Murder Is Easy (13 page)

“Last of all, Miss Pinkerton. Wednesday's early closing. Ellsworthy might have gone up to town that day. Has he a car, I wonder? Never seen him in one, but that proves nothing. He knew she'd suspected him and he was going to take no chances of Scotland Yard believing her story. Perhaps they already knew something about him then?

“That's the case against Ellsworthy! Now what is there
for
him? Well, for one thing, he's certainly not the man Miss Waynflete
thought
Miss Pinkerton meant. For another, he doesn't fit—quite—with my own vague impression. When she was talking I got a picture of a man—and it wasn't a man like Ellsworthy. The impression she gave me was of a very normal man—outwardly, that is—the kind of man nobody would suspect. Ellsworthy is the kind of man you
would
suspect. No, I got more the impression of a man like—Dr. Thomas.

“Thomas, now. What about Thomas? I wiped him clean off the list after I'd had a chat with him. Nice unassuming fellow. But the whole point of this murderer—unless I've got the whole thing wrong—is that he would be a nice unassuming fellow. The last person you'd think ever would be a murderer! Which, of course, is exactly what one feels about Thomas.

“Now then, let's go through it all again. Why did Dr. Thomas kill Amy Gibbs? Really, it seems most unlikely that he did! But she
did
go to see him that day, and he
did
give her that bottle of cough mixture. Suppose that was really oxalic acid. That would be very simple and clever! Who was called in, I wonder, when she was found poisoned—Humbleby or Thomas? If it was Thomas he might just come along with an old bottle of hat paint in his pocket, put it down unobtrusively on the table—and take off both bottles to be analysed as bold as brass! Something like that. It could be done if you were cool enough!

“Tommy Pierce? Again I can't see a likely motive. That's the difficulty with our Dr. Thomas—
motive.
There's not even a crazy motive! Same with Carter. Why should Dr. Thomas want to dispose of Carter? One can only assume that Amy, Tommy and the publican all knew something about Dr. Thomas that it was unhealthy to know. Ah! Supposing now that that something was
the death of Mrs. Horton.
Dr. Thomas attended her. And she died of a rather unexpected relapse. He could have managed that easily enough. And Amy Gibbs, remember, was in the house at the time. She might have seen or heard something. That would account for
her.
Tommy Pierce, we have it on good authority, was a particularly inquisitive small boy. He
may
have got wise to something. Can't get Carter in. Amy Gibbs told him something. He may have repeated it in his cups, and Thomas may have decided to silence him too. All this, of course, is pure conjecture. But what else can one do?

“Now Humbleby. Ah! At last we come to a perfectly plausible murder. Adequate motive and ideal means! If Dr. Thomas couldn't give his partner blood poisoning, no one could! He could reinfect
the wound every time he dressed it! I wish the earlier killings were a little more plausible.

“Miss Pinkerton? She's more difficult, but there is one definite fact. Dr. Thomas was not in Wychwood for at least a good part of the day. He gave out that he was attending a confinement. That may be. But the fact remains that he was away from Wychwood
in a car.

“Is there anything else? Yes, just one thing. The look he gave me when I went away from the house the other day. Superior, condescending, the smile of a man who'd just led me up the garden path and knew it.”

Luke sighed, shook his head and went on with his reasoning.

“Abbot? He's the right kind of man too. Normal, well-to-do, respected, last sort of man, etc., etc. He's conceited, too, and confident. Murderers usually are! They've got overweening conceit! Always think they'll get away with it. Amy Gibbs paid him a visit once. Why? What did she want to see him for? To get legal advice? Why? Or was it a personal matter? There's that mention of “a letter from a lady” that Tommy saw. Was that letter from Amy Gibbs? Or was it a letter written by Mrs. Horton—a letter, perhaps, that Amy Gibbs had got hold of? What other lady could there be writing to Mr. Abbot on a matter so private that he loses control when the office boy inadvertently sees it? What else can we think of re Amy Gibbs? The hat paint? Yes, right kind of old-fashioned touch—men like Abbot are usually well behind the times where women are concerned. The old-world style of philanderer! Tommy Pierce? Obvious—on account of the letter (really, it must have been a very damning letter!). Carter? Well, there was trouble about Carter's daughter. Abbot wasn't going to have a scandal—a low-down ruffianly half-wit like
Carter dare to threaten him! He who had got away with two clever killings! Away with Mr. Carter! Dark night and a well-directed push. Really, this killing business is almost too easy.

“Have I got the Abbot mentality? I think so. Nasty look in an old lady's eye. She's thinking things about him…Then, row with Humbleby. Old Humbleby daring to set himself against Abbot, the clever solicitor and murderer. The old fool—he little knows what's in store for him!
He's
for it! Daring to browbeat me!

