Murder Is Easy (18 page)

Miss Waynflete was smiling. It was not a nice smile. It was sly and not very human.

Bridget thought:

“She's like a goat. God! how like a goat she is! A goat's always
been an evil symbol! I see why now! I was right—I was right in that fantastic idea of mine!
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned
…That was the start of it—it's all there.”

She murmured, and this time her voice held a definite note of apprehension.

“I don't know what's the matter with me…I feel so queer—so
very
queer!”

Miss Waynflete gave a swift glance round her. The spot was entirely desolate. It was too far from the village for a shout to be heard. There were no houses or cottages near. She began to fumble with the parcel she carried—the parcel that was supposed to contain old clothes. Apparently it did. The paper came apart, revealing a soft woolly garment. And still those gloved hands fumbled and fumbled.

“Yes—why? Why gloves?”

Of course! Of course! The whole thing so beautifully planned!

The wrapping fell aside. Carefully, Miss Waynflete extracted the knife, holding it very carefully so as not to obliterate the fingerprints which were already on it—where the short podgy fingers of Lord Whitfield had held it earlier that day in the drawing room at Ashe Manor.

The Moorish knife with the sharp blade.

Bridget felt slightly sick. She must play for time—yes and she
must
make the woman talk—this lean, grey woman whom nobody loved. It ought not to be difficult—not really. Because she must want to talk, oh, so badly—and the only person she could ever
talk to was someone like Bridget—someone who was going to be silenced for ever.

Bridget said—in a faint, thick voice:

“What's—that—knife?”

And then Miss Waynflete laughed.

It was a horrible laugh, soft and musical and ladylike, and quite inhuman. She said:

“It's for you, Bridget. For you! I've hated you, you know, for a very long time.”

Bridget said:

“Because I was going to marry Gordon Whitfield?”

Miss Waynflete nodded.

“You're clever. You're quite clever! This, you see, will be the crowning proof against him. You'll be found here, with your throat cut—and—
his
knife, and
his
fingerprints on the knife! Clever the way I asked to see it this morning!

“And then I slipped it into my bag wrapped in a handkerchief whilst you were upstairs. So easy! But the whole thing has been easy. I would hardly have believed it.”

Bridget said—still in the thick, muffled voice of a person heavily drugged:

“That's—because—you're—so—devilishly—clever….”

Miss Waynflete laughed her ladylike little laugh again. She said with a horrible kind of pride:

“Yes, I always had brains, even as a girl! But they wouldn't let me do anything…I had to stay at home—doing nothing. And then Gordon—just a common boot-maker's son, but he had ambition, I knew. I knew he would rise in the world. And he jilted me—jilted
me!
All because of that ridiculous business with the bird.”

Her hands made a queer gesture as though she were twisting something.

Again a wave of sickness passed over Bridget.

“Gordon Ragg daring to jilt
me
—Colonel Waynflete's daughter! I swore I'd pay him out for that! I used to think about it night after night…And then we got poorer and poorer. The house had to be sold.
He
bought it! He came along patronizing me, offering
me
a job in my own old home. How I hated him then! But I never showed my feelings. We were taught that as girls—a most valuable training. That, I always think, is where breeding tells.”

She was silent a minute. Bridget watched her, hardly daring to breathe lest she should stem the flow of words.

Miss Waynflete went on softly:

“All the time I was thinking and thinking…First of all I just thought of killing him. That's when I began to read up criminology—quietly, you know—in the library. And really I found my reading came in most
useful
more than once later. The door of Amy's room, for instance, turning the key in the lock from the outside with pincers after I'd changed the bottles by her bed. How she snored, that girl, quite disgusting, it was!”

She paused.

“Let me see, where was I?”

That gift which Bridget had cultivated, which had charmed Lord Whitfield, the gift of the perfect listener, stood her in good stead now. Honoria Waynflete might be a homicidal maniac but she was also something much more common than that. She was a human being who wanted to talk about herself. And with that class of human being Bridget was well fitted to cope.

