Murder Is Easy (17 page)

B
ridget sat for a minute motionless beside him. She said:

“Gordon?”

Luke nodded.

“Gordon?
Gordon—a murderer?
Gordon
the
murderer? I never heard anything so ridiculous in all my life!”

“That's how it strikes you?”

“Yes, indeed. Why, Gordon wouldn't hurt a fly.”

Luke said grimly:

“That may be true. I don't know. But he certainly killed a canary bird, and I'm pretty certain he's killed a large number of human beings as well.”

“My dear Luke, I simply can't believe it!”

“I know,” said Luke. “It does sound quite incredible. Why, he never even entered my head as a possible suspect until the night before last.”

Bridget protested:

“But I know all about Gordon! I know what he's
like!
He's really a sweet little man—pompous, yes, but rather pathetic really.”

Luke shook his head. “You've got to readjust your ideas about him, Bridget.”

“It's no good, Luke, I simply can't believe it! What put such an absurd idea into your head? Why, two days ago you were quite positive it was Ellsworthy.”

Luke winced slightly.

“I know. I know. You probably think that tomorrow I shall suspect Thomas, and the day after I shall be convinced that it's Horton I'm after! I'm not really so unbalanced as that. I admit the idea's completely startling when it first comes to you, but if you look into it a bit closer, you'll see that it all fits in remarkably well. No wonder Miss Pinkerton didn't dare to go to the local authorities.
She
knew they'd laugh at her! Scotland Yard was her only hope.”

“But what possible motive could Gordon have for all this killing business? Oh, it's all so
silly!
”

“I know. But don't you realize that Gordon Whitfield has a very exalted opinion of himself?”

Bridget said: “He pretends to be very wonderful and very important. That's just inferiority complex, poor lamb!”

“Possibly that's at the root of the trouble. I don't know. But think, Bridget—just
think
a minute. Remember all the phrases you've used laughingly yourself about him—
lèse-majesté,
etc. Don't you realize that the man's ego is swollen out of all proportion? And it's allied with religion. My dear girl, the man's as mad as a hatter!”

Bridget thought for a minute.

She said at last: “I still can't believe it. What evidence have you got, Luke?”

“Well, there are his own words. He told me, quite plainly and distinctly, the night before last, that anyone who opposed him in any way
always died.
”

“Go on.”

“I can't quite explain to you what I mean—but it was the way he said it. Quite calm and complacent and—how shall I put it?—quite
used
to the idea! He just sat there smiling to himself…It was uncanny and rather horrible, Bridget!”

“Go on.”

“Well, then he went on to give me a list of people who'd passed out because they'd incurred his sovereign displeasure! And, listen to this, Bridget,
the people he mentioned were Mrs. Horton, Amy Gibbs, Tommy Pierce, Harry Carter, Humbleby, and that chauffeur fellow, Rivers.
”

Bridget was shaken at last. She went very pale.

“He mentioned those actual people?”

“Those actual people!
Now
do you believe?”

“Oh, God, I suppose I must…What were his reasons?”

“Horribly trivial—that's what made it so frightening. Mrs. Horton had snubbed him, Tommy Pierce had done imitations of him and made the gardeners laugh, Harry Carter had abused him, Amy Gibbs had been grossly impertinent, Humbleby had dared to oppose him publicly, Rivers threatened him before me and Miss Waynflete—”

Bridget put her hands to her eyes.

“Horrible…Quite horrible…” she murmured.

“I know. Then there's some other outside evidence. The car that ran down Miss Pinkerton in London was a Rolls,
and its number was the number of Lord Whitfield's car.
”

“That definitely clinches it,” said Bridget slowly.

“Yes. The police thought the woman who gave them that number must have made a mistake. Mistake indeed!”

“I can understand that,” said Bridget. “When it comes to a rich, powerful man like Lord Whitfield, naturally his story is the one to be believed!”

“Yes. One appreciates Miss Pinkerton's difficulty.”

Bridget said thoughtfully:

“Once or twice she said rather queer things to me. As though she were warning me against something…I didn't understand in the least at the time…I see now!”

