Murder Is Easy (Superintendent Battle 4)

“Yes, indeed,” she said eagerly. “Really it is still just as I remember it as a child. We lived in the Hall, you know. But when it came to my brother he did not care to live in it—indeed could not afford to do so, and it was put up for sale. A builder had made an offer and was, I believe, going to ‘develop the land,’ I think that was the phrase. Fortunately, Lord Whitfield stepped in and acquired the property and saved it. He turned the house into a library and museum—really it is practically untouched. I act as librarian twice a week there—unpaid, of course—and I can’t tell you what a pleasure it is to be in the old place and know that it will not be vandalised. And really it is a perfect setting—you must visit our little museum one day, Mr. Fitzwilliam. There are some quite interesting local exhibits.”

“I certainly shall make a point of doing so, Miss Waynflete.”

“Lord Whitfield has been a great benefactor to Wychwood,” said Miss Waynflete. “It grieves me that there are people who are sadly ungrateful.”

Her lips pressed themselves together. Luke discreetly asked no questions. He said good-bye again.

When they were outside the gate Bridget said:

“Do you want to pursue further researches or shall we go home by way of the river? It’s a pleasant walk.”

Luke answered promptly. He had no mind for further investigations with Bridget Conway standing by listening. He said:

“Go round by the river, by all means.”

They walked along the High Street. One of the last houses had a sign decorated in old gold lettering with the word Antiques on it. Luke paused and peered through one of the windows into the cool depths.

“Rather a nice slipware dish there,” he remarked. “Do for an aunt of mine. Wonder how much they want for it?”

“Shall we go in and see?”

“Do you mind? I like pottering about antique shops. Sometimes one picks up a good bargain.”

“I doubt if you will here,” said Bridget dryly. “Ellsworthy knows the value of his stuff pretty accurately, I should say.”

The door was open. In the hall were chairs and settees and dressers with china and pewter on them. Two rooms full of goods opened at either side.

Luke went into the room on the left and picked up the slipware dish. At the same moment a dim figure came forward from the back of the room where he had been sitting at a Queen Anne walnut desk.

“Ah, dear Miss Conway, what a pleasure to see you.”

“Good morning, Mr. Ellsworthy.”

Mr. Ellsworthy was a very exquisite young man dressed in a colour scheme of russet brown. He had a long pale face with a womanish mouth, long black artistic hair and a mincing walk.

Luke was introduced and Mr. Ellsworthy immediately transferred his attention to him.

“Genuine old English slipware. Delicious, isn’t it? I love my bits and pieces, you know, hate to sell them. It’s always been my dream to live in the country and have a little shop. Marvellous place, Wychwood—it has atmosphere, if you know what I mean.”

“The artistic temperament,” murmured Bridget.

Ellsworthy turned on her with a flash of long white hands.

“Not that terrible phrase, Miss Conway. No—no, I implore you. Don’t tell me I’m all arty and crafty—I couldn’t bear it. Really, really, you know, I don’t stock handwoven tweeds and beaten pewter. I’m a tradesman, that’s all, just a tradesman.”

“But you’re really an artist, aren’t you?” said Luke. “I mean, you do water-colours, don’t you?”

“Now who told you that?” cried Mr. Ellsworthy, clasping his hands together. “You know this place is really too marvellous—one simply can’t keep a secret! That’s what I like about it—it’s so different from that inhuman you-mind-your-own-business-and-I-will-mind-mine of a city! Gossip and malice and scandal—all so delicious if one takes them in the right spirit!”

Luke contented himself with answering Mr. Ellsworthy’s question and paying no attention to the latter part of his remarks.

“Miss Waynflete told us that you had made several sketches of a girl—Amy Gibbs.”

“Oh, Amy,” said Mr. Ellsworthy. He took a step backwards and set a beer mug rocking. He steadied it carefully. He said: “Did I? Oh, yes, I suppose I did.”

His poise seemed somewhat shaken.

“She was a pretty girl,” said Bridget.

