“I’ve noticed that.”
A little uneasy, he hesitated what to say next. But before he could speak, she said:
“If you want to hear more about Amy Gibbs, I can take you to someone who could help you.”
“Who is that?”
“A Miss Waynflete. Amy went there after she left the Manor. She was there when she died.”
“Oh, I see—” he was a little taken aback. “Well—thank you very much.”
“She lives just here.”
They were crossing the village green. Inclining her head in the direction of the big Georgian house that Luke had noticed the day before, Bridget said: “That’s Wych Hall. It’s a library now.”
Adjoining the Hall was a little house that looked rather like a doll’s house in proportion. Its steps were dazzlingly white, its knocker shone and its window curtains showed white and prim.
Bridget pushed open the gate and advanced to the steps.
As she did so the front door opened and an elderly woman came out.
She was, Luke thought, completely the country spinster. Her thin form was neatly dressed in a tweed coat and skirt and she wore a grey silk blouse with a cairn-gorm brooch. Her hat, a conscientious felt, sat squarely upon her well-shaped head. Her face was pleasant and her eyes, through their pince-nez, decidedly intelligent. She reminded Luke of those nimble black goats that one sees in Greece. Her eyes held just that quality of mild inquiring surprise.
“Good morning, Miss Waynflete,” said Bridget. “This is Mr. Fitzwilliam.” Luke bowed. “He’s writing a book—about deaths and village customs and general gruesomeness.”
“Oh, dear,” said Miss Waynflete. “How very interesting.”
And she beamed encouragingly upon him.
He was reminded of Miss Pinkerton.
“I thought,” said Bridget—and again he noted that curious flat tone in her voice—“that you might tell him something about Amy.”
“Oh,” said Miss Waynflete. “About Amy? Yes. About Amy Gibbs.”
He was conscious of a new factor in her expression. She seemed to be thoughtfully summing him up.
Then, as though coming to a decision, she drew back into the hall.
“Do come in,” she said. “I can go out later. No, no,” in answer to a protest from Luke. “I had really nothing urgent to do. Just a little unimportant domestic shopping.”
The small drawing room was exquisitely neat and smelled faintly of burnt lavender. There were some Dresden china shepherds and shepherdesses on the mantelpiece, simpering sweetly. There were framed water-colours, two samplers, and three needlework pictures on the wall. There were some photographs of what were obviously nephews and nieces and some good furniture—a Chippendale desk, some little satinwood tables—and a hideous and rather uncomfortable Victorian sofa.
Miss Waynflete offered her guests chairs and then said apologetically:
“I’m afraid I don’t smoke myself, so I have no cigarettes, but do please smoke if you like.”
Luke refused but Bridget promptly lighted a cigarette.
Sitting bolt upright in a chair with carved arms, Miss Waynflete studied her guest for a moment or two and then dropping her eyes as though satisfied, she said:
“You want to know about that poor girl Amy? The whole thing was very sad and caused me a great deal of distress. Such a tragic mistake.”
“Wasn’t there some question of—suicide?” asked Luke.
Miss Waynflete shook her head.
“No, no, that I cannot believe for a moment. Amy was not at all that type.”
“What type was she?” asked Luke bluntly. “I’d like to hear your account of her.”
Miss Waynflete said:
“Well, of course, she wasn’t at all a good servant. But nowadays, really, one is thankful to get anybody. She was very slipshod over her work and always wanting to go out—well, of course she was young and girls are like that nowadays. They don’t seem to realize that their time is their employer’s.”
Luke looked properly sympathetic and Miss Waynflete proceeded to develop her theme.
“She wasn’t the sort of girl I care for—rather a bold type though of course I wouldn’t like to say much now that she’s dead. One feels unchristian—though really I don’t think that that is a logical reason for suppressing the truth.”
Luke nodded. He realized that Miss Waynflete differed from Miss Pinkerton in having a more logical mind and better processes of thought.
