Murder Is Easy (14 page)

“I'm afraid he wasn't quite himself, Lord Whitfield,” said Miss Waynflete primly.

“He was drunk, that's what he was, drunk!”

“Just a bit lit up,” said Luke.

“Do you know what he did?” Lord Whitfield looked from one to the other of them. “Took out my car—
my
car! Thought I shouldn't be back so soon. Bridget drove me over to Lyne in the two-seater. And this fellow had the impertinence to take a girl—Lucy Carter, I believe—out in
my
car!”

Miss Waynflete said gently:

“A most improper thing to do.”

Lord Whitfield seemed a little comforted.

“Yes, wasn't it?”

“But I'm sure he'll regret it.”

“I shall see that he does!”

“You've dismissed him,” Miss Waynflete pointed out.

Lord Whitfield shook his head.

“He'll come to a bad end, that fellow.”

He threw back his shoulders.

“Come up to the house, Honoria, and have a glass of sherry.”

“Thank you, Lord Whitfield, but I must go to Mrs. Humbleby
with these books. Good night, Mr. Fitzwilliam. You'll be
quite
all right now.”

She gave him a smiling nod and walked briskly away. It was so much the attitude of a nurse who delivers a child at a party that Luke caught his breath as a sudden idea struck him. Was it possible that Miss Waynflete had accompanied him solely in order to protect him? The idea seemed ludicrous, but—

Lord Whitfield's voice interrupted his meditations.

“Very capable woman, Honoria Waynflete.”

“Very, I should think.”

Lord Whitfield began to walk towards the house. He moved rather stiffly and his hand went to his posterior and rubbed it gingerly.

Suddenly he chuckled.

“I was engaged to Honoria once—years ago. She was a nice-looking girl—not so skinny as she is today. Seems funny to think of now. Her people were the nobs of this place.”

“Yes?”

Lord Whitfield ruminated:

“Old Colonel Waynflete bossed the show. One had to come out and touch one's cap pretty sharp. One of the old school he was, and proud as Lucifer.”

He chuckled again.

“The fat was in the fire all right when Honoria announced she was going to marry me! Called herself a Radical, she did. Very earnest. Was all for abolishing class distinctions. She was a serious kind of girl.”

“So her family broke up the romance?”

Lord Whitfield rubbed his nose.

“Well—not exactly. Matter of fact we had a bit of a row over something. Blinking bird she had—one of those beastly twittering canaries—always hated them—bad business—wrung its neck. Well—no good dwelling on all that now. Let's forget it.”

He shook his shoulders like a man who throws off an unpleasant memory.

Then he said, rather jerkily:

“Don't think she's ever forgiven me. Well, perhaps it's only natural….”

“I think she's forgiven you all right,” said Luke.

Lord Whitfield brightened up.

“Do you? Glad of that. You know I respect Honoria. Capable woman
and
a lady! That still counts even in these days. She runs that library business very well.”

He looked up and his voice changed.

“Hallo,” he said. “Here comes Bridget.”

L
uke felt a tightening of his muscles as Bridget approached.

He had had no word alone with her since the day of the tennis party. By mutual consent they had avoided each other. He stole a glance at her now.

She looked provokingly calm, cool and indifferent.

She said lightly:

“I was beginning to wonder what on earth had become of you, Gordon?”

Lord Whitfield grunted:

“Had a bit of a dust up! That fellow Rivers had the impertinence to take the Rolls out this afternoon.”

“
Lèse-majesté,
” said Bridget.

“It's no good making a joke out of it, Bridget. The thing's serious. He took a girl out.”

“I don't suppose it would have given him any pleasure to go solemnly for a drive by himself!”

Lord Whitfield drew himself up.

“On my estate I'll have decent moral behaviour.”

“It isn't actually immoral to take a girl joyriding.”

“It is when it's
my
car.”

“That, of course, is worse than immorality! It practically amounts to blasphemy. But you can't cut out the sex stuff altogether, Gordon. The moon is at the full and it's actually Midsummer Eve.”

“Is it, by Jove?” said Luke.

Bridget threw him a glance.

“That seems to interest you?”

“It does.”

Bridget turned back to Lord Whitfield.

“Three extraordinary people have arrived at the Bells and Motley. Item one, a man with shorts, spectacles and a lovely plum-coloured silk shirt! Item two, a female with no eyebrows, dressed in a peplum, a pound of assorted sham Egyptian beads and sandals. Item three, a fat man in a lavender suit and co-respondent shoes. I suspect them of being friends of our Mr. Ellsworthy! Says the gossip writer: ‘Someone has whispered that there will be gay doings in the Witches' Meadow tonight.'”

Lord Whitfield turned purple and said:

“I won't have it!”

“You can't help it, darling. The Witches' Meadow is public property.”

