very masculine man with little knowledge of
women's fripperies. Amy Gibbs all serene
and accounted for.
"The drunken Carter? Same suggestion as
before--Amy told him something. Another
straightforward murder.
"Now Tommy Pierce. We've got to fall
back on his inquisitive nature. I suppose the
letter in Abbot's office couldn't have been a
complaint from Mrs. Horton that her husband
was trying to poison her? That's only a
wild suggestion, but it might be so. Anyway, the Major becomes alive to the fact that
Tommy is a menace, so Tommy joins Amy
and Carter. All quite simple and straightforward
and according to Cocker. Easy to kill?
My God, yes!
"But now we come to something rather
difficult. Humbleby! Motive? Very obscure.
Humbleby was attending Mrs. Horton originally.
Did he get puzzled by the illness, and
did Horton influence his wife to change to
the younger, more unsuspicious doctor? But
if so, what made Humbleby a danger so long
after? Difficult, that. The manner of his
death too. A poisoned finger. Doesn't connect
up with the Major.
"Miss Fullerton? That's perfectly possible.
He has a car. I saw it. And he was away
from Wychwood that day, supposedly gone
to the Derby. It might be, yes. Is Horton a
cold-blooded killer? Is he? Is he? I wish I
knew!"
Luke stared ahead of him. His brow was
puckered with thought. "It's one of them. I
don't think it's Ellsworthy, but it might be.
He's the most obvious one. Thomas is wildly
unlikely--if it weren't for the manner of
Humbleby's death. That blood poisoning
definitely points to a medical murderer. It
could be Abbot; there's not so much evidence
against him as against the others, but I
can see him in the part, somehow. Yes, he
fits as the others don't. And it could be
Horton. Bullied by his wife for years, feeling
his insignificance--yes, it could be. But Miss
Waynflete doesn't think it is, and she's no
fool--and she knows the place and the people
in it.
"Which does she suspect. Abbot or
Thomas? It must be one of these two. If I
tackled her outright--'which of them is it?'--
I'd get it out of her then, perhaps. But even
then she might be wrong. There's no way of
proving her right--like Miss Fullerton
proved herself. More evidence--that's what I
want. If there were to be one more case--
just one more--then I'd know."
He stopped himself with a start. "What
I'm asking for is another murder," he said
under his breath.
Sixteen
in the bar of the Seven Stars, Luke drank
his pint and felt somewhat embarrassed. The
stare of half a dozen bucolic pairs of eyes
followed his least movement, and conversation
had come to a standstill upon his entrance.
Luke essayed a few comments of
general interest, such as the crops, the state
of the weather, and football coupons, but to
none did he get any response. He was reduced
to gallantry. The fine-looking girl behind
the counter, with her black hair and
red cheeks, he rightly judged to be Miss
Lucy Carter. His advances were received in
a pleasant spirit. Miss Carter duly giggled
and said, "Go on with you! I'm sure you
don't think nothing of the kind! . . . That's
telling!"--and other such rejoinders. But the
performance was clearly mechanical.
Luke, seeing no advantage to be gained by
remaining, finished his beer and departed.
He walked along the path to where the river
was spanned by a footbridge. He was standing
looking at this when a quavering voice
behind him said: "That's it, mister; that's
where old Harry went over." Luke turned to
see one of his late fellow drinkers--one who
had been particularly unresponsive to the
topic of crops, weather and coupons. He was
now clearly about to enjoy himself as a guide
to the macabre. "Went over into the mud,
the mud, and stuck in it head downward."
"Perhaps someone pushed him over," said
Luke, making the suggestion in a casual fashion.
"They might of," the rustic agreed. "But
I don't know who'd go for to do that," he
added.
"He might have made a few enemies. He
was fairly abusive when he was drunk, wasn't
he?"
"His language was a treat to hear. Didn't
mince his words. Harry didn't. But no one
would go for to push a man what's drunk."
Luke did not combat this statement. It
was evidently regarded as wildly unsporting
for advantage to be taken of a man's state of
intoxication. The rustic had sounded quite
shocked at the idea. "Well," he said vaguely, "it was a sad business."
"None so sad for his missus," said the old
man. "Reckon her and Lucy haven't no call
to be sad about it."
"There may be other people who are glad
to have him out of the way."
The old man was vague about that.
"Maybe," he said. "But he didn't mean no
harm. Harry didn't." On this epitaph for the
late Mr. Carter, they parted.
Luke bent his steps toward the old Hall.