“She was fond of admiration,” went on Miss Waynflete, “and was inclined to think a lot of herself. Mr. Ellsworthy—he keeps the new antique shop but he is actually a gentleman—he dabbles a little in water-colours and he had done one or two sketches of the girl’s head—and I think, you know, that rather gave her ideas. She was inclined to quarrel with the young man she was engaged to—Jim Harvey. He’s a mechanic at the garage and very fond of her.”
Miss Waynflete paused and then went on.
“I shall never forget that dreadful night. Amy had been out of sorts—a nasty cough and one thing and another (those silly cheap silk stockings they will wear and shoes with paper soles practically—of course they catch chills) and she’d been to the doctor that afternoon.”
Luke asked quickly:
“Dr. Humbleby or Dr. Thomas?”
“Dr. Thomas. And he gave her the bottle of cough mixture that she brought back with her. Something quite harmless, a stock mixture, I believe. She went to bed early and it must have been about one in the morning when the noise began—an awful kind of choking scream. I got up and went to her door but it was locked on the inside. I called to her but couldn’t get any answer. Cook was with me and we were both terribly upset. And then we went to the front door and luckily there was Reed (our constable) just passing on his beat, and we called to him. He went round the back of the house and managed to climb up on the outhouse roof, and as her window was open he got in quite easily that way and unlocked the door. Poor girl, it was terrible. They couldn’t do anything for her, and she died in Hospital a few hours later.”
“And it was—what—hat paint?”
“Yes. Oxalic acid poisoning is what they called it. The bottle was about the same size as the cough linctus one. The latter was on her washstand and the hat paint was by her bed. She must have picked up the wrong bottle and put it by her in the dark ready to take if she felt badly. That was the theory at the inquest.”
Miss Waynflete stopped. Her intelligent goat’s eyes looked at him, and he was aware that some particular significance lay behind them. He had the feeling that she was leaving some part of the story untold—and a stronger feeling that, for some reason, she wanted him to be aware of the fact.
There was a silence—a long and rather difficult silence. Luke felt like an actor who does not know his cue. He said rather weakly:
“And you don’t think it was suicide?”
Miss Waynflete said promptly:
“Certainly not. If the girl had decided to make away with herself, she would have bought something probably. This was an old bottle of stuff that she must have had for years. And anyway, as I’ve told you, she wasn’t that kind of girl.”
“So you think—what?” said Luke bluntly.
Miss Waynflete said:
“I think it was very unfortunate.”
She closed her lips and looked at him earnestly.
Just when Luke was feeling that he must try desperately to say something anticipated, a diversion occurred. There was a scratching at the door and a plaintive mew.
Miss Waynflete sprang up and went to open the door, whereupon a magnificent orange Persian walked in. He paused, looked disapprovingly at the visitor, and sprang upon the arm of Miss Waynflete’s chair.
Miss Waynflete addressed him in a cooing voice.
“Why Wonky Pooh—where’s my Wonky Pooh been all the morning?”
The name struck a chord of memory. Where had he heard something about a Persian cat called Wonky Pooh? He said:
&n
bsp; “That’s a very handsome cat. Have you had him long?”
Miss Waynflete shook her head.
“Oh, no, he belonged to an old friend of mine, Miss Pinkerton. She was run over by one of these horrid motorcars and of course I couldn’t have let Wonky Pooh go to strangers. Lavinia would have been most upset. She simply worshipped him—and he is very beautiful isn’t he?”
Luke admired the cat gravely.
Miss Waynflete said: “Be careful of his ears. They’ve been rather painful lately.”
Luke stroked the animal warily.
Bridget rose to her feet.
She said, “We must be going.”
Miss Waynflete shook hands with Luke.
“Perhaps,” she said, “I shall see you again before long.”
Luke said cheerfully: “I hope so, I’m sure.”
He thought she looked puzzled and a little disappointed. Her gaze shifted to Bridget—a rapid look with a hint of interrogation in it. Luke felt that there was some understanding between the two women from which he was excluded. It annoyed him, but he promised himself to get to the bottom of it before long.
Miss Waynflete came out with them. Luke stood a minute on the top of the steps looking with approval on the untouched primness of the village green and the duck pond.
“Marvellously unspoilt, this place,” he said.
Miss Waynflete’s face lit up.