She said, and her voice had exactly the right invitation in it:

“You meant at first to kill him—”

“Yes, but that didn't satisfy me—much too ordinary—it had to be something better than just killing. And then I got this idea. It just came to me. He should suffer for committing a lot of crimes of which he was quite innocent. He should be a murderer!
He
should be hanged for
my
crimes. Or else they'd say he was mad and he would be shut up all his life…That might be even better.”

She giggled now. A horrible little giggle…Her eyes were light and staring with queer elongated pupils.

“As I told you, I read a lot of books on crime. I chose my victims carefully—there was not to be too much suspicion at first. You see,” her voice deepened, “I
enjoyed
the killing…That disagreeable woman, Lydia Horton—she'd patronized me—once she referred to me as an old maid. I was glad when Gordon quarrelled with her. Two birds with one stone, I thought!
Such
fun, sitting by her bedside and slipping the arsenic in her tea, and then going out and telling the nurse how Mrs. Horton had complained of the bitter taste of Lord Whitfield's grapes! The stupid woman never repeated that, which was such a pity.

“And then the others! As soon as I heard that Gordon had a grievance against anyone, it was
so
easy to arrange for an accident! And he was such a fool—such an incredible fool! I made him believe that there was something very special about him! That anyone who went against him suffered. He believed it quite easily. Poor dear Gordon, he'd believe anything. So gullible!”

Bridget thought of herself saying to Luke scornfully:

“Gordon! He could believe anything!”

Easy? How easy! Poor pompous credulous little Gordon.

But she must learn more! Easy? This was easy too! She'd done
it as a secretary for years. Quietly encouraged her employers to talk about themselves. And this woman wanted badly to talk, to boast about her own cleverness.

Bridget murmured:

“But how did you manage it all? I don't see how you
could.
”

“Oh, it was
quite
easy! It just needed organisation! When Amy was discharged from the Manor I engaged her at once. I think the hat paint idea was
quite
clever—and the door being locked on the
inside
made
me
quite safe. But of course I was always safe because I never had any
motive,
and you can't suspect anyone of murder if there isn't a motive. Carter was quite easy too—he was lurching about in the fog and I caught up with him on the footbridge and gave him a quick push. I'm really very strong, you know.”

She paused and the soft horrible little giggle came again.

“The whole thing was such
fun!
I shall never forget Tommy's face when I pushed him off the windowsill that day. He hadn't the least idea….”

She leaned towards Bridget confidentially.

“People are really very stupid, you know. I'd never realized that before.”

Bridget said very softly:

“But then—you're unusually clever.”

“Yes—yes—perhaps you're right.”

Bridget said:

“Dr. Humbleby—that must have been more difficult?”

“Yes, it was really amazing how that succeeded. It
might
not have worked, of course. But Gordon had been talking to everybody of his visit to the Wellerman Kreutz Institute, and I thought if I
could
manage it so that people remembered that visit and con
nected it afterwards. And Wonky Pooh's ear was really very nasty, a lot of discharge. I managed to run the point of my scissors into the doctor's hand, and then I was
so
distressed and insisted on putting on a dressing and bandaging it up. He didn't know the dressing had been infected first from Wonky Pooh's ear. Of course, it
mightn't
have worked—it was just a long shot. I was delighted when it did—especially as Wonky Pooh had been Lavinia's cat.”

Her face darkened.

“Lavinia Pinkerton!
She
guessed…It was she who found Tommy that day. And then when Gordon and old Dr. Humbleby had that row, she caught me looking at Humbleby. I was off my guard. I was just wondering exactly how I'd do it…And she knew! I turned round to find her watching me and—I gave myself away. I saw that she knew. She couldn't prove anything, of course. I knew that. But I was afraid all the same someone might believe her. I was afraid they might believe her at Scotland Yard. I felt sure that was where she was going that day. I was in the same train and I followed her.