“It all fits in,” said Luke. “That's the way of it. At first one says (as you said), “Impossible!” and then once one accepts the idea, everything fits in! The grapes he sent to Mrs. Horton—and she thought the nurses were poisoning her! And that visit of his to the Wellerman Kreutz Institute—somehow or other he must have got hold of some culture of germs and infected Humbleby.”

“I don't see how he managed that.”

“I don't either,
but the connection is there.
One can't get away from that.”

“No…As you say, if
fits.
And of course
he
could do things that other people couldn't! I mean he would be so completely above suspicion!”

“I think Miss Waynflete suspected. She mentioned that visit to the institute. Brought it into conversation quite casually—but I believe she hoped I'd act upon it.”

“She knew, then, all along?”

“She had a very strong suspicion. I think she was handicapped by having once been in love with him.”

Bridget nodded.

“Yes, that accounts for several things. Gordon told me they had once been engaged.”

“She wanted, you see, not to believe it was him. But she became more and more sure that it
was.
She tried to give me hints, but she couldn't bear to do anything outright against him! Women are odd creatures! I think, in a way, she still cares about him….”

“Even after he jilted her?”

“
She
jilted
him.
It was rather an ugly story. I'll tell you.”

He recounted the short, ugly episode. Bridget stared at him.

“Gordon did
that?
”

“Yes. Even in those days, you see, he can't have been normal!”

Bridget shivered and murmured:

“All those years ago…all those years….”

Luke said:

“He may have got rid of a lot more people than we shall ever know about! It's just the rapid succession of deaths lately that drew attention to him! As though he'd got reckless with success!”

Bridget nodded. She was silent for a minute or two, thinking, then she asked abruptly:

“What exactly did Miss Pinkerton say to you—in the train that day? How did she begin?”

Luke cast his mind back.

“Told me she was going to Scotland Yard, mentioned the village constable, said he was a nice fellow but not up to dealing with murder.”

“That was the first mention of the word?”

“Yes.”

“Go on.”

“Then she said, ‘
You're surprised, I can see. I was myself at first. I really couldn't believe it. I thought I must be imagining things.
'”

“And then?”

“I asked her if she was sure she wasn't—imagining things, I mean—and she said quite placidly, ‘
Oh, no! I might have been the first time, but not the second, or the third or the fourth. After that one knows.
'”

“Marvellous,” commented Bridget. “Go on.”

“So of course I humoured her—said I was sure she was doing the right thing. I was an unbelieving Thomas if there ever was one!”

“I know. So easy to be wise after the event! I'd have felt the same, nice and superior to the poor old dame! How did the conversation go on?”

“Let me see—oh! she mentioned the Abercrombie case—you know, the Welsh poisoner. Said she hadn't really believed that there had been a look—a special look—that he gave his victims. But that she believed it now because she had seen it herself.”

“What words did she use exactly?”

Luke thought, creasing his brow.

“She said, still in that nice ladylike voice, ‘
Of course, I didn't really believe that when I read about it—but it's true.
' And I said, ‘What's true?' And she said, ‘
The look on a person's face.
' And by Jove, Bridget, the way she said that absolutely
got
me! Her quiet voice and the look on her face—like someone who had really seen something almost too horrible to speak about!”

“Go on, Luke. Tell me everything.”

“And then she enumerated the victims—Amy Gibbs and Carter and Tommy Pierce, and said that Tommy was a horrid boy
and Carter drank. And then she said,
‘But now—yesterday—it was Dr. Humbleby—and he's such a good man—a really good man.'
And she said if she went to Humbleby and told him, he wouldn't believe her, he'd only laugh!”

Bridget gave a deep sigh.

“I see,” she said. “I see.”

Luke looked at her.

“What is it, Bridget? What are you thinking of?”

“Something Mrs. Humbleby once said. I wondered—no, never mind, go on. What was it she said to you right at the end?”

Luke repeated the words soberly. They had made an impression on him and he was not likely to forget them.

“I'd said it was difficult to get away with a lot of murders, and she answered, ‘
No, no, my dear boy, that's where you're wrong. It's very easy to kill—so long as no one suspects you. And you see, the person in question is just the last person anyone would suspect….
'”

He was silent. Bridget said with a shiver:

“Easy to kill? Horribly easy—that's true enough! No wonder those words stuck in your mind, Luke. They'll stick in mine—all my life! A man like Gordon Whitfield—oh! of course it's easy.”

