Murder Is Easy (Superintendent Battle 4)

He chuckled again.

“The fat was in the fire all right when Honoria announced she was going to marry me! Called herself a Radical, she did. Very earnest. Was all for abolishing class distinctions. She was a serious kind of girl.”

“So her family broke up the romance?”

Lord Whitfield rubbed his nose.

“Well—not exactly. Matter of fact we had a bit of a row over something. Blinking bird she had—one of those beastly twittering canaries—always hated them—bad business—wrung its neck. Well—no good dwelling on all that now. Let’s forget it.”

He shook his shoulders like a man who throws off an unpleasant memory.

Then he said, rather jerkily:

“Don’t think she’s ever forgiven me. Well, perhaps it’s only natural….”

“I think she’s forgiven you all right,” said Luke.

Lord Whitfield brightened up.

“Do you? Glad of that. You know I respect Honoria. Capable woman and a lady! That still counts even in these days. She runs that library business very well.”

He looked up and his voice changed.

“Hallo,” he said. “Here comes Bridget.”

Sixteen

THE PINEAPPLE

Luke felt a tightening of his muscles as Bridget approached.

He had had no word alone with her since the day of the tennis party. By mutual consent they had avoided each other. He stole a glance at her now.

She looked provokingly calm, cool and indifferent.

She said lightly:

“I was beginning to wonder what on earth had become of you, Gordon?”

Lord Whitfield grunted:

“Had a bit of a dust up! That fellow Rivers had the impertinence to take the Rolls out this afternoon.”

“Lèse-majesté,” said Bridget.

“It’s no good making a joke out of it, Bridget. The thing’s serious. He took a girl out.”

“I don’t suppose it would have given him any pleasure to go solemnly for a drive by himself!”

Lord Whitfield drew himself up.

“On my estate I’ll have decent moral behaviour.”

“It isn’t actually immoral to take a girl joyriding.”

“It is when it’s my car.”

“That, of course, is worse than immorality! It practically amounts to blasphemy. But you can’t cut out the sex stuff altogether, Gordon. The moon is at the full and it’s actually Midsummer Eve.”

“Is it, by Jove?” said Luke.

Bridget threw him a glance.

“That seems to interest you?”

“It does.”

Bridget turned back to Lord Whitfield.

“Three extraordinary people have arrived at the Bells and Motley. Item one, a man with shorts, spectacles and a lovely plum-coloured silk shirt! Item two, a female with no eyebrows, dressed in a peplum, a pound of assorted sham Egyptian beads and sandals. Item three, a fat man in a lavender suit and co-respondent shoes. I suspect them of being friends of our Mr. Ellsworthy! Says the gossip writer: ‘Someone has whispered that there will be gay doings in the Witches’ Meadow tonight.’”

Lord Whitfield turned purple and said:

“I won’t have it!”

“You can’t help it, darling. The Witches’ Meadow is public property.”

“I won’t have this irreligious mumbo jumbo going on down here! I’ll expose it in Scandals.” He paused, then said, “Remind me to make a note about that and get Siddely on to it. I must go up to town tomorrow.”

“Lord Whitfield’s campaign against witchcraft,” said Bridget flippantly. “Medieval superstitions still rife in quiet country village.”

Lord Whitfield stared at her with a puzzled frown, then he turned and went into the house.

Luke said pleasantly:

“You must do your stuff better than that, Bridget!”

“What do you mean?”

“It would be a pity if you lost your job! That hundred thousand isn’t yours yet. Nor are the diamonds and pearls. I should wait until after the marriage ceremony to exercise your sarcastic gifts if I were you.”

Her glance met his coolly.

“You are so thoughtful, dear Luke. It’s kind of you to take my future so much to heart!”

“Kindness and consideration have always been my strong points.”

“I hadn’t noticed it.”

“No? You surprise me.”

Bridget twitched the leaf off a creeper. She said:

“What have you been doing today?”

“The usual spot of sleuthing.”

“Any results?”