“And then—what? Turning to catch Lavinia Pinkerton's eyes. And his own eyes falter—show a consciousness of guilt. He who was boasting of being unsuspected has definitely aroused suspicion. Miss Pinkerton knows his secret…She knows what he has done…Yes, but she can't have
proof.
But suppose she goes about looking for it…Suppose she talks…Suppose…He's quite a shrewd judge of character. He guesses what she will finally do. If she goes with this tale of hers to Scotland Yard they
may
believe her—they
may
start making inquiries. Something pretty desperate has got to be done. Has Abbot got a car or did he hire one in London? Anyway, he was away from here on Derby Day….”

Again Luke paused. He was so entering into the spirit of the thing that he found it hard to make a transition from one suspect to another. He had to wait a minute before he could force himself into the mood where he could visualize Major Horton as a successful murderer.

“Horton murdered his wife. Let's start with that! He had ample provocation and he gained considerably by her death. In order to carry it off successfully he had to make a good show of devotion. He's had to keep that up. Sometimes, shall we say, he overdoes it a bit?

“Very good, one murder successfully accomplished. Who's the next? Amy Gibbs. Yes, perfectly credible. Amy was in the house. She may have seen something—the major administering a soothing cup of beef tea or gruel? She mayn't have realized the point of what she saw till some time later. The hat paint trick is the sort of thing that would occur to the major quite naturally—a very masculine man with little knowledge of women's fripperies.

“Amy Gibbs all serene and accounted for.

“The drunken Carter? Same suggestion as before. Amy told him something. Another straightforward murder.

“Now Tommy Pierce. We've got to fall back on his inquisitive nature. I suppose the letter in Abbot's office couldn't have been a complaint from Mrs. Horton that her husband was trying to poison her? That's a wild suggestion, but it
might
be so. Anyway, the major becomes alive to the fact that Tommy is a menace, so Tommy joins Amy and Carter. All quite simple and straightforward and according to Cocker. Easy to kill? My God, yes.

“But now we come to something rather more difficult. Humbleby! Motive? Very obscure. Humbleby was attending Mrs. Horton originally. Did he get puzzled by the illness, and did Horton influence his wife to change to the younger, more unsuspicious doctor? But if so,
what made Humbleby a danger so long after?
Difficult, that…The manner of his death, too. A poisoned finger. Doesn't connect up with the major.

“Miss Pinkerton? That's perfectly possible. He has a car. I saw it. And he was away from Wychwood that day, supposedly gone to the Derby. It might be—yes.
Is
Horton a cold-blooded killer? Is he? Is he? I wish I knew….”

Luke stared ahead of him. His brow was puckered with thought.

“It's one of them…I don't
think
it's Ellsworthy—but it might be! He's the most obvious one! Thomas is wildly unlikely—if it weren't for the
manner
of Humbleby's death. That blood poisoning definitely points to a
medical
murderer! It
could
be Abbot—there's not as much evidence against him as against the others—but I can
see
him in the part, somehow…Yes—he fits as the others don't. And it
could
be Horton! Bullied by his wife for years, feeling his insignificance—yes, it could be! But Miss Waynflete doesn't think it is, and she's no fool—and she knows the place and the people in it….

“Which
does
she suspect, Abbot or Thomas? It must be one of these two…If I tackled her outright—‘Which of them is it?'—I'd get it out of her then, perhaps.

“But even then she might be wrong. There's no way of proving
her
right—like Miss Pinkerton proved herself. More evidence—that's what I want. If there were to be one more case—just one more—then I'd know—”

He stopped himself with a start.

“My God,” he said under his breath. “What I'm asking for is
another murder….
”

I
n the bar of the Seven Stars Luke drank his pint and felt somewhat embarrassed. The stare of half a dozen bucolic pairs of eyes followed his least movement, and conversation had come to a standstill upon his entrance. Luke essayed a few comments of general interest such as the crops, the state of the weather, and football coupons, but to none did he get any response.

He was reduced to gallantry. The fine-looking girl behind the counter with her black hair and red cheeks he rightly judged to be Miss Lucy Carter.

His advances were received in a pleasant spirit. Miss Carter duly giggled and said, “Go on with you! I'm sure you don't think nothing of the kind! That's telling!”—and other such rejoinders. But the performance was clearly mechanical.

Luke, seeing no advantage to be gained by remaining, finished his beer and departed. He walked along the path to where the river was spanned by a footbridge. He was standing looking at this when a quavering voice behind him said:

“That's it, mister, that's where old Harry went over.”

Luke turned to see one of his late fellow drinkers, one who had been particularly unresponsive to the topic of crops, weather and coupons. He was now clearly about to enjoy himself as a guide to the macabre.

“Went over into the mud he did,” said the ancient labourer. “Right into the mud and stuck in it head downwards.”

“Odd he should have fallen off here,” said Luke.

“He were drunk, he were,” said the rustic indulgently.

“Yes, but he must have come this way drunk many times before.”

