Murder Is Easy (Superintendent Battle 4)

Mr. Jones sighed and said it took a long time for education to eradicate superstition. Luke remarked that he thought education was too highly rated nowadays and Mr. Jones was slightly shocked by the statement.

“Lord Whitfield,” he said, “has been a handsome benefactor here. He realizes the disadvantages under which he himself suffered as a boy and is determined that the youth of today shall be better equipped.”

“Early disadvantages haven’t prevented him from making a large

fortune,” said Luke.

“No, he must have had ability—great ability.”

“Or luck,” said Luke.

Mr. Jones looked rather shocked.

“Luck is the one thing that counts,” said Luke. “Take a murderer, for example. Why does the successful murderer get away with it? Is it ability? Or is it sheer luck?”

Mr. Jones admitted that it was probably luck.

Luke continued:

“Take a fellow like this man Carter, the landlord of one of your pubs. The fellow was probably drunk six nights out of seven—yet one night he goes and pitches himself off the footbridge into the river. Luck again.”

“Good luck for some people,” said the bank manager.

“You mean?”

“For his wife and daughter.”

“Oh, yes, of course.”

A clerk knocked and entered bearing papers. Luke gave two specimen signatures and was given a cheque-book. He rose.

“Well, I’m glad that’s all fixed up. Had a bit of luck over the Derby this year. Did you?”

Mr. Jones said smilingly that he was not a betting man. He added that Mrs. Jones had very strong views on the subject of horse racing.

“Then I suppose you didn’t go to the Derby?”

“No indeed.”

“Anybody go to it from here?”

“Major Horton did. He’s quite a keen racing man. And Mr. Abbot usually takes the day off. He didn’t back the winner, though.”

“I don’t suppose many people did,” said Luke, and departed after the exchange of farewells.

He lit a cigarette as he emerged from the bank. Apart from the theory of the “least likely person,” he saw no reason for retaining Mr. Jones on his list of suspects. The bank manager had shown no interesting reactions to Luke’s test questions. It seemed quite impossible to visualize him as a murderer. Moreover, he had not been absent on Derby Day. Incidentally, Luke’s visit had not been wasted, he had received two small items of information. Both Major Horton and Mr. Abbot, the solicitor, had been away from Wychwood on Derby Day. Either of them, therefore, could have been in London at the time when Miss Pinkerton was run down by a car.

Although Luke did not now suspect Dr. Thomas he felt he would be more satisfied if he knew for a fact that the latter had been at Wychwood engaged in his professional duties on that particular day. He made a mental note to verify that point.

Then there was Ellsworthy. Had Ellsworthy been in Wychwood on Derby Day? If he had, the presumption that he was the killer was correspondingly weakened. Although, Luke noted, it was possible that Miss Pinkerton’s death had been neither more nor less than the accident that it was supposed to be.

But he rejected that theory. Her death was too opportune.

Luke got into his own car, which was standing by the kerb, and drove in it to Pipwell’s Garage, situated at the far end of the High Street.

There were various small matters in the car’s running that he wanted to discuss. A good-looking young mechanic with a freckled face listened intelligently. The two men lifted the bonnet and became absorbed in a technical discussion.

A voice called:

“Jim, come here a minute.”

The freckled-faced mechanic obeyed.

Jim Harvey. That was right. Jim Harvey, Amy Gibbs’s young man. He returned presently, apologizing, and conversation became technical once more. Luke agreed to leave the car there.

As he was about to leave he inquired casually:

“Do any good on the Derby this year?”

“No, sir. Backed Clarigold.”

“Can’t be many people who backed Jujube the II.?”

“No, indeed, sir. I don’t believe any of the papers even tipped it as an outside chance.”

Luke shook his head.

“Racing’s an uncertain game. Ever seen the Derby run?”

“No, sir, wish I had. Asked for a day off this year. There was a cheap ticket up to town and down to Epsom, but the boss wouldn’t hear of it. We were shorthanded, as a matter of fact, and had a lot of work in that day.”

Luke nodded and took his departure.

Jim Harvey was crossed off his list. That pleasant-faced boy was not a secret killer, and it was not he who had run down Lavinia Pinkerton.

He strolled home by way of the riverbank. Here, as once before, he encountered Major Horton and his dogs. The major was still in the same condition of apoplectic shouting. “Augustus—Nelly—NELLY, I say. Nero—Nero—NERO.”

Again the protuberant eyes stared at Luke. But this time there was more to follow. Major Horton said:

“Excuse me. Mr. Fitzwilliam, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Horton here—Major Horton. Believe I’m going to meet you tomorrow up at the Manor. Tennis party. Miss Conway very kindly asked me. Cousin of yours, isn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“Thought so. Soon spot a new face down here, you know.”

