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.
“Damn,” said Luke as he dropped the match and shook his hand vigorously. “I beg your pardon. You gave me rather a nasty jolt.” He smiled ruefully.
“Did I?”
“Yes.” He sighed. “Oh, well, I suppose anyone of real intelligence was bound to see through me! That story of my writing a book on folklore didn’t take you in for a moment, I suppose?”
“Not after I’d once seen you.”
“You believed it up to then?”
“Yes.”
“All the same it wasn’t really a good story,” said Luke critically. “I mean, any man might want to write a book, but the bit about coming down here and passing myself off as a cousin—I suppose that made you smell a rat?”
Bridget shook her head.
“No. I had an explanation for that—I thought I had, I mean. I presumed you were pretty hard up—a lot of my and Jimmy’s friends are that—and I thought he suggested the cousin stunt so that—well, so that it would save your pride.”
“But when I arrived,” said Luke, “my appearance immediately suggested such opulence that that explanation was out of the question?”
Her mouth curved in its slow smile.
“Oh, no,” she said. “It wasn’t that. It was simply that you were the wrong kind of person.”
“Not sufficient brains to write a book? Don’t spare my feelings. I’d rather know.”
“You might write a book—but not that kind of book—old superstitions—delving into the past—not that sort of thing! You’re not the kind of man to whom the past means much—perhaps not even the future—only just the present.”
“H’m—I see.” He made a wry face. “Damn it all, you’ve made me nervous ever since I got here! You look so confoundedly intelligent.”
“I’m sorry,” said Bridget drily. “What did you expect?”
“Well, I really hadn’t thought about it.”
But she went on calmly:
“A fluffy little person—with just enough brains to realize her opportunities and marry her boss?”
Luke made a confused noise. She turned a cool amused glance on him.
“I quite understand. It’s all right. I’m not annoyed.”
Luke chose effrontery.
“Well, perhaps, it was something faintly approaching that. But I didn’t think much about it.”
She said slowly:
“No, you wouldn’t. You don’t cross your fences till you get to them.”
But Luke was despondent.
“Oh, I’ve no doubt I did my stuff pretty rottenly! Has Lord Whitfield seen through me too?”
“Oh, no. If you said you’d come down here to study the habits of water beetles and write a monograph about them, it would have been OK with Gordon. He’s got a beautiful believing mind.”
“All the same I wasn’t a bit convincing! I got rattled somehow.”
“I cramped your style,” said Bridget. “I saw that. It rather amused me, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, it would! Women with any brains are usually cold-bloodedly cruel.”
Bridget murmured:
“One has to take one’s pleasures as one can in this life!” She paused a minute, then said: “Why are you down here, Mr. Fitzwilliam?”
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 eyes—shrewd 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.
“It would be better, I think,” he said meditatively, “not to tell you anymore lies.”
“Much better.”
“But the truth’s awkward…Look here, have you yourself formed any opinion—I mean has anything occurred to you about my being here?”
She nodded slowly and thoughtfully.
“What was your idea? Will you tell me? I fancy it may help somehow.”
Bridget said quietly:
“I had an idea that you came down here in connection with the death of that girl, Amy Gibbs.”
“That’s it, then! That’s what I saw—what I felt—whenever her name cropped up! I knew there was something. So you thought I came down about that?”
“Didn’t you?”
“In a way—yes.”
He was silent—frowning. The girl beside him sat equally silent, not moving. She said nothing to disturb his train of thought.
He made up his mind.
“I’ve come down here on a wild goose chase—on a fantastical and probably quite absurd and melodramatic supposition. Amy Gibbs is part of that whole business. I’m interested to find out exactly how she died.”
“Yes, I thought so.”
“But dash it all—why did you think so? What is there about her death that—well—aroused your interest?”
Bridget said:
“I’ve thought—all along—that there was something wrong about it. That’s why I took you to see Miss Waynflete.”
“Why?”
“Because she thinks so too.”
“Oh.” Luke thought back rapidly. He understood now the underlying suggestions of that intelligent spinster’s manner. “She thinks as you do—that there’s something—odd about it?”
Bridget nodded.
“Why exactly?”
“Hat paint, to begin with.”
“What do you mean, hat paint?”
“Well, about twenty years ago, people did paint hats—one season you had a pink straw, next season a bottle of hat paint and it became dark blue—then perhaps another bottle and a black hat! But nowadays—hats are cheap—tawdry stuff to be thrown away when out of fashion.”
“Even girls of the class of Amy Gibbs?”
“I’d be more likely to paint a hat than she would! Thrift’s gone out. And there’s another thing. It was red hat paint.”
“Well?”
“And Amy Gibbs had red hair—carrots!”
“You mean it doesn’t go together?”
Bridget nodded.
“You wouldn’t wear a scarlet hat with carroty hair. It’s the sort of thing a man wouldn’t realize, but—”
Luke interrupted her with heavy significance.
“No—a man wouldn’t realize that. It fits in—it all fits in.”
Bridget said:
“Jimmy has got some odd friends at Scotland Yard. You’re not—”
Luke said quickly:
“I’m not an official detective—and I’m not a well-known private investigator with rooms in Baker Street, etc. I’m exactly what Jimmy told you I was—a retired policeman from the East. I’m horning in on this business because of an odd thing that happened in the train to London.”
He gave a brief synopsis of his conversation with Miss Pinkerton and the subsequent events which had brought about his presence in Wychwood.
“So you see,” he ended. “It’s fantastic! I’m looking for a certain man—a secret killer—a man here in Wychwood—probably well-known and respected. If Miss Pinkerton’s right and you’re right and Miss What’s-’er-name is right—that man killed Amy Gibbs.”
Bridget said: “I see.”
“It could have been done from outside, I suppose?”