The library transacted its business in the
two front rooms. Luke passed on to the
back through a door which was labeled
MUSEUM. There he moved from case to
case, studying the not-very-inspiring exhibits.
Some Roman pottery and coins. Some
South Sea curiosities, a Malay headdress.
Various Indian gods "presented by Major
Horton," together with a large and malevolent-looking
Buddha and a case of doubtful-looking
Egyptian beads.
Luke wandered out again into the hall.
There was no one about. He went quietly up
the stairs. There was a room with magazines
and papers there, and a room filled with
non-fiction books. Luke went a story higher.
Here were rooms filled with what he desig-
nated himself as junk. Stuffed birds, removed
from the museum owing to the moths having
attacked them, stacks of torn magazines and
a room whose shelves were covered with outof-date
works of fiction and children's books.
Luke approached the window. Here it
must have been that Tommy Pierce had sat, possibly whistling and occasionally rubbing a
pane of glass vigorously when he heard anyone
coming. Somebody had come in. Tommy
had shown his zeal, sitting half out of the
window and polishing with zest. And then
that somebody had come up to him and, while talking, had given a sudden sharp push.
Luke turned away. He walked down the
stairs and stood a minute or two in the hall.
Nobody had no
ticed him come in. Nobody
had seen him go upstairs. "Anyone might
have done it," said Luke. "Easiest thing in
the world." He heard footsteps coming from
the direction of the library proper. Since he
was an innocent man, with no objection to
being seen, he could remain where he was.
If he had not wanted to be seen, how easy
just to step back inside the door of the museum
room.
Miss Waynflete came out from the library,
a little pile of books under her arm. She was
pulling on her gloves. She looked happy and
busy. When she saw him, her face lit up and
she exclaimed: "Oh, Mr. Fitzwilliam, have
you been looking at the museum? I'm afraid
there isn't very much there, really. Lord
Easterfield is talking of getting us some really
interesting exhibits."
"Really?"
"Yes, something modern, you know, and
up-to-date. Like they have at the Science
Museum in London. He suggests a model
aeroplane and a locomotive and some chemical
things too."
"That would, perhaps, brighten things
up."
"Yes, I don't think a museum should deal
solely with the past, do you?"
"Perhaps not."
"Then some food exhibits, too--calories
Easterfield is so keen on the Greater Fitness
Campaign."
"So he was saying the other night."
"It's the thing at present, isn't it? Lord
Easterfield was telling me how he'd been to
the Wellerman Laboratories and seen such a
lot of germs and cultures and bacteria; it
quite made me shiver. And he told me all
about mosauitoes and sleeping sickness, and
something about a liver fluke that, I'm afraid, was a little too difficult for me."
"It was probably too difficult for Lord
Easterfield," said Luke cheerfully. "I'll bet
he got it all wrong. You've got a much clearer
brain than he has. Miss Waynflete."
Miss Waynflete said sedately, "That's very
nice of you, Mr. Fitzwilliam, but I'm afraid
women are never quite such deep thinkers as
men."
Luke repressed a desire to criticize adversely
Lord Easterfield's processes of
thought. Instead he said, "I did look into the
museum, but afterwards I went up to have a
look at the top windows."
"You mean where Tommy--" Miss
Waynflete shivered. "It's really very horrible."
"Yes, it's not a nice thought. I've spent
about an hour with Mrs. Church--Amy's
aunt--not a nice woman."
"Not at all."
"I had to take rather a strong line with
her," said Luke. "I fancy she thinks I'm a
kind of super policeman."
He stopped as he noted a sudden change
of expression on Miss Waynflete's face. "Oh, Mr. Fitzwilliam, do you think that was
wise?"
Luke said, "I don't really know. I think it
was inevitable. The book story was wearing
thin. I can't get much farther on that. I had
to ask the kind of questions that were directly
to the point."
Miss Waynflete shook her head, the troubled
expression still on her face. "In a place
like this, you see, everything gets round so
fast."
"You mean that everybody will say. There
goes the tec,' as I walk down the street? I
don't think that really matters now. In fact, I may get more that way."
"I wasn't thinking of that." Miss Waynflete
sounded a little breathless. "What I
meant was that he'll know. He'll realize that
you're on his track."
Luke said slowly, "I suppose he will."
Miss Waynflete said, "But don't you see
that's horribly dangerous? Horribly!"
"You mean"--Luke grasped her point at
last--"you mean that the killer will have a
crack at me?"
"Yes."
"Funny," said Luke. "I never thought of
that! I believe you're right, though. Well, that might be the best thing that could
happen."