Here a diversion occurred, the three bulldogs advancing upon a nondescript white mongrel.

“Augustus—Nero. Come here, sir—come here, I say.”

When Augustus and Nero had finally reluctantly obeyed the command, Major Horton returned to the conversation. Luke was patting Nelly, who was gazing up at him sentimentally.

“Nice bitch, that, isn’t she?” said the major. “I like bulldogs. I’ve always had ’em. Prefer ’em to any other breed. My place is just near here, come in and have a drink.”

Luke accepted and the two men walked together while Major Horton held forth on the subject of dogs and the inferiority of all other breeds to that which he himself preferred.

Luke heard of the prizes Nelly had won, of the infamous conduct of a judge in awarding Augustus merely a Highly Commended, and of the triumphs of Nero in the show ring.

By then they had turned in at the major’s gate. He opened the front door, which was not locked, and the two men passed into the house. Leading the way into a small slightly doggy-smelling room lined with bookshelves, Major Horton busied himself with the drinks. Luke looked round him. There were photographs of dogs, copies of the Field and Country Life and a couple of well-worn armchairs. Silver cups were arranged round the bookcases. There was one oil painting over the mantelpiece.

“My wife,” said the major, looking up from the siphon and noting the direction of Luke’s glance. “Remarkable woman. A lot of character in her face, don’t you think?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Luke, looking at the late Mrs. Horton.

She was represented in a pink satin dress and was holding a bunch of lilies of the valley. Her brown hair was parted in the middle and her lips were pressed grimly together. Her eyes, of a cold grey, looked out ill-temperedly at the beholder.

“A remarkable woman,” said the major, handing a glass to Luke. “She died over a year ago. I haven’t been the same man since.”

“No?” said Luke, a little at a loss to know what to say.

“Sit down,” said the major, waving a hand towards one of the leather chairs.

He himself took the other one and sipping his whisky and soda, he went on:

“No, I haven’t been the same man since.”

“You must miss her,” said Luke awkwardly.

Major Horton shook his head darkly.

“Fellow needs a wife to keep him up to scratch,” he said. “Otherwise he gets slack—yes, slack. He lets himself go.”

“But surely—”

“My boy, I know what I’m talking about. Mind you, I’m not saying marriage doesn’t come hard on a fellow at first. It does. Fellow says to himself, damn it all, he says, I can’t call my soul my own! But he gets broken in. It’s all discipline.”

Luke thought that Major Horton’s married life must have been more like a military campaign than an idyll of domestic bliss.

“Women,” soliloquized the major, “are a rum lot. It seems sometimes that there’s no pleasing them. But by Jove, they keep a man up to the mark.”

Luke pr

eserved a respectful silence.

“You married?” inquired the major.

“No.”

“Ah, well, you’ll come to it. And mind you, my boy, there’s nothing like it.”

“It’s always cheering,” said Luke, “to hear someone speak well of the marriage state. Especially in these days of easy divorce.”

“Pah!” said the major. “Young people make me sick. No stamina—no endurance. They can’t stand anything. No fortitude!”

Luke itched to ask why such exceptional fortitude should be needed, but he controlled himself.

“Mind you,” said the major, “Lydia was a woman in a thousand—in a thousand! Everyone here respected and looked up to her.”

“Yes?”

“She wouldn’t stand any nonsense. She’d got a way of fixing a person with her eye—and the person wilted—just wilted. Some of these half-baked girls who call themselves servants nowadays. They think you’ll put up with any insolence. Lydia soon showed them! Do you know we had fifteen cooks and house-parlourmaids in one year. Fifteen!”

Luke felt that this was hardly a tribute to Mrs. Horton’s domestic management, but since it seemed to strike his host differently he merely murmured some vague remark.

“Turned ’em out neck and crop, she did, if they didn’t suit.”

“Was it always that way about?” asked Luke.

“Well, of course a lot of them walked out on us. A good riddance—that’s what Lydia used to say!”

“A fine spirit,” said Luke, “but wasn’t it sometimes rather awkward?”

“Oh! I didn’t mind turning to and putting my hand to things,” said Horton. “I’m a pretty fair cook and I can lay a fire with anyone. I’ve never cared for washing up but of course it’s got to be done—you can’t get away from that.”

Luke agreed that you couldn’t. He asked whether Mrs. Horton had been good at domestic work.

“I’m not the sort of fellow to let his wife wait on him,” said Major Horton. “And anyway Lydia was far too delicate to do any housework.”

“She wasn’t strong then?”

Major Horton shook his head.

“She had wonderful spirit. She wouldn’t give in. But what that woman suffered! And no sympathy from the doctors either. Doctors are callous brutes. They only understand downright physical pain. Anything out of the ordinary is beyond most of them. Humbleby, for instance, everyone seemed to think he was a good doctor.”