“I won't have this irreligious mumbo jumbo going on down here! I'll expose it in
Scandals.
” He paused, then said, “Remind me to make a note about that and get Siddely on to it. I must go up to town tomorrow.”

“Lord Whitfield's campaign against witchcraft,” said Bridget
flippantly. “Medieval superstitions still rife in quiet country village.”

Lord Whitfield stared at her with a puzzled frown, then he turned and went into the house.

Luke said pleasantly:

“You must do your stuff better than that, Bridget!”

“What do you mean?”

“It would be a pity if you lost your job! That hundred thousand isn't yours yet. Nor are the diamonds and pearls. I should wait until after the marriage ceremony to exercise your sarcastic gifts if I were you.”

Her glance met his coolly.

“You are so thoughtful, dear Luke. It's kind of you to take my future so much to heart!”

“Kindness and consideration have always been my strong points.”

“I hadn't noticed it.”

“No? You surprise me.”

Bridget twitched the leaf off a creeper. She said:

“What have you been doing today?”

“The usual spot of sleuthing.”

“Any results?”

“Yes and no, as the politicians say. By the way, have you got any tools in the house?”

“I expect so. What kind of tools?”

“Oh, any handy little gadgets. Perhaps I could inspect some.”

Ten minutes later Luke had made a selection from a cupboard shelf.

“That little lot will do nicely,” he said, slapping the pocket in which he had stowed them away.

“Are you thinking of doing a spot of forcing and entering?”

“Maybe.”

“You're very uncommunicative on the subject.”

“Well, after all, the situation bristles with difficulties. I'm in the hell of a position. After our little knock up on Saturday I suppose I ought to clear out of here.”

“To behave as a perfect gentleman, you should.”

“But since I'm convinced that I am pretty hot on the trail of a homicidal maniac, I'm more or less forced to remain. If you could think of any convincing reason for me to leave here and take up my quarters at the Bells and Motley, for goodness' sake trot it out.”

Bridget shook her head.

“That's not feasible—you being a cousin and all that. Besides, the inn is full of Mr. Ellsworthy's friends. They only run to three guest rooms.”

“So I am forced to remain, painful as it must be for you.”

Bridget smiled sweetly at him.

“Not at all. I can always do with a few scalps to dangle.”

“That,” said Luke appreciatively, “was a particularly dirty crack. What I admire about you, Bridget, is that you have practically no instincts of kindness. Well, well. The rejected lover will now go and change for dinner.”

The evening passed uneventfully. Luke won Lord Whitfield's approval even more deeply than before by the apparent absorbed interest with which he listened to the other's nightly discourse.

When they came into the drawing room Bridget said:

“You men have been a long time.”

Luke replied:

“Lord Whitfield was being so interesting that the time passed like a flash. He was telling me how he founded his first newspaper.”

Mrs. Anstruther said:

“These new little fruiting trees in pots are perfectly marvellous, I believe. You ought to try them along the terrace, Gordon.”

The conversation then proceeded on normal lines.

Luke retired early.

He did not, however, go to bed. He had other plans.

It was just striking twelve when he descended the stairs noiselessly in tennis shoes, passed through the library and let himself out by a window.

The wind was still blowing in violent gusts interspersed with brief lulls. Clouds scudded across the sky, obliterating the moon so that darkness alternated with bright moonlight.

Luke made his way by a circuitous route to Mr. Ellsworthy's establishment. He saw his way clear to doing a little investigation. He was fairly certain that Ellsworthy and his friends would be out together on this particular date. Midsummer Eve, Luke thought, was sure to be marked by some ceremony or other. Whilst this was in progress, it would be a good opportunity to search Mr. Ellsworthy's house.

He climbed a couple of walls, got round to the back of the house, took the assorted tools from his pocket and selected a likely implement. He found a scullery window amenable to his efforts. A few minutes later he had slipped back the catch, raised the sash and hoisted himself over.

He had a torch in his pocket. He used it sparingly—a brief flash to show him his way and to avoid running into things.

In a quarter of an hour he had satisfied himself that the house was empty. The owner was out and abroad on his own affairs.

Luke smiled with satisfaction and settled down to his task.

He made a minute and thorough search of every available nook and corner. In a locked drawer, below two or three innocuous water-colour sketches, he came upon some artistic efforts which caused him to lift his eyebrows and whistle. Mr. Ellsworthy's correspondence was unilluminating, but some of his books—those tucked away at the back of a cupboard—repaid attention.

Besides these, Luke accumulated three meagre but suggestive scraps of information. The first was a pencil scrawl in a little notebook. “
Settle with Tommy Pierce
”—the date being a couple of days before the boy's death. The second was a crayon sketch of Amy Gibbs with a furious red cross right across the face. The third was a bottle of cough mixture. None of these things were in any way conclusive, but taken together they might be considered as encouraging.

Luke was just restoring some final order, replacing things in their place, when he suddenly stiffened and switched off his torch.