“It's not so easy to bring it home to him,” said Luke.

“Don't you think so? I've an idea I can help there.”

“Bridget, I forbid you—”

“You can't. One can't just sit back and play safe. I'm in this, Luke. It may be dangerous—yes, I'll admit that—but I've got to play my part.”

“Bridget—”

“I'm
in
this, Luke! I shall accept Miss Waynflete's invitation and stay down here.”

“My darling, I implore you—”

“It's dangerous for both of us. I know that. But we're in it, Luke—we're in it—together!”

T
he calm interior of Miss Waynflete's house was almost an anti-climax after that tense moment in the car.

Miss Waynflete received Bridget's acceptance of her invitation a little doubtfully, hastening, however, to reiterate her offer of hospitality by way of showing that her doubts were due to quite another cause than unwillingness to receive the girl.

Luke said:

“I really think it will be the best thing, since you are so kind, Miss Waynflete. I am staying at the Bells and Motley. I'd rather have Bridget under my eye than up in town. After all, remember what happened there before.”

Miss Waynflete said:

“You mean—Lavinia Pinkerton?”

“Yes. You would have said, wouldn't you, that anyone would be quite safe in the middle of a crowded city.”

“You mean,” said Miss Waynflete, “that anyone's safety depends principally on the fact that nobody wishes to kill them?”

“Exactly. We have come to depend upon what has been called the goodwill of civilization.”

Miss Waynflete nodded her head thoughtfully.

Bridget said:

“How long have you known that—that Gordon was the killer, Miss Waynflete?”

Miss Waynflete sighed.

“That is a difficult question to answer, my dear. I suppose that I have been quite sure, in my inmost heart, for sometime…But I did my best not to recognize that belief! You see, I didn't
want
to believe it and so I pretended to myself that it was a wicked and monstrous idea on my part.”

Luke said bluntly:

“Have you never been afraid—for yourself?”

Miss Waynflete considered.

“You mean that if Gordon had suspected that I knew, he would have found some means of getting rid of
me?
”

“Yes.”

Miss Waynflete said gently:

“I have, of course, been alive to that possibility…I tried to be—careful of myself. But I do not think that Gordon would have considered me a real menace.”

“Why?”

Miss Waynflete flushed a little.

“I don't think that Gordon would ever believe that I would do anything to—to bring him into danger.”

Luke said abruptly:

“You went as far, didn't you, as to warn him?”

“Yes. That is, I did hint to him that it was odd that anyone who displeased him should shortly meet with an accident.”

Bridget demanded:

“And what did he say?”

A worried expression passed over Miss Waynflete's face.

“He didn't react at all in the way I meant. He seemed—really it's most extraordinary!—he seemed
pleased
…He said, ‘So
you've
noticed that?' He quite—quite
preened
himself, if I may use that expression.”

“He's mad, of course,” said Luke.

Miss Waynflete agreed eagerly.

“Yes, indeed, there isn't any other explanation possible. He's not responsible for his acts.” She laid a hand on Luke's arm. “They—they won't
hang
him, will they, Mr. Fitzwilliam?”

“No, no. Send him to Broadmoor, I expect.”

Miss Waynflete sighed and leaned back.

“I'm so glad.”

Her eyes rested on Bridget, who was frowning down at the carpet.

Luke said:

“But we're a long way from all that still. I've notified the powers that be and I can say this much, they're prepared to take the matter seriously. But you must realize that we've got remarkably little evidence to go upon.”

“We'll get evidence,” said Bridget.

Miss Waynflete looked up at her. There was some quality in
her expression that reminded Luke of someone or something that he had seen not long ago. He tried to pin down the elusive memory but failed.

Miss Waynflete said doubtfully:

“You are confident, my dear. Well, perhaps you are right.”

Luke said:

“I'll go along with the car, Bridget, and fetch your things from the Manor.”

Bridget said immediately:

“I'll come too.”

“I'd rather you didn't.”

“Yes, but I'd rather come.”

