“Well, it does seem so, doesn’t it, sir? Although, as I say, he’s always such a pleasant gentleman to speak to—always a joke or a cheery word. But it’s true that I have heard he was a difficult man to get up against, and him and Dr. Humbleby was daggers drawn, as the saying is, just before the poor gentleman died. And not a pleasant thought for Mr. Abbot afterwards. For once there’s a death one doesn’t like to think there’s been harsh words spoken and no chance of taking them back.”
Luke shook his head solemnly and murmured:
“Very true—very true.”
He went on:
“A bit of a coincidence—that. Hard words with Dr. Humbleby and Dr. Humbleby died—harsh treatment of your Tommy—and the boy dies! I should think that a double experience like that would tend to make Mr. Abbot careful of his tongue in future.”
“Harry Carter, too, down at the Seven Stars,” said Mrs. Pierce. “Very sharp words passed between them only a week before Carter went and drowned himself—but one can’t blame Mr. Abbot for that. The abuse was all on Carter’s side—went up to Mr. Abbot’s house, he did, being in liquor at the time, and shouting out the foulest language at the top of his voice. Poor Mrs. Carter, she had a deal to put up with, and it must be owned Carter’s death was a merciful release as far as she was concerned.”
“He left a daughter, too, didn’t he?”
“Ah,” said Mrs. Pierce. “I’m never one to gossip.”
This was unexpected but promising. Luke pricked up his ears and waited.
“I don’t say there was anything in it but talk. Lucy Carter’s a fine-looking young woman in her way, and if it hadn’t been for the difference in station I dare say no notice would have been taken. But talk there has been and you can’t deny it—especially after Carter went right up to his house, shouting and swearing.”
Luke gathered the implications of this somewhat confused speech.
“Mr. Abbot looks as though he’d appreciate a good-looking girl,” he said.
“It’s often the way with gentlemen,” said Mrs. Pierce. “They don’t mean anything by it—just a word or two in passing, but the gentry’s the gentry and it gets noticed in consequence. It’s only to be expected in a quiet place like this.”
“It’s a very charming place,” said Luke. “So unspoilt.”
“That’s what artists always say, but I think we’re a bit behind the times myself. Why, there’s been no building here to speak of. Over at Ashevale, for instance, they’ve got a lovely lot of new houses, some of them with green roofs and stained glass in the windows.”
Luke shuddered slightly.
“You’ve got a grand new institute here,” he said.
“They say it’s a very fine building,” said Mrs. Pierce, without great enthusiasm. “Of course, his lordship’s done a lot for the place. He means well, we all know that.”
“But you don’t think his efforts are quite successful?” said Luke, amused.
“Well, of course, sir, he isn’t really gentry—not like Miss Waynflete, for instance, and Miss Conway. Why, Lord Whitfield’s father kept a boot-shop only a few doors from here. My mother remembers Gordon Ragg serving in the shop—remembers it as well as anything. Of course he’s his lordship now and he’s a rich man—but it’s never the same, is it, sir?”
“Evidently not,” said Luke.
“You’ll excuse me mentioning it, sir,” said Mrs. Pierce. “And of course I know you’re staying at the manor and writing a book. But you’re a cousin of Miss Bridget’s, I know, and that’s quite a different thing. Very pleased we shall be to have her back as mistress of Ashe Manor.”
“Rather,” said Luke. “I’m sure you will.”
He paid for his cigarettes and paper with sudden abruptness.
He thought to himself:
“The personal element. One must keep that out of it! Hell, I’m here to track down a criminal. What does it matter who that black-haired witch marries or doesn’t marry? She doesn’t come into this….”
He walked slowly along the street. With an effort he thrust Bridget into the back of his mind.
“Now then,” he said to himself. “Abbot. The case against Abbot. I’ve linked him up with three of the victims. He had a row with Humbleby, a row with Carter and a row with Tommy Pierce—and all three died. What about the girl Amy Gibbs? What was the private letter that infernal boy saw? Did he know who it was from? Or didn’t he? He mayn’t have said so to his mother. But suppose he did. Suppose Abbot thought it necessary to shut his mouth. It could be! That’s all one can say about it. It could be! Not good enough!”
