Murder Is Easy

  “I’ve noticed that.”

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

  “If you want to hear more about Amy Gibbs, I can take you to someone who could help you.”

  “Who is that?”

  “A Miss Waynflete. Amy went there after she left the Manor. She was there when she died.”

  “Oh, I see—” he was a little taken aback. “Well—thank you very much.”

  “She lives just here.”

  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: “That’s Wych Hall. It’s a library now.”

  Adjoining the Hall was a little house that looked rather like a doll’s 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.

  “Good morning, Miss Waynflete,” said Bridget. “This is Mr. Fitzwilliam.” Luke bowed. “He’s writing a book—about deaths and village customs and general gruesomeness.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Miss Waynflete. “How very interesting.”

  And she beamed encouragingly upon him.

  He was reminded of Miss Pinkerton.

  “I thought,” said Bridget—and again he noted that curious flat tone in her voice—“that you might tell him something about Amy.”

  “Oh,” said Miss Waynflete. “About Amy? Yes. About Amy Gibbs.”

  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.

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

  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 furniture—a Chippendale desk, some little satinwood tables—and a hideous and rather uncomfortable Victorian sofa.

  Miss Waynflete offered her guests chairs and then said apologetically:

  “I’m afraid I don’t smoke myself, so I have no cigarettes, but do please smoke if you like.”

  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:

  “You 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.”

  “Wasn’t there some question of—suicide?” asked Luke.

  Miss Waynflete shook her head.

  “No, no, that I cannot believe for a moment. Amy was not at all that type.”

  “What type was she?” asked Luke bluntly. “I’d like to hear your account of her.”

  Miss Waynflete said:

  “Well, of course, she wasn’t 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 out—well, of course she was young and girls are like that nowadays. They don’t seem to realize that their time is their employer’s.”

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

  “She wasn’t the sort of girl I care for—rather a bold type though of course I wouldn’t like to say much now that she’s dead. One feels unchristian—though really I don’t think that that is a logical reason for suppressing the truth.”

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

  “She was fond of admiration,” went on Miss Waynflete, “and was inclined to think a lot of herself. Mr. Ellsworthy—he keeps the new antique shop but he is actually a gentleman—he dabbles a little in water-colours and he had done one or two sketches of the girl’s head—and I think, you know, that rather gave her ideas. She was inclined to quarrel with the young man she was engaged to—Jim Harvey. He’s a mechanic at the garage and very fond of her.”

  Miss Waynflete paused and then went on.

  “I shall never forget that dreadful night. Amy had been out of sorts—a nasty cough and one thing and another (those silly cheap silk stockings they will wear and shoes with paper soles practically—of course they catch chills) and she’d been to the doctor that afternoon.”

  Luke asked quickly:

  “Dr. Humbleby or Dr. Thomas?”

  “Dr. 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 began—an 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 couldn’t 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 couldn’t do anything for her, and she died in Hospital a few hours later.”

  “And it was—what—hat paint?”

  “Yes. 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.”

  Miss Waynflete stopped. Her intelligent goat’s 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 untold—and a stronger feeling that, for some reason, she wanted him to be aware of the fact.

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

  “And you don’t think it was suicide?”

  Miss Waynflete said promptly:

  “Certainly 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 I’ve told you, she wasn’t that kind of girl.”

  “So you think—what?” said Luke bluntly.

  Miss Waynflete said:

  “I think it was very unfortunate.”

  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 Waynflete’s chair.

  Miss Waynflete addressed him in a cooing voice.

  “Why Wonky Pooh—where’s my Wonky Pooh been all the morning?”

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

&n
bsp; “That’s a very handsome cat. Have you had him long?”

  Miss Waynflete shook her head.

  “Oh, 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 couldn’t have let Wonky Pooh go to strangers. Lavinia would have been most upset. She simply worshipped him—and he is very beautiful isn’t he?”

  Luke admired the cat gravely.

  Miss Waynflete said: “Be careful of his ears. They’ve been rather painful lately.”

  Luke stroked the animal warily.

  Bridget rose to her feet.

  She said, “We must be going.”

  Miss Waynflete shook hands with Luke.

  “Perhaps,” she said, “I shall see you again before long.”

  Luke said cheerfully: “I hope so, I’m sure.”

  He thought she looked puzzled and a little disappointed. Her gaze shifted to Bridget—a 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.

  “Marvellously unspoilt, this place,” he said.

  Miss Waynflete’s face lit up.

  “Yes, indeed,” she said eagerly. “Really 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 it—indeed 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 ‘develop the land,’ 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 museum—really it is practically untouched. I act as librarian twice a week there—unpaid, of course—and I can’t 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 setting—you must visit our little museum one day, Mr. Fitzwilliam. There are some quite interesting local exhibits.”

  “I certainly shall make a point of doing so, Miss Waynflete.”

  “Lord Whitfield has been a great benefactor to Wychwood,” said Miss Waynflete. “It grieves me that there are people who are sadly ungrateful.”