“The whole thing was so easy. She was on an island crossing Whitehall. I was close behind her. She never saw me. A big car came along and I shoved with all my might. I'm very strong! She went right down in front of it. I told the woman next to me I'd seen the number of the car and gave her the number of Gordon's Rolls. I hoped she'd repeat it to the police.

“It was lucky the car didn't stop. Some chauffeur joyriding without his master's knowledge, I suspect. Yes, I was lucky there. I'm always lucky. That scene the other day with Rivers, and Luke
Fitzwilliam as witness. I've had such fun leading him along! Odd how difficult it was to make him suspect Gordon. But after Rivers's death he would be sure to do so. He must!

“And now—well, this will just finish the whole thing nicely.”

She got up and came towards Bridget. She said softly:

“Gordon jilted me! He was going to marry you. All my life I've been disappointed. I've had nothing—nothing at all….”

“O lean grey woman whom nobody loves…”

She was bending over her, smiling, with mad light eyes…The knife gleamed….

With all her youth and strength, Bridget sprang. Like a tiger cat, she flung herself full force on the other woman, knocking her back, seizing her right wrist.

Taken by surprise, Honoria Waynflete fell back before the onslaught. But then, after a moment's inertia, she began to fight. In strength there was no comparison between them. Bridget was young and healthy with muscles toughened by games. Honoria Waynflete was a slender-built, frail creature.

But there was one factor on which Bridget had not reckoned.
Honoria Waynflete was mad.
Her strength was the strength of the insane. She fought like a devil and her insane strength was stronger than the sane muscled strength of Bridget. They swayed to and fro, and still Bridget strove to wrest the knife away from her, and still Honoria Waynflete hung on to it.

And then, little by little, the mad woman's strength began to prevail. Bridget cried out now:

“Luke…Help…Help…”

But she had no hope of help coming. She and Honoria Wayn
flete were alone. Alone in a dead world. With a supreme effort she wrenched the other's wrist back, and at last she heard the knife fall.

The next minute Honoria Waynflete's two hands had fastened round her neck in a maniac grasp, squeezing the life out of her. She gave one last choked cry….

L
uke was favourably impressed by the appearance of Superintendent Battle. He was a solid, comfortable-looking man with a broad red face and a large handsome moustache. He did not exactly express brilliance at a first glance, but a second glance was apt to make an observant person thoughtful, for Superintendent Battle's eye was unusually shrewd.

Luke did not make the mistake of underestimating him. He had met men of Battle's type before. He knew that they could be trusted, and that they invariably got results. He could not have wished for a better man to be put in charge of the case.

When they were alone together Luke said:

“You're rather a big noise to be sent down on a case like this?”

Superintendent Battle smiled.

“It may turn out to be a serious business, Mr. Fitzwilliam. When a man like Lord Whitfield is concerned, we don't want to have any mistakes.”

“I appreciate that. Are you alone?”

“Oh, no. Got a detective-sergeant with me. He's at the other pub, the Seven Stars, and his job is to keep an eye on his lordship.”

“I see.”

Battle asked:

“In your opinion, Mr. Fitzwilliam, there's no doubt whatever? You're pretty sure of your man?”

“On the facts I don't see that any alternative theory is possible. Do you want me to give you the facts?”

“I've had them, thank you, from Sir William.”

“Well, what do
you
think? I suppose it seems to you wildly unlikely that a man in Lord Whitfield's position should be a homicidal criminal?”

“Very few things seem unlikely to me,” said Superintendent Battle. “Nothing's impossible in crime. That's what I've always said. If you were to tell me that a dear old maiden lady, or an archbishop, or a schoolgirl, was a dangerous criminal, I wouldn't say no. I'd look into the matter.”

“If you've heard the main facts of the case from Sir William, I'll just tell you what happened this morning,” said Luke.

He ran over briefly the main lines of his scene with Lord Whitfield. Superintendent Battle listened with a good deal of interest.