He had heard the key inserted in the lock of a side door.

He stepped across to the door of the room he was in, and applied an eye to a crack. He hoped Ellsworthy, if it was he, would go straight upstairs.

The side door opened and Ellsworthy stepped in, switching on a hall light as he did so.

As he passed along the hall, Luke saw his face and caught his breath.

It was unrecognizable. There was foam on the lips, the eyes were alight with a strange mad exultation as he pranced along the hall in little dancing steps.

But what caused Luke to catch his breath was the sight of Ellsworthy's hands. They were stained a deep brownish red—the colour of dried blood….

He disappeared up the stairs. A moment later the light in the hall was extinguished.

Luke waited a little longer, then very cautiously he crept out of the hall, made his way to the scullery and left by the window. He looked up at the house, but it was dark and silent.

He drew a deep breath.

“My God,” he said, “the fellow's mad all right! I wonder what he's up to? I'll swear that was blood on his hands!”

He made a detour round the village and returned to Ashe Manor by a roundabout route. It was as he was turning into the side lane that a sudden rustle of leaves made him swing round.

“Who's there?”

A tall figure wrapped in a dark cloak came out from the shadow of a tree. It looked so eerie that Luke felt his heart miss a beat. Then he recognized the long pale face under the hood.

“Bridget? How you startled me!”

She said sharply:

“Where have you been? I saw you go out.”

“And you followed me?”

“No. You'd gone too far. I've been waiting till you came back.”

“That was a damned silly thing to do,” Luke grumbled.

She repeated her question impatiently.

“Where have you been?”

Luke said gaily:

“Raiding our Mr. Ellsworthy!”

Bridget caught her breath.

“Did you—find anything?”

“I don't know. I know a bit more about the swine—his pornographical tastes and all that, and there are three things that might be suggestive.”

She listened attentively as he recounted the result of his search.

“It's very slight evidence, though,” he ended. “But, Bridget, just as I was leaving Ellsworthy came back. And I tell you this—the man's as mad as a hatter!”

“You really think so?”

“I saw his face—it was—unspeakable! God knows what he'd been up to! He was in a delirium of mad excitement. And his hands were stained. I'll swear with
blood.
”

Bridget shivered.

“Horrible…” she murmured.

Luke said irritably:

“You shouldn't have come out by yourself, Bridget. It was absolute madness. Somebody might have knocked you on the head.”

She laughed shakily.

“The same applies to you, my dear.”

“I can look after myself.”

“I'm pretty good at taking care of myself, too. Hard-boiled, I should think you'd call me.”

A sharp gust of wind came. Luke said suddenly:

“Take off that hood thing.”

“Why?”

With an unexpected movement he snatched at her cloak and
whipped it away. The wind caught her hair and blew it out straight up from her head. She stared at him, her breath coming fast.

Luke said:

“You certainly are incomplete without a broomstick, Bridget. That's how I saw you first.” He stared a minute longer and said, “You're a cruel devil.”

With a sharp impatient sigh he tossed the cloak back to her.

“There—put it on. Let's get home.”

“Wait….”

“Why?”

She came up to him. She spoke in a low, rather breathless voice.

“Because I've got something to say to you—that's partly why I waited for you here—outside the Manor. I want to say it to you now—before we go inside—into Gordon's property….”

“Well?”

She gave a short, rather bitter laugh.

“Oh, it's quite simple.
You win,
Luke. That's all!”

He said sharply:

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I've given up the idea of being Lady Whitfield.”

He took a step nearer.

“Is that true?” he demanded.

“Yes, Luke.”

“You'll marry me?”

“Yes.”

“Why, I wonder?”

“I don't know. You say such beastly things to me—and I seem to like it….”

He took her in his arms and kissed her. He said:

“It's a mad world!”

“Are you happy, Luke?”

“Not particularly.”

“Do you think you'll ever be happy with me?”

“I don't know. I'll risk it.”

“Yes—that's what I feel….”

He slipped his arm through hers.

“We're rather queer about all this, my sweet. Come along. Perhaps we shall be more normal in the morning.”

“Yes—it's rather frightening the way things happen to one…” She looked down and tugged him to a standstill. “Luke—Luke—
what's that
…?”

The moon had come out from the clouds. Luke looked down to where Bridget's shoe trembled by a huddled mass.

With a startled exclamation he dragged his arm free and knelt down. He looked from the shapeless heap to the gatepost above. The pineapple was gone.

He stood up at last. Bridget was standing, her hands pressed together on her mouth.

He said:

“It's the chauffeur—Rivers. He's dead….”

“That beastly stone thing—it's been loose for some time—I suppose it blew down on him?”

Luke shook his head.

“The wind wouldn't do a thing like that. Oh! that's what it's
meant
to look like—that's what it's
meant
to be—another accident! But it's a fake.
It's the killer again
….”