Luke said irritably:

“Don't do the mother and child act with me, Bridget! I refuse to be protected by you.”

Miss Waynflete murmured:

“I really think, Bridget, that it will be quite all right—in a car—and in daylight.”

Bridget gave a slightly shamefaced laugh.

“I'm being rather an idiot. This business gets on one's nerves.”

Luke said:

“Miss Waynflete protected me home the other night. Come now, Miss Waynflete, admit it! You did, didn't you?”

She admitted it, smiling.

“You see, Mr. Fitzwilliam, you were so completely unsuspicious! And if Gordon Whitfield had really grasped the fact that you were down here to look into this business and for no other reason—well, it wasn't very safe. And that's a very lonely lane—
anything
might have happened!”

“Well, I'm alive to the danger now all right,” said Luke grimly. “I shan't be caught napping, I can assure you.”

Miss Waynflete said anxiously:

“Remember, he is very cunning. And much cleverer than you would ever imagine! Really, a most ingenious mind.”

“I'm forewarned.”

“Men have courage—one knows that,” said Miss Waynflete, “but they are more easily
deceived
than women.”

“That's true,” said Bridget.

Luke said:

“Seriously, Miss Waynflete, do you really think that I am in any danger? Do you think, in film parlance, that Lord Whitfield is really out to
get
me?”

Miss Waynflete hesitated.

“I think,” she said, “that the principal danger is to Bridget. It is
her
rejection of him that is the supreme insult! I think that
after
he has dealt with Bridget he will turn his attention to
you.
But I think that undoubtedly he will try for her
first.
”

Luke groaned.

“I wish to goodness you'd go abroad—now—at once, Bridget.”

Bridget's lips set themselves together.

“I'm not going.”

Miss Waynflete sighed.

“You are a brave creature, Bridget. I admire you.”

“You'd do the same in my place.”

“Well, perhaps.”

Bridget said, her voice dropping to a full, rich note:

“Luke and I are in this together.”

She went out with him to the door. Luke said:

“I'll give you a ring from the Bells and Motley when I'm safely out of the lion's den.”

“Yes, do.”

“My sweet, don't let's get all het up! Even the most accomplished murderers have to have a little time to mature their plans! I should say we're quite all right for a day or two. Superintendent Battle is coming down from London today. From then on Whitfield will be under observation.”

“In fact, everything is OK, and we can cut out the melodrama.”

Luke said gravely, laying a hand on her shoulder:

“Bridget, my sweet, you will oblige me by not doing anything
rash!
”

“Same to you, darling Luke.”

He squeezed her shoulder, jumped into the car and drove off.

Bridget returned to the sitting room. Miss Waynflete was fussing a little in a gentle spinsterish manner.

“My dear, your room's not
quite
ready yet. Emily is seeing to it. Do you know what I'm going to do? I'm going to get you a nice cup of tea! It's just what you need after all these upsetting incidents.”

“It's frightfully kind of you, Miss Waynflete, but I really don't want any.”

What Bridget would have liked was a strong cocktail, mainly composed of gin, but she rightly judged that that form of refreshment was not likely to be forthcoming. She disliked tea intensely. It usually gave her indigestion. Miss Waynflete, however, had decided that tea was what her young guest needed. She bustled out of the room and reappeared about five minutes later, her face beaming, carrying a tray on which stood two dainty Dresden cups full of a fragrant, steaming beverage.

“Real Lapsang Souchong,” said Miss Waynflete proudly.

Bridget, who disliked China tea even more than Indian, gave a wan smile.

At that moment Emily, a small clumsy-looking girl with pronounced adenoids, appeared in the doorway and said:

“If you please, biss—did you bean the frilled billowcases?”

Miss Waynflete hurriedly left the room, and Bridget took advantage of the respite to pour her tea out of the window, narrowly escaping scalding Wonky Pooh, who was on the flower bed below.

Wonky Pooh accepted her apologies, sprang up on the windowsill and proceeded to wind himself in and out over Bridget's shoulders, purring in an affected manner.

“Handsome!” said Bridget, drawing a hand down his back.

Wonky Pooh arched his tail and purred with redoubled vigour.