Miss Waynflete said earnestly, "I don't
think you realize that he's--he's a very clever
man. He's cautious too. And remember, he's
got a great deal of experience--perhaps more
than we know."
"Yes," said Luke thoughtfully, "that's
probably true."
Miss Waynflete exclaimed, "Oh, I don't
like it! Really, I feel quite alarmed!"
Luke said gently, "You needn't worry. I
shall be very much on my guard, I can assure
you. You see, I've narrowed the possibilities
down pretty closely. I've an idea, at
any rate, who the killer might be." She
looked up sharply. Luke came a step nearer.
He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Miss
Waynflete, if I were to ask you which of two
men you considered the most likely--Doctor
Thomas or Mr. Abbot--what would you
say?"
"Oh!" said Miss Waynflete. Her hand flew
to her breast. She stepped back. Her eyes
met Luke's in an expression that puzzled
him. They showed impatience and something
closely allied to it that he could not quite
place. She said, "I can't say anything."
She turned away abruptly, with a curious
sound--half a sigh, half a sob. Luke resigned
himself. "Are you going home?" he
asked.
"no) I was going to take these books to
Mrs. Humbleby. That lies on your way back
to the Manor. We might go part of the way together."
"That will be very nice," said Luke.
They went down the steps, turned to the
left, skirting the village green. Luke looked
back at the Stately lines of the house they
had left. "It must have been a lovely house
in your father's day," he said.
Miss Waynflete sighed. "Yes, we were all
very happy there. I am so thankful it hasn't
been pulled down. So many of the old houses
are going."
"I know. Ifs sad."
"And really the new ones aren't nearly so
well built."
"I doubt if they will stand the test of time
as well."
"But of course," said Miss Waynflete, "the
new ones are convenient--so laborsaving, and not such big drafty passages to scrub."
Luke assented. When they arrived at the
gate of Doctor Humbleby's house. Miss
Waynflete hesitated and said: "Such a beautiful
evening. I think, if you don't mind, I
will come a little farther. I am enjoying the
air."
Somewhat surprised, Luke expressed plea
sure politely. It was hardly what he would have described as a beautiful evening. There
was a strong wind blowing, turning back the
leaves viciously on the trees. A storm, he
thought, might come at any minute. Miss
Waynflete, however, clutching her hat with
one hand, walked by his side with every
appearance of enjoyment, talking, as she
&
nbsp; went, in little gasps.
It was a somewhat lonely lane they were
taking, since from Doctor Humbleby's house
the shortest way to Ashe Manor was not by
the main road but by a side lane which led
to one of the back gates of the manor house.
This gate was not of the same ornate ironwork,
but had two handsome gate pillars
surmounted by two vast pink pineapples.
Why pineapples, Luke had been unable to
discover. But he gathered that to Lord
Easterfield pineapples spelt distinction and
good taste. As they approached the gate, the
sound of voices raised in anger came to them.
A moment later they came in sight of Lord
Easterfield confronting a young man in chauffeur's
uniform. "You're fired!" Lord Easterfield
was shouting. "D'you hear? You're
fired!"
"If you'd overlook it, m'lord, just this
once."
"No, I won't overlook it! Taking my car
out! My car! And what's more, you've been
drinking! . . . Yes, you have; don't deny it!
I've made it clear there are three things I
won't have on my estate--one's drunkenness, another's immorality and the last's impertinence!"
Though the man was not actually drunk, he had had enough to loosen his tongue. His
manner changed. "You won't have this and
you won't have that, you old buzzard! Your
estate! Think we don't all know your father
kept a boot shop down here? Makes us laugh
ourselves sick, it does, seeing you strutting
about as cock of the walk! Who are you, I'd
like to know? You're no better than I am,
that's what you are!"
Lord Easterfield turned purple. "How dare
you speak to me like that? How dare you?"
The young man took a threatening step
forward. "If you wasn't such a miserable
pot-bellied little swine, I'd give you a sock
on the jaw--yes, I would."
Lord Easterfield hastily retreated a step, tripped over a root and went down in a
sitting position. Luke had come up. "Get
out of here," he said roughly to the chauffeur.
The latter regained sanity. He looked
frightened. "I'm sorry, sir. I don't know
what came over me, I'm sure."
"A couple of glasses too much, I should
say," said Luke. He assisted Lord Easterfield
to his feet.
"I'm sorry, m'lord," stammered the man.
"You'll be sorry for this. Rivers," said