Murder Is Easy (Superintendent Battle 4)

Now—he didn’t know if he liked Bridget Conway or not—but he knew that that secret picture wavered and broke up—became meaningless and foolish….

He said:

“How d’you do? I must apologize for wishing myself on you like this. Jimmy would have it that you wouldn’t mind.”

“Oh, we don’t. We’re delighted.” She smiled, a sudden curving smile that brought the corners of her long mouth halfway up her cheeks. “Jimmy and I always stand in together. And if you’re writing a book on folklore this is a splendid place. All sorts of legends and picturesque spots.”

“Splendid,” said Luke.

They went together towards the house. Luke stole another glance at it. He discerned now traces of a sober Queen Anne dwelling overlaid and smothered by the florid magnificence. He remembered that Jimmy had mentioned the house as having originally belonged to Bridget’s family. That, he thought grimly, was in its unadorned days. Stealing a glance at the line of her profile, at the long beautiful hands, he wondered.

She was about twenty-eight or -nine, he supposed. And she had brains. And she was one of those people about whom you knew absolutely nothing unless they chose that you should….

Inside, the house was comfortable and in good taste—the good taste of a first-class decorator. Bridget Conway led the way to a room with bookshelves and comfortable chairs where a tea table stood near the window with two people sitting by it.

She said:

“Gordon, this is Luke, a sort of cousin of a cousin of mine.”

Lord Whitfield was a small man with a semi-bald head. His face was round and ingenuous, with a pouting mouth and boiled gooseberry eyes. He was dressed in careless-looking country clothes. They were unkind to his figure, which ran mostly to stomach.

He greeted Luke with affability.

“Glad to see you—very glad. Just come back from the East, I hear? Interesting place. Writing a book, so Bridget tells me. They say too many books are written nowadays. I say no—always room for a good one.”

Bridget said, “My aunt, Mrs. Anstruther,” and Luke shook hands with a middle-aged woman with a rather foolish mouth.

Mrs. Anstruther, as Luke soon learned, was devoted body and soul to gardening. She never talked of anything else, and her mind was constantly occupied by considerations of whether some rare plant was likely to do well in the place she intended to put it.

After acknowledging the introduction, she said now:

“You know, Gordon, the ideal spot for a rockery would be just beyond the rose garden, and then you could have the most marvellous water garden where the stream comes through that dip.”

Lord Whitfield stretched himself back in his chair.

“You fix all that with Bridget,” he said easily. “Rock plants are niggly little things, I think—but that doesn’t matter.”

Bridget said:

“Rock plants aren’t sufficiently in the grand manner for you, Gordon.”

She poured out some tea for Luke and Lord Whitfield said placidly:

“That’s right. They’re not what I call good value for money. Little bits of flowers you can hardly see…I like a nice show in a conservatory, or some good beds of scarlet geraniums.”

Mrs. Anstruther, who possessed par excellence the gift of continuing with her own subject undisturbed by that of anyone else, said:

“I believe those new rock roses would do perfectly in this climate,” and proceeded to immerse herself in catalogues.

Throwing his squat little figure back in his chair, Lord Whitfield sipped his tea and studied Luke appraisingly.

“So you write books,” he murmured.

Feeling slightly nervous, Luke was about to enter on explanations when he perceived that Lord Whitfield was not really seeking for information.

“I’ve often thought,” said his lordship complacently, “that I’d like to write a book myself.”

“Yes?” said Luke.

“I could, mark you,” said Lord Whitfield. “And a very interesting book it would be. I’ve come across a lot of interesting people. Trouble is, I haven’t got the time. I’m a very busy man.”

“Of course. You must be.”

“You wouldn’t believe what I’ve got on my shoulders,” said Lord Whitfield. “I take a personal interest in each one of my publications. I consider that I’m responsible for moulding the public mind. Next week millions of people will be thinking and feeling just exactly what I’ve intended to make them feel and think. That’s a very solemn thought. That means responsibility. Well, I don’t mind responsibility. I’m not afraid of it. I can do with responsibility.”

Lord Whitfield swelled out his chest, attempted to draw in his stomach, and glared amiably at Luke.

Bridget Conway said lightly:

“You’re a great man, Gordon. Have some more tea.”

Lord Whitfield replied simply:

“I am a great man. No, I won’t have anymore tea.”

Then, descending from his own Olympian heights to the level of more ordinary mortals, he inquired kindly of his guest:

“Know anybody round this part of the world?”