“Yes, I think so,” said Bridget slowly. “Reed, 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.”
“And having done that, he did what?”
“Substituted a bottle of hat paint for the cough linctus.”
“Hoping she’d do exactly what she did do—wake up, drink it off, and that everyone would say she’d made a mistake or committed suici
de?”
“Yes.”
“There was no suspicion of what they call in books, ‘foul play’ at the inquest?”
“No.”
“Men again, I suppose—the hat paint point wasn’t raised?”
“No.”
“But it occurred to you?”
“Yes.”
“And to Miss Waynflete? Have you discussed it together?”
Bridget smiled faintly:
“Oh, no—not in the sense you mean. I mean we haven’t said anything right out. I don’t really know how far the old pussy has gone in her own mind. I’d say she’d been just worried to start with—and gradually getting more so. She’s quite intelligent, you know, went to Girton or wanted to, and was advanced when she was young. She’s not got quite the woolly mind of most of the people down here.”
“Miss Pinkerton had rather a woolly mind I should imagine,” said Luke. “That’s why I never dreamed there was anything in her story to begin with.”
“She was pretty shrewd, I always thought,” said Bridget. “Most of these rambling old dears are as sharp as nails in some ways. You said she mentioned other names?”
Luke nodded.
“Yes. A small boy—that was Tommy Pierce—I remembered the name as soon as I heard it. And I’m pretty sure that the man Carter came in too.”
“Carter, Tommy Pierce, Amy Gibbs, Dr. Humbleby,” said Bridget thoughtfully. “As you say, it’s almost too fantastic to be true! Who on earth would want to kill all those people? They were all so different!”
Luke said:
“Any idea as to why anyone should want to do away with Amy Gibbs?”
Bridget shook her head.
“I can’t imagine.”
“What about the man Carter? How did he die, by the way?”
“Fell into the river and was drowned. He was on his way home, it was a misty night and he was quite drunk. There’s a footbridge with a rail on only one side. It was taken for granted that he missed his footing.”
“But someone could quite easily have given him a shove?”
“Oh, yes.”
“And somebody else could quite easily have given nasty little Tommy a push when he was window cleaning?”
“Again yes.”
“So it boils down to the fact that it’s really quite easy to remove three human beings without anyone suspecting.”
“Miss Pinkerton suspected,” Bridget pointed out.
“So she did, bless her. She wasn’t troubled with ideas of being too melodramatic, or of imagining things.”
“She often told me the world was a very wicked place.”
“And you smiled tolerantly, I suppose?”
“In a superior manner!”
“Anybody who can believe six impossible things before breakfast wins hands down at this game.”
Bridget nodded.
Luke said:
“I suppose it’s no good my asking you if you’ve a hunch of any kind? There’s no particular individual in Wychwood who gives you a creepy feeling down the spine, or who has strange pale eyes—or a queer maniacal giggle.”
“Everybody I’ve met in Wychwood appears to me to be eminently sane, respectable, and completely ordinary.”
“I was afraid you’d say that,” said Luke.
Bridget said:
“You think this man is definitely mad?”
“Oh, I should say so. A lunatic all right, but a cunning one. The last person you’d ever suggest—probably a pillar of society like a Bank Manager.”
“Mr. Jones? I certainly can’t imagine him committing wholesale murders.”
“Then he’s probably the man we want.”
“It may be anyone,” said Bridget. “The butcher, the baker, the grocer, a farm labourer, a road mender, or the man who delivers the milk.”
“It may be—yes—but I think the field is a little more restricted than that.”
“Why?”
“My 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 impression—it’s only an impression, mark you—that the man she was speaking of was at least her social equal. Of course, I may be wrong.”
“You’re probably quite right! Those nuances of conversation can’t be put down in black and white, but they’re the sort of things one doesn’t really make mistakes about.”
“You know,” said Luke, “it’s a great relief to have you knowing all about it.”
“It will probably cramp your style less, I agree. And I can probably help you.”
“Your help will be invaluable. You really mean to see it through?”
“Of course.”
Luke said with a sudden slight embarrassment:
“What about Lord Whitfield? Do you think—?”
“Naturally we don’t tell Gordon anything about it!” said Bridget.
“You mean he wouldn’t believe it?”
“Oh, he’d believe it! Gordon could believe anything! He’d probably be simply thrilled and insist on having half a dozen of his bright young men down to beat up the neighbourhood! He’d simply adore it!”
“That does rather rule it out,” agreed Luke.
“Yes, we can’t allow him to have his simple pleasures, I’m afraid.”
Luke looked at her. He seemed about to say something then changed his mind. He looked instead at his watch.
“Yes,” said Bridget, “we ought to be getting home.”
She got up. There was a sudden constraint between them as though Luke’s 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 “Talks to Young Men on the Subject of Myself” 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.
Amy’s 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 latter’s death suitable—namely, 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 book—always 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 Abbot’s papers. Did he find out
something he shouldn’t have known?
Harry Carter? No definite connection.
Amy Gibbs? No connection known. Hat paint quite suitable to Abbot’s mentality—an 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 that—blackmail? NB—Thomas was doctor in attendance. (Suspicious for Thomas again.)
Mr. Ellsworthy: Possible case against him.
Nasty bit of goods—dabbles 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 Ellsworthy’s 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.
Data—none.
Amy’s young man.
Probably every reason to kill Amy—but seems unlikely on general grounds.
The etceteras?
Don’t fancy them.
He read through what he had written.
Then he shook his head.
He murmured softly:
“—which is absurd! How nicely Euclid put things.”
He tore up the lists and burnt them.
He said to himself:
“This job isn’t going to be exactly easy.”
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 Luke’s rheumatic knee agreed almost precisely with that delivered by an eminent Harley Street specialist only a week earlier.