Luke quickened his pace, looking about him with sudden exasperation.
“This damned village—it’s getting on my nerves. So smiling and peaceful—so innocent—and all the time this crazy streak of murder running through it. Or am I the crazy one? Was Lavinia Pinkerton crazy? After all, the whole thing could be coincidence—yes, Humbleby’s death and all….”
He glanced back down the length of the High Street—and he was assailed by a strong feeling of unreality.
He said to himself:
“These things don’t happen….”
Then he lifted his eyes to the long frowning line of Ashe Ridge—and at once the unreality passed. Ashe Ridge was real—it knew strange things—witchcraft and cruelty and forgotten bloodlusts and evil rites….
He started. Two figures were walking along the side of the ridge. He recognized them easily—Bridget and Ellsworthy. The young man was gesticulating with those curious, unpleasant hands of his. His head was bent to Bridget’s. They looked like two figures out of a dream. One felt that their feet made no sound as they sprang catlike from turf to turf. He saw her black hair stream out behind her blown by the wind. Again that queer magic of hers held him.
“Bewitched, that’s what I am, bewitched,” he said to himself.
He stood quite still—a queer numbed feeling spreading over him.
He thought to himself ruefully:
“Who’s to break the spell? There’s no one.”
Ten
ROSE HUMBLEBY
A soft sound behind him made him turn sharply. A girl was standing there, a remarkably pretty girl with brown hair curling round her ears and rather timid-looking dark-blue eyes. She flushed a little with embarrassment before she spoke.
“Mr. Fitzwilliam, isn’t it?” she said.
“Yes. I—”
“I’m Rose Humbleby. Bridget told me that—that you knew some people who knew my father.”
Luke had the grace to flush slightly under his tan.
“It was a long time ago,” he said rather lamely. “They—er—knew him as a young man—before he married.”
“Oh, I see.”
Rose Humbleby looked a little crestfallen. But she went on:
“You’re writing a book, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I’m making notes for one, that is. About local superstitions. All that sort of thing.”
“I see. It sounds frightfully interesting.”
“It will probably be as dull as ditch water,” Luke assured her.
“Oh, no, I’m sure it won’t.”
Luke smiled at her.
He thought:
“Our Dr. Thomas is in luck!”
“There are people,” he said, “who can make the most exciting subject unbearably boring. I’m afraid I’m one of them.”
“Oh, but why should you be?”
“I don’t know. But the conviction is growing upon me.”
Rose Humbleby said:
“You might be one of the people who make dull subjects sound frightfully exciting!”
“Now that is a nice thought,” said Luke. “Thank you for it.”
Rose Humbleby smiled back. Then she said:
“Do you believe in—in superstitions and all that?”
“That’s a difficult question. It doesn’t follow, you know. One can be interested in things one doesn’t believe in.”
“Yes, I suppose so,?
? the girl sounded doubtful.
“Are you superstitious?”
“N-no—I don’t think so. But I do think things come in—in waves.”
“Waves?”
“Waves of bad luck and good luck. I mean—I feel as though lately all Wychwood was under a spell of—of misfortune. Father dying—and Miss Pinkerton being run over, and that little boy who fell out of the window. I—I began to feel as though I hated this place—as though I must get away!”
Her breath came rather faster. Luke looked at her thoughtfully.
“So you feel like that?”
“Oh! I know it’s silly. I suppose really it was poor daddy dying so unexpectedly—it was so horribly sudden.” She shivered. “And then Miss Pinkerton. She said—”
The girl paused.
“What did she say? She was a delightful old lady, I thought—very like a rather special aunt of mine.”
“Oh, did you know her?” Rose’s face lit up. “I was very fond of her and she was devoted to daddy. But I’ve sometimes wondered if she was what the Scotch call ‘fey.’”
“Why?”