Luke shook his head. Then, on an impulse, and feeling that the sooner he began to get down to his job the better, he added:

“At least, there’s a man here that I promised to look up—friend of friends of mine. Man called Humbleby. He’s a doctor.”

“Oh!” Lord Whitfield struggled upright in his chair. “Dr. Humbleby? Pity.”

“What’s a pity?”

“Died about a week ago,” said Lord Whitfield.

“Oh, dear,” said Luke. “I’m sorry about that.”

“Don’t think you’d have cared for him,” said Lord Whitfield. “Opinionated, pestilential, muddleheaded old fool.”

“Which means,” put in Bridget, “that he disagreed with Gordon.”

“Question of our water supply,” said Lord Whitfield. “I may tell you, Mr. Fitzwilliam, that I’m a public-spirited man. I’ve got the welfare of this town at heart. I was born here. Yes, born in this very town—”

With chagrin Luke perceived that they had left the topic of Dr. Humbleby and had reverted to the topic of Lord Whitfield.

“I’m not ashamed of it and I don’t care who knows it,” went on that gentleman. “I had none of your natural advantages. My father kept a boot-shop—yes, a plain boot-shop. And I served in that shop when I was a young lad. I raised myself by my own efforts, Fitzwilliam—I determined to get out of the rut—and I got out of the rut! Perseverance, hard work and the help of God—that’s what did it! That’s what made me what I am today.”

Exhaustive details of Lord Whitfield’s career were produced for Luke’s benefit and the former wound up triumphantly:

“And here I am and the whole world’s welcome to know how I’ve got here! I’m not ashamed of my beginnings—no, sir—I’ve come back here where I was born. Do you know what stands where my father’s shop used to be? A fine building built and endowed by me—Institute, Boys’ Clubs, everything tip-top and up to date. Employed the best architect in the country! I must say he’s made a bare plain job of it—looks like a workhouse or a prison to me—but they say it’s all right, so I suppose it must be.”

“Cheer up,” said Bridget. “You had your own way over this house!”

Lord Whitfield chuckled appreciatively.

“Yes, they tried to put it over on me here! Carry out the original spirit of the building. No, I said, I’m going to live in the place, and I want something to show for my money! When one architect wouldn’t do what I wanted I sacked him and got another. The fellow I got in the end understood my ideas pretty well.”

“He pandered to your worst flights of imagination,” said Bridget.

“She’d have liked the place left as it was,” said Lord Whitfield. He patted her arm. “No use living in the past, my dear. Those old Georges didn’t know much. I didn’t want a plain redbrick house. I always had a fancy for a castle—and now I’ve got one!?

? He added, “I know my taste isn’t very classy, so I gave a good firm carte blanche to do the inside, and I must say they haven’t done too badly—though some of it is a bit drab.”

“Well,” said Luke, a little at a loss for words, “it’s a great thing to know what you want.”

“And I usually get it too,” said the other, chuckling.

“You nearly didn’t get your way about the water scheme,” Bridget reminded him.

“Oh, that!” said Lord Whitfield. “Humbleby was a fool. These elderly men are inclined to be pigheaded. They won’t listen to reason.”

“Dr. Humbleby was rather an outspoken man, wasn’t he?” Luke ventured. “He made a good many enemies that way, I should imagine.”

“N-no, I don’t know that I should say that,” demurred Lord Whitfield, rubbing his nose. “Eh, Bridget?”

“He was very popular with everyone, I always thought,” said Bridget. “I only saw him when he came about my ankle that time, but I thought he was a dear.”

“Yes, he was popular enough on the whole,” admitted Lord Whitfield. “Though I know one or two people who had it in for him. Pigheadedness again.”

“One or two of the people living here?”

Lord Whitfield nodded.

“Lots of little feuds and cliques in a place like this,” he said.

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Luke. He hesitated, uncertain of his next step.

“What sort of people live here mostly?” he queried.

It was rather a weak question, but he got an instant response.

“Relicts, mostly,” said Bridget. “Clergymen’s daughters and sisters and wives. Doctors’ dittoes. About six women to every man.”

“But there are some men?” hazarded Luke.

“Oh, yes, there’s Mr. Abbot, the solicitor, and young Dr. Thomas, Dr. Humbleby’s partner, and Mr. Wake, the rector, and—who else is there, Gordon? Oh! Mr. Ellsworthy, who keeps the antique shop and who is too, too terribly sweet! And Major Horton and his bulldogs.”