Mr. Ellsworthy had recovered his aplomb.

“Oh, do you think so?” he asked. “Very commonplace, I always thought. If you’re interested in slipware,” he went on to Luke, “I’ve got a couple of slipware birds—delicious things.”

Luke displayed a faint interest in the birds and then asked the price of the dish.

Ellsworthy named a figure.

“Thanks,” said Luke, “but I don’t think I’ll deprive you of it after all.”

“I’m always relieved, you know,” said Ellsworthy, “when I don’t make a sale. Foolish of me, isn’t it? Look here, I’ll let you have it for a guinea less. You care for the stuff. I can see that—it makes all the difference. And after all, this is a shop!”

“No, thanks,” said Luke.

Mr. Ellsworthy accompanied them out to the door, waving his hands—very unpleasant hands, Luke thought they were—the flesh seemed not so much white as faintly greenish.

“Nasty bit of goods, Mr. Ellsworthy,” he remarked when he and Bridget were out of earshot.

“A nasty mind and nasty habits I should say,” said Bridget.

“Why does he really come to a place like this?”

“I believe he dabbles in black magic. Not quite black Masses but that sort of thing. The reputation of this place helps.”

Luke said rather awkwardly: “Good lord—I suppose he’s the kind of chap I really need. I ought to have talked to him on the subject.”

“Do you think so?” said Bridget. “He knows a lot about it.”

Luke said rather uneasily:

“I’ll look him up some other day.”

Bridget did not answer. They were out of the town now. She turned aside to follow a footpath and presently they came to the river.

There they passed a small man with a stiff moustache and protuberant eyes. He had three bulldogs with him to whom he was shouting hoarsely in turn. “Nero, come here, sir. Nelly, leave it. Drop it, I tell you. Augustus—AUGUSTUS, I say—”

He broke off to raise his hat to Bridget, stared at Luke with what was evidently a devouring curiosity and passed on resuming his hoarse expostulations.

“Major Horton and his bulldogs?” quoted Luke.

“Quite right.”

r /> “Haven’t we seen practically everyone of note in Wychwood this morning?”

“Practically.”

“I feel rather obtrusive,” said Luke. “I suppose a stranger in an English village is bound to stick out a mile,” he added ruefully, remembering Jimmy Lorrimer’s remarks.

“Major Horton never disguises his curiosity very well,” said Bridget. “He did stare, rather.”

“He’s the sort of man you could tell was a Major anywhere,” said Luke rather viciously.

Bridget said abruptly: “Shall we sit on the bank a bit? We’ve got lots of time.”

They sat on a fallen tree that made a convenient seat. Bridget went on:

“Yes, Major Horton is very military—has an orderly room manner. You’d hardly believe he was the most henpecked man in existence a year ago!”

“What, that fellow?”

“Yes. He had the most disagreeable woman for a wife that I’ve ever known. She had the money too, and never scrupled to underline the fact in public.”

“Poor brute—Horton, I mean.”

“He behaved very nicely to her—always the officer and gentleman. Personally, I wonder he didn’t take a hatchet to her.”

“She wasn’t popular, I gather.”

“Everybody disliked her. She snubbed Gordon and patronized me and made herself generally unpleasant wherever she went.”

“But I gather a merciful providence removed her?”

“Yes, about a year ago. Acute gastritis. She gave her husband, Dr. Thomas and two nurses absolute Hell—but she died all right. The bulldogs brightened up at once.”

“Intelligent brutes!”

There was a silence. Bridget was idly picking at the long grass. Luke frowned at the opposite bank unseeingly. Once again the dreamlike quality of his mission obsessed him. How much was fact—how much imagination? Wasn’t it bad for one to go about studying every fresh person you met as a potential murderer? Something degrading about that point of view.

“Damn it all,” thought Luke, “I’ve been a policeman too long!”

He was brought out of his abstraction with a shock. Bridget’s cold clear voice was speaking.

“Mr. Fitzwilliam,” she said, “just exactly why have you come down here?”