He said:

“You say he was fingering a knife. Did he make a special point of that knife, Mr. Fitzwilliam? Was he threatening with it?”

“Not openly. He tested the edge in a rather nasty way—a kind of æsthetic pleasure about that that I didn't care about. Miss Waynflete felt the same, I believe.”

“That's the lady you spoke about—the one who's known Lord Whitfield all her life, and was once engaged to marry him?”

“That's right.”

Superintendent Battle said:

“I think you can make your mind easy about the young lady, Mr. Fitzwilliam. I'll have someone put on to keep a sharp watch on her. With that, and with Jackson tailing his lordship, there ought to be no danger of anything happening.”

“You relieve my mind a good deal,” said Luke.

The superintendent nodded sympathetically.

“It's a nasty position for you, Mr. Fitzwilliam. Worrying about Miss Conway. Mind you, I don't expect this will be an easy case. Lord Whitfield must be a pretty shrewd man. He will probably lie low for a good long while. That is, unless he's got to the last stage.”

“What do you call the last stage?”

“A kind of swollen egoism where a criminal thinks he simply can't be found out! He's too clever and everybody else is too stupid! Then, of course, we get him!”

Luke nodded. He rose.

“Well,” he said, “I wish you luck. Let me help in any way I can.”

“Certainly.”

“There's nothing that you can suggest?”

Battle turned the question over in his mind.

“I don't think so. Not at the moment. I just want to get the general hang of things in the place. Perhaps I could have another word with you in the evening?”

“Rather.”

“I shall know better where we are then.”

Luke felt vaguely comforted and soothed. Many people had had that feeling after an interview with Superintendent Battle.

He glanced at his watch. Should he go round and see Bridget before lunch?

Better not, he thought. Miss Waynflete might feel that she had to ask him to stay for the meal, and it might disorganize her housekeeping. Middle-aged ladies, Luke knew from experience with aunts, were liable to be fussed over problems of housekeeping. He wondered if Miss Waynflete was an aunt? Probably.

He had strolled out to the door of the inn. A figure in black hurrying down the street stopped suddenly when she saw him.

“Mr. Fitzwilliam.”

“Mrs. Humbleby.”

He came forward and shook hands.

She said:

“I thought you had left?”

“No—only changed my quarters. I'm staying here now.”

“And Bridget? I heard she had left Ashe Manor?”

“Yes, she has.”

Mrs. Humbleby sighed.

“I am so glad—so very glad she has gone right away from Wychwood.”

“Oh, she's still here. As a matter of fact, she's staying with Miss Waynflete.”

Mrs. Humbleby moved back a step. Her face, Luke noted with surprise, looked extraordinarily distressed.

“Staying with Honoria Waynflete? Oh, but
why?
”

“Miss Waynflete very kindly asked her to stay for a few days.”

Mrs. Humbleby gave a little shiver. She came close to Luke and laid a hand on his arm.

“Mr. Fitzwilliam, I know I have no right to say anything—
anything at all. I have had a lot of sorrow and grief lately and—perhaps—it makes me fanciful! These feelings of mine may be only sick fancies.”

Luke said gently:

“What feelings?”

“This conviction I have of—of
evil!
”

She looked timidly at Luke. Seeing that he merely bowed his head gravely and did not appear to question her statement, she went on:

“
So much wickedness
—that is the thought that is always with me—wickedness here in Wychwood. And that woman is at the bottom of it all. I am sure of it!”

Luke was mystified.

“What woman?”

Mrs. Humbleby said:

“Honoria Waynflete is, I am sure, a very wicked woman! Oh, I see, you don't believe me! No one believed Lavinia Pinkerton either.
But we both felt it.
She, I think, knew more than I did…Remember, Mr. Fitzwilliam, if a woman is not happy she is capable of terrible things.”

Luke said gently:

“That may be—yes.”

