree—the thing becomes just conceivable instead of being ludicrously unreal.”

  “We’ve got a connection with two of the victims,” said Bridget. “Tommy Pierce and Amy Gibbs.”

  “Where do the publican and Humbleby come in?”

  “At the moment they don’t.”

  “Not the publican. But I can imagine a motive for Humbleby’s removal. He was a doctor and he may have tumbled to Ellsworthy’s abnormal state.”

  “Yes, that’s possible.”

  Then Bridget laughed.

  “I 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.”

  Luke said:

  “Bridget, for God’s sake, be careful.”

  She looked at him, surprised. He got up.

  “I met Humbleby’s daughter just now. We were talking about Miss Pinkerton. And the Humbleby girl said that Miss Pinkerton had been worried about you.”

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

  “What’s that? Miss Pinkerton—worried—about me?”

  “That’s what Rose Humbleby said.”

  “Rose Humbleby said that?”

  “Yes.”

  “What more did she say?”

  “Nothing more.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Quite sure.”

  There was a pause, then Bridget said, “I see.”

  “Miss Pinkerton was worried about Humbleby and he died. Now I hear she was worried about you—”

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

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “The devil looks after his own.”

  Eleven

  DOMESTIC LIFE OF MAJOR HORTON

  Luke leaned back in his chair on the other side of the bank manager’s table.

  “Well, that seems very satisfactory,” he said. “I’m afraid I’ve been taking up a lot of your time.”

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

  “No, indeed, Mr. Fitzwilliam. This is a quiet spot, you know. We are always glad to see a stranger.”

  “It’s a fascinating part of the world,” said Luke. “Full of superstitions.”

  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.

  “Lord Whitfield,” he said, “has 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.”

  “Early disadvantages haven’t prevented him from making a large
fortune,” said Luke.

  “No, he must have had ability—great ability.”

  “Or luck,” said Luke.

  Mr. Jones looked rather shocked.

  “Luck is the one thing that counts,” said Luke. “Take a murderer, for example. Why does the successful murderer get away with it? Is it ability? Or is it sheer luck?”

  Mr. Jones admitted that it was probably luck.

  Luke continued:

  “Take a fellow like this man Carter, the landlord of one of your pubs. The fellow was probably drunk six nights out of seven—yet one night he goes and pitches himself off the footbridge into the river. Luck again.”

  “Good luck for some people,” said the bank manager.

  “You mean?”

  “For his wife and daughter.”

  “Oh, yes, of course.”

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

  “Well, I’m glad that’s all fixed up. Had a bit of luck over the Derby this year. Did you?”

  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.

  “Then I suppose you didn’t go to the Derby?”

  “No indeed.”

  “Anybody go to it from here?”

  “Major Horton did. He’s quite a keen racing man. And Mr. Abbot usually takes the day off. He didn’t back the winner, though.”

  “I don’t suppose many people did,” 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 “least likely person,” he saw no reason for retaining Mr. Jones on his list of suspects. The bank manager had shown no interesting reactions to Luke’s test questions. It seemed quite impossible to visualize him as a murderer. Moreover, he had not been absent on Derby Day. Incidentally, Luke’s 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 Pinkerton’s 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 Pipwell’s Garage, situated at the far end of the High Street.

  There were various small matters in the car’s 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:

  “Jim, come here a minute.”

  The freckled-faced mechanic obeyed.

  Jim Harvey. That was right. Jim Harvey, Amy Gibbs’s 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:

  “Do any good on the Derby this year?”

  “No, sir. Backed Clarigold.”

  “Can’t be many people who backed Jujube the II.?”

  “No, indeed, sir. I don’t believe any of the papers even tipped it as an outside chance.”

  Luke shook his head.

  “Racing’s an uncertain game. Ever seen the Derby run?”

  “No, 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 wouldn’t hear of it. We were shorthanded, as a matter of fact, and had a lot of work in that day.”