“Nice pussy,” said Bridget, tickling his ears.

Miss Waynflete returned at that minute.

“Dear me,” she exclaimed. “Wonky Pooh has
quite
taken to you, hasn't he? He's so
standoffish
as a rule! Mind his ear, my dear, he's had a bad ear lately and it's still very painful.”

The injunction came too late. Bridget's hand had tweaked the painful ear. Wonky Pooh spat at her and retired, a mass of orange offended dignity.

“Oh, dear, has he scratched you?” cried Miss Waynflete.

“Nothing much,” said Bridget, sucking a diagonal scratch on the back of her hand.

“Shall I put some iodine on?”

“Oh, no, it's quite all right. Don't let's fuss.”

Miss Waynflete seemed a little disappointed. Feeling that she had been ungracious, Bridget said hastily:

“I wonder how long Luke will be?”

“Now don't worry, my dear. I'm sure Mr. Fitzwilliam is well able to look after himself.”

“Oh, Luke's tough all right!”

At that moment the telephone rang. Bridget hurried to it. Luke's voice spoke.

“Hallo? That you, Bridget? I'm at the Bells and Motley. Can you wait for your traps till after lunch? Because Battle has arrived here—you know who I mean—”

“The superintendent man from Scotland Yard?”

“Yes. And he wants to have a talk with me right away.”

“That's all right by me. Bring my things round after lunch and tell me what he says about it all.”

“Right. So long, my sweet.”

“So long.”

Bridget replaced the receiver and retailed the conversation to Miss Waynflete. Then she yawned. A feeling of fatigue had succeeded her excitement.

Miss Waynflete noticed it.

“You're tired, my dear! You'd better lie down—no, perhaps that would be a bad thing just before lunch. I was just going to take some old clothes to a woman in a cottage not very far away—quite a pretty walk over the fields. Perhaps you'd care to come with me? We'll just have time before lunch.”

Bridget agreed willingly.

They went out the back way. Miss Waynflete wore a straw hat and, to Bridget's amusement, had put on gloves.

“We might be going to Bond Street!” she thought to herself.

Miss Waynflete chatted pleasantly of various small village mat
ters as they walked. They went across two fields, crossed a rough lane and then took a path leading through a ragged copse. The day was hot and Bridget found the shade of the trees pleasant.

Miss Waynflete suggested that they should sit down and rest a minute.

“It's really rather oppressively warm today, don't you think? I fancy there must be
thunder
about!”

Bridget acquiesced somewhat sleepily. She lay back against the bank—her eyes half-closed—some lines of poetry wandering through her brain.

But that wasn't quite right! Miss Waynflete wasn't fat. She amended the words to fit the case.

Miss Waynflete broke in upon her thoughts.

“You're very sleepy, dear, aren't you?”

The words were said in a gentle everyday tone, but something in them jerked Bridget's eyes suddenly open.

Miss Waynflete was leaning forward towards her. Her eyes were eager, her tongue passed gently over her lips. She repeated her question:

“You're
very
sleepy, aren't you?”

This time there was no mistaking the definite significance
of the tone. A flash passed through Bridget's brain—a lightning flash of comprehension, succeeded by one of contempt at her own density!

She had suspected the truth—but it had been no more than a dim suspicion. She had meant, working quietly and secretly, to make sure. But not for one moment had she realized that anything was to be attempted against herself. She had, she thought, concealed her suspicious entirely. Nor would she have dreamed that anything would be contemplated so soon. Fool—seven times fool!

And she thought suddenly:

“The tea—there was something in the tea.
She doesn't know I never drank it.
Now's my chance! I must pretend! What stuff was it, I wonder? Poison? Or just sleeping stuff? She expects me to be sleepy—that's evident.”

She let her eyelids droop again. In what she hoped was a natural drowsy voice, she said:

“I do—frightfully…How funny! I don't know when I've felt so sleepy.”

Miss Waynflete nodded softly.

Bridget watched the older woman narrowly through her almost closed eyes.

She thought:

“I'm a match for her anyway! My muscles are pretty tough—she's a skinny frail old pussy. But I've got to make her
talk
—that's it—make her
talk!
”