Mrs. Humbleby said quickly:

“You don't believe me? Well, why should you? But I can't forget the day when John came home with his hand bound up from her house, though he pooh-poohed it and said it was only a scratch.”

She turned.

“Good-bye. Please forget what I have just said. I—I don't feel quite myself these days.”

Luke watched her go. He wondered why Mrs. Humbleby called Honoria Waynflete a wicked woman. Had Dr. Humbleby and Honoria Waynflete been friends, and was the doctor's wife jealous?

What had she said? “Nobody believed Lavinia Pinkerton either.” Then Lavinia Pinkerton must have confided some of her suspicions to Mrs. Humbleby.

With a rush the memory of the railway carriage came back, and the worried face of a nice old lady. He heard again an earnest voice saying, “
The look on a person's face.
” And the way her own face had changed as though she were seeing something very clearly in her mind. Just for a moment, he thought, her face had been quite different, the lips drawn back from the teeth and a queer, almost gloating look in her eyes.

He suddenly thought:
But I've seen someone look just like that—that same expression…Quite lately—when?
This morning! Of course! Miss Waynflete, when she was looking at Bridget in the drawing room at the Manor.

And quite suddenly another memory assailed him. One of many years ago. His Aunt Mildred saying, “She looked, you know, my dear, quite
half-witted!
” and just for a minute her own sane comfortable face had borne an imbecile, mindless expression….

Lavinia Pinkerton had been speaking of the look she had seen on a man's—no, a
person's
face. Was it possible that, just for a second, her vivid imagination had
reproduced the look that she saw—the look of a murderer looking at his next victim….

Half unaware of what he was doing, Luke quickened his pace towards Miss Waynflete's house.

A voice in his brain was saying over and over again:

“Not a
man
—she never mentioned a
man—you
assumed it was a man because you were thinking of a man—but
she
never said so…Oh, God, am I quite mad? It isn't possible what I'm thinking…surely it isn't
possible
—it wouldn't make sense…But I
must
get to Bridget. I
must
know she's all right…Those eyes—those queer, light amber eyes. Oh, I'm mad! I must be mad! Whitfield's the criminal! He
must
be. He practically
said
so!”

And still, like a nightmare, he saw Miss Pinkerton's face in its momentary impersonation of something horrible and not quite sane.

The stunted little maid opened the door to him. A little startled by his vehemence, she said:

“The lady's gone out. Miss Waynflete told me so. I'll see if Miss Waynflete's in.”

He pushed past her, went into the drawing room. Emily ran upstairs. She came down breathless.

“The mistress is out too.”

Luke took her by the shoulder.

“Which way? Where did they go?”

She gaped at him.

“They must have gone out by the back. I'd have seen them if they'd gone out frontways because the kitchen looks out there.”

She followed him as he raced out through the door into the tiny garden and out beyond. There was a man clipping a hedge. Luke went up to him and asked a question, striving to keep his voice normal.

The man said slowly:

“Two ladies? Yes. Some while since. I was having my dinner under the hedge. Reckon they didn't notice me.”

“Which way did they go?”

He strove desperately to make his voice normal. Yet the other's eyes opened a little wider as he replied slowly:

“Across them fields…Over that way. I don't know where after that.”

Luke thanked him and began to run. His strong feeling of urgency was deepened. He
must
catch up with them—he
must!
He might be quite mad. In all probability they were just taking an amicable stroll, but something in him clamoured for haste. More haste!

He crossed the two fields, stood hesitating in a country lane. Which way now?

And then he heard the call—faint, far away, but unmistakable….

“
Luke, help.
” And again, “
Luke…
”

Unerringly he plunged into the wood and ran in the direction from which the cry had come. There were more sounds now—scuffling—panting—a low gurgling cry.

He came through the trees in time to tear a mad woman's hands from her victim's throat, to hold her, struggling, foaming, cursing, till at last she gave a convulsive shudder and turned rigid in his grasp.