“Most every night,” said the other. “Always in liquor, Harry were.”

“Perhaps someone pushed him over,” said Luke, making the suggestion in a casual fashion.

“They might of,” the rustic agreed. “But I don't know who'd go for to do that,” he added.

“He might have made a few enemies. He was fairly abusive when he was drunk, wasn't he?”

“His language was a treat to hear! Didn't mince his words, Harry didn't. But no one would go for to push a man what's drunk.”

Luke did not combat this statement. It was evidently regarded as wildly unsporting for advantage to be taken of a man's state of intoxication. The rustic had sounded quite shocked at the idea.

“Well,” he said vaguely, “it was a sad business.”

“None so sad for his missus,” said the old man. “Reckon her and Lucy haven't no call to be sad about it.”

“There may be other people who are glad to have him out of the way.”

The old man was vague about that.

“Maybe,” he said. “But he didn't mean no harm, Harry didn't.”

On this epitaph for the late Mr. Carter, they parted.

Luke bent his steps towards the old Hall. The library transacted its business in the two front rooms. Luke passed on to the back through a door which was labelled Museum. There he moved from case to case, studying the not very inspiring exhibits. Some Roman pottery and coins. Some South Sea curiosities, a Malay headdress. Various Indian gods “presented by Major Horton,” together with a large and malevolent-looking Buddha, and a case of doubtful-looking Egyptian beads.

Luke wandered out again into the hall. There was no one about. He went quietly up the stairs. There was a room with magazines and papers there, and a room filled with nonfiction books.

Luke went a storey higher. Here were rooms filled with what he designated to himself as junk. Stuffed birds removed from the museum owing to the moth having attacked them, stacks of torn magazines and a room whose shelves were covered with out-of-date works of fiction and children's books.

Luke approached the window. Here it must have been that Tommy Price had sat, possibly whistling and occasionally rubbing a pane of glass vigorously when he heard anyone coming.

Somebody had come in. Tommy had shown his zeal—sitting half out of the window and polishing with zest. And then that somebody had come up to him, and while talking, had given a sudden sharp push.

Luke turned away. He walked down the stairs and stood a minute or two in the hall. Nobody had noticed him come in. Nobody had seen him go upstairs.

“
Anyone
might have done it!” said Luke. “Easiest thing in the world.”

He heard footsteps coming from the direction of the library proper. Since he was an innocent man with no objection to being seen, he could remain where he was. If he had not wanted to be seen, how easy just to step back inside the door of the museum room!

Miss Waynflete came out from the library, a little pile of books under her arm. She was pulling on her gloves. She looked very happy and busy. When she saw him her face lit up and she exclaimed:

“Oh, Mr. Fitzwilliam, have you been looking at the museum? I'm afraid there isn't very much there, really. Lord Whitfield is talking of getting us some really interesting exhibits.”

“Really?”

“Yes, something modern, you know, and up-to-date. Like they have at the Science Museum in London. He suggests a model aeroplane and a locomotive and some chemical things too.”

“That would, perhaps, brighten things up.”

“Yes, I don't think a museum should deal solely with the past, do you?”

“Perhaps not.”

“Then some food exhibits, too—calories and vitamins—all that sort of thing. Lord Whitfield is so keen on the Greater Fitness Campaign.”

“So he was saying the other night.”

“It's
the
thing at present, isn't it? Lord Whitfield was telling me how he'd been to the Wellerman Institute—and seen such a lot of germs and cultures and bacteria—it quite made me shiver. And he
told me all about mosquitoes and sleeping sickness and something about a liver fluke that I'm afraid was a little too difficult for
me.
”

“It was probably too difficult for Lord Whitfield,” said Luke cheerfully. “I'll bet he got it all wrong! You've got a much clearer brain than he has, Miss Waynflete.”

Miss Waynflete said sedately:

“That's very nice of you, Mr. Fitzwilliam, but I'm afraid women are never quite such deep thinkers as men.”

Luke repressed a desire to criticize adversely Lord Whitfield's processes of thought. Instead he said:

“I did look into the museum but afterwards I went up to have a look at the top windows.”

“You mean where Tommy—” Miss Waynflete shivered. “It's really very horrible.”

“Yes, it's not a nice thought. I've spent about an hour with Mrs. Church—Amy's aunt—not a nice woman!”

“Not at all.”

“I had to take rather a strong line with her,” said Luke. “I fancy she thinks I'm a kind of super policeman.”

He stopped as he noted a sudden change of expression on Miss Waynflete's face.

“Oh, Mr. Fitzwilliam, do you think that was wise?”

Luke said:

“I don't really know. I think it was inevitable. The book story was wearing thin—I can't get much further on that. I had to ask the kind of questions that were directly to the point.”

Miss Waynflete shook her head—the troubled expression still on her face.

“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 con
sidered 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—”