  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. “Augustus—Nelly—NELLY, I say. Nero—Nero—NERO.”

  Again the protuberant eyes stared at Luke. But this time there was more to follow. Major Horton said:

  “Excuse me. Mr. Fitzwilliam, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Horton here—Major Horton. Believe I’m going to meet you tomorrow up at the Manor. Tennis party. Miss Conway very kindly asked me. Cousin of yours, isn’t she?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thought so. Soon spot a new face down here, you know.”

  Here a diversion occurred, the three bulldogs advancing upon a nondescript white mongrel.

  “Augustus—Nero. Come here, sir—come here, I say.”

  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.

  “Nice bitch, that, isn’t she?” said the major. “I like bulldogs. I’ve always had ’em. Prefer ’em to any other breed. My place is just near here, come in and have a drink.”

  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 major’s 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.

  “My wife,” said the major, looking up from the siphon and noting the direction of Luke’s glance. “Remarkable woman. A lot of character in her face, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, indeed,” 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.

  “A remarkable woman,” said the major, handing a glass to Luke. “She died over a year ago. I haven’t been the same man since.”

  “No?” said Luke, a little at a loss to know what to say.

  “Sit down,” 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:

  “No, I haven’t been the same man since.”

  “You must miss her,” said Luke awkwardly.

  Major Horton shook his head darkly.

  “Fellow needs a wife to keep him up to scratch,” he said. “Otherwise he gets slack—yes, slack. He lets himself go.”

  “But surely—”

  “My boy, I know what I’m talking about. Mind you, I’m not saying marriage doesn’t come hard on a fellow at first. It does. Fellow says to himself, damn it all, he says, I can’t call my soul my own! But he gets broken in. It’s all discipline.”

  Luke thought that Major Horton’s married life must have been more like a military campaign than an idyll of domestic bliss.

  “Women,” soliloquized the major, “are a rum lot. It seems sometimes that there’s no pleasing them. But by Jove, they keep a man up to the mark.”

  Luke pr
eserved a respectful silence.

  “You married?” inquired the major.

  “No.”

  “Ah, well, you’ll come to it. And mind you, my boy, there’s nothing like it.”

  “It’s always cheering,” said Luke, “to hear someone speak well of the marriage state. Especially in these days of easy divorce.”

  “Pah!” said the major. “Young people make me sick. No stamina—no endurance. They can’t stand anything. No fortitude!”

  Luke itched to ask why such exceptional fortitude should be needed, but he controlled himself.

  “Mind you,” said the major, “Lydia was a woman in a thousand—in a thousand! Everyone here respected and looked up to her.”

  “Yes?”

  “She wouldn’t stand any nonsense. She’d got a way of fixing a person with her eye—and the person wilted—just wilted. Some of these half-baked girls who call themselves servants nowadays. They think you’ll put up with any insolence. Lydia soon showed them! Do you know we had fifteen cooks and house-parlourmaids in one year. Fifteen!”

  Luke felt that this was hardly a tribute to Mrs. Horton’s domestic management, but since it seemed to strike his host differently he merely murmured some vague remark.

  “Turned ’em out neck and crop, she did, if they didn’t suit.”

  “Was it always that way about?” asked Luke.

  “Well, of course a lot of them walked out on us. A good riddance—that’s what Lydia used to say!”

  “A fine spirit,” said Luke, “but wasn’t it sometimes rather awkward?”

  “Oh! I didn’t mind turning to and putting my hand to things,” said Horton. “I’m a pretty fair cook and I can lay a fire with anyone. I’ve never cared for washing up but of course it’s got to be done—you can’t get away from that.”

  Luke agreed that you couldn’t. He asked whether Mrs. Horton had been good at domestic work.

  “I’m not the sort of fellow to let his wife wait on him,” said Major Horton. “And anyway Lydia was far too delicate to do any housework.”

  “She wasn’t strong then?”

  Major Horton shook his head.

  “She had wonderful spirit. She wouldn’t 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.”