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

  When they were outside the gate Bridget said:

  “Do you want to pursue further researches or shall we go home by way of the river? It’s a pleasant walk.”

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

  “Go round by the river, by all means.”

  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.

  “Rather a nice slipware dish there,” he remarked. “Do for an aunt of mine. Wonder how much they want for it?”

  “Shall we go in and see?”

  “Do you mind? I like pottering about antique shops. Sometimes one picks up a good bargain.”

  “I doubt if you will here,” said Bridget dryly. “Ellsworthy knows the value of his stuff pretty accurately, I should say.”

  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.

  “Ah, dear Miss Conway, what a pleasure to see you.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Ellsworthy.”

  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.

  “Genuine old English slipware. Delicious, isn’t it? I love my bits and pieces, you know, hate to sell them. It’s always been my dream to live in the country and have a little shop. Marvellous place, Wychwood—it has atmosphere, if you know what I mean.”

  “The artistic temperament,” murmured Bridget.

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

  “Not that terrible phrase, Miss Conway. No—no, I implore you. Don’t tell me I’m all arty and crafty—I couldn’t bear it. Really, really, you know, I don’t stock handwoven tweeds and beaten pewter. I’m a tradesman, that’s all, just a tradesman.”

  “But you’re really an artist, aren’t you?” said Luke. “I mean, you do water-colours, don’t you?”

  “Now who told you that?” cried Mr. Ellsworthy, clasping his hands together. “You know this place is really too marvellous—one simply can’t keep a secret! That’s what I like about it—it’s so different from that inhuman you-mind-your-own-business-and-I-will-mind-mine of a city! Gossip and malice and scandal—all so delicious if one takes them in the right spirit!”

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

  “Miss Waynflete told us that you had made several sketches of a girl—Amy Gibbs.”

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

  His poise seemed somewhat shaken.

  “She was a pretty girl,” said Bridget.

  Mr. Ellsworthy had recovered his aplomb.

  “Oh, do you think so?” he asked. “Very commonplace, I always thought. If you’re interested in slipware,” he went on to Luke, “I’ve got a couple of slipware birds—delicious things.”

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

  Ellsworthy named a figure.

  “Thanks,” said Luke, “but I don’t think I’ll deprive you of it after all.”

  “I’m always relieved, you know,” said Ellsworthy, “when I don’t make a sale. Foolish of me, isn’t it? Look here, I’ll let you have it for a guinea less. You care for the stuff. I can see that—it makes all the difference. And after all, this is a shop!”

  “No, thanks,” said Luke.

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

  “Nasty bit of goods, Mr. Ellsworthy,” he remarked when he and Bridget were out of earshot.

  “A nasty mind and nasty habits I should say,” said Bridget.

  “Why does he really come to a place like this?”

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

  Luke said rather awkwardly: “Good lord—I suppose he’s the kind of chap I really need. I ought to have talked to him on the subject.”

  “Do you think so?” said Bridget. “He knows a lot about it.”

  Luke said rather uneasily:

  “I’ll look him up some other day.”

  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. “Nero, come here, sir. Nelly, leave it. Drop it, I tell you. Augustus—AUGUSTUS, I say—”

  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.

  “Major Horton and his bulldogs?” quoted Luke.

  “Quite right.”
r />   “Haven’t we seen practically everyone of note in Wychwood this morning?”

  “Practically.”

  “I feel rather obtrusive,” said Luke. “I suppose a stranger in an English village is bound to stick out a mile,” he added ruefully, remembering Jimmy Lorrimer’s remarks.

  “Major Horton never disguises his curiosity very well,” said Bridget. “He did stare, rather.”

  “He’s the sort of man you could tell was a Major anywhere,” said Luke rather viciously.

  Bridget said abruptly: “Shall we sit on the bank a bit? We’ve got lots of time.”

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

  “Yes, Major Horton is very military—has an orderly room manner. You’d hardly believe he was the most henpecked man in existence a year ago!”

  “What, that fellow?”

  “Yes. He had the most disagreeable woman for a wife that I’ve ever known. She had the money too, and never scrupled to underline the fact in public.”

  “Poor brute—Horton, I mean.”

  “He behaved very nicely to her—always the officer and gentleman. Personally, I wonder he didn’t take a hatchet to her.”

  “She wasn’t popular, I gather.”

  “Everybody disliked her. She snubbed Gordon and patronized me and made herself generally unpleasant wherever she went.”

  “But I gather a merciful providence removed her?”

  “Yes, about a year ago. Acute gastritis. She gave her husband, Dr. Thomas and two nurses absolute Hell—but she died all right. The bulldogs brightened up at once.”

  “Intelligent brutes!”

  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 fact—how much imagination? Wasn’t it bad for one to go about studying every fresh person you met as a potential murderer? Something degrading about that point of view.

  “Damn it all,” thought Luke, “I’ve been a policeman too long!”

  He was brought out of his abstraction with a shock. Bridget’s cold clear voice was speaking.

  “Mr. Fitzwilliam,” she said, “just exactly why have you come down here?”