“Yes and no, as the politicians say. By the way, have you got any tools in the house?”

“I expect so. What kind of tools?”

“Oh, any handy little gadgets. Perhaps I could inspect some.”

Ten minutes later Luke had made a selection from a cupboard shelf.

“That little lot will do nicely,” he said, slapping the pocket in which he had stowed them away.

“Are you thinking of doing a spot of forcing and entering?”

“Maybe.”

“You’re very uncommunicative on the subject.”

“Well, after all, the situation bristles with difficulties. I’m in the hell of a position. After our little knock up on Saturday I suppose I ought to clear out of here.”

“To behave as a perfect gentleman, you should.”

“But since I’m convinced that I am pretty hot on the trail of a homicidal maniac, I’m more or less forced to remain. If you could think of any convincing reason for me to leave here and take up my quarters at the Bells and Motley, for goodness’ sake trot it out.”

Bridget shook her head.

“That’s not feasible—you being a cousin and all that. Besides, the inn is full of Mr. Ellsworthy’s friends. They only run to three guest rooms.”

“So I am forced to remain, painful as it must be for you.”

Bridget smiled sweetly at him.

“Not at all. I can always do with a few scalps to dangle.”

“That,” said Luke appreciatively, “was a particularly dirty crack. What I admire about you, Bridget, is that you have practically no instincts of kindness. Well, well. The rejected lover will now go and change for dinner.”

The evening passed uneventfully. Luke won Lord Whitfield’s approval even more deeply than before by the apparent absorbed interest with which he listened to the other’s nightly discourse.

When they came into the drawing room Bridget said:

“You men have been a long time.”

Luke replied:

“Lord Whitfield was being so interesting that the time passed like a flash. He was telling me how he founded his first newspaper.”

Mrs. Anstruther said:

“These new little fruiting trees in pots are perfectly marvellous, I believe. You ought to try them along the terrace, Gordon.”

The conversation then proceeded on normal lines.

Luke retired early.

He did not, however, go to bed. He had other plans.

It was just striking twelve when he descended the stairs noiselessly in tennis shoes, passed through the library and let himself out by a window.

The wind was still blowing in violent gusts interspersed with brief lulls. Clouds scudded across the sky, obliterating the moon so that darkness alternated with bright moonlight.

Luke made his way by a circuitous route to Mr. Ellsworthy’s establishment. He saw his way clear to doing a little investigation. He was fairly certain that Ellsworthy and his friends would be out together on this particular date. Midsummer Eve, Luke thought, was sure to be marked by some ceremony or other. Whilst this was in progress, it would be a good opportunity to search Mr. Ellsworthy’s house.

He climbed a couple of walls, got round to the back of the house, took the assorted tools from his pocket and selected a likely implement. He found a scullery window amenable to his efforts. A few minutes later he had slipped back the catch, raised the sash and hoisted himself over.

He had a torch in his pocket. He used it sparingly—a brief flash to show him his way and to avoid running into things.

In a quarter of an hour he had satisfied himself that the house was empty. The owner was out and abroad on his own affairs.

Luke smiled with satisfaction and settled down to his task.

He made a minute and thorough search of every available nook and corner. In a locked drawer, below two or three innocuous water-colour sketches, he came upon some artistic efforts which caused him to lift his eyebrows and whistle. Mr. Ellsworthy’s correspondence was unilluminating, but some of his books—those tucked away at the back of a cupboard—repaid attention.

Besides these, Luke accumulated three meagre but suggestive scraps of information. The first was a pencil scrawl in a little notebook. “Settle with Tommy Pierce”—the date being a couple of days before the boy’s death. The second was a crayon sketch of Amy Gibbs with a furious red cross right across the face. The third was a bottle of cough mixture. None of these things were in any way conclusive, but taken together they might be considered as encouraging.

Luke was just restoring some final order, replacing things in their place, when he suddenly stiffened and switched off his torch.

He had heard the key inserted in the lock of a side door.