upon him.
He was reminded of Miss Fullerton.
"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
important to do. Just a little unimportant
shopping." The small drawing room was exquisitely
neat and smelled faintly of burnt
lavender. 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 cauised 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?" askesd Luke bluntly.
"I'd like to hear your accoun t 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 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
colors and he had done one or two sketches
of the girl's head--and I think you know, that that rather gave her ideas. She was rather
inclined to quarrel with the young man she
was engaged to--Jim Harvey. He's a me
chanic 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, "Doctor Humbleby
or Doctor Thomas?"
"Doctor Thomas. And he gave her a 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."
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 up on
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, "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
Fullerton. 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
unde
rstanding 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. "Marvelously unspoilt, this
place," he said.
Miss Waynflete's face lit up. "Yes, indeed," she said eagerly. "Really, it is still
just as I remember it as a child. We lived in
the Hall, you know. But when it came to my
58
brother, he did not care to live in it--indeed, could not afford to do so--and it was put up
for sale. A builder had made an offer and
was, I believe, going to "develop the land'--I
think that was the phrase. Fortunately, Lord
Easterfield stepped in and acquired the property
and saved it. He turned the house into a
library and museum, really it is practically
untouched. I act as librarian twice a week
there--unpaid, of course--and I can't tell
you what a pleasure it is to be in the old
place and know that it will not be vandalized.
And really it is a perfect setting; you must visit our little museum one day, Mr.
Fitzwilliam. There are some quite interesting
local exhibits."
"I certainly shall make a point of doing so, Miss Waynflete."
"Lord Easterfield has been a great benefactor
to Wychwood," said Miss Waynflete.
"It grieves me that there are people who are
sadly ungrateful."
Her lips pressed themselves together. Luke
discreetly asked no questions. He said goodby
again.
When they were outside the gate, Bridget
said, "Do you want to pursue further researches, or shall we go home by way of the
river? It's a pleasant walk."
59
Luke answered promptly. He had no mind
for further investigations, with Bridget
Conway standing by listening. He said, "Go
around by the river by all means."
They walked along the High Street. One
of the last houses had a sign decorated in old
gold lettering with the word ANTIQUES on
it. Luke paused and peered through one of
the windows into the cool depths. "Rather a
nice slipware dish there," he remarked. "Do
for an aunt of mine. Wonder how much they
want for it?"
"Shall we go in and see?"
"Do you mind? I like pottering about antique
shops. Sometimes one picks up a good
bargain."
"I doubt if you will here," said Bridget
dryly. "Ellsworthy knows the value of his
stuff pretty accurately, I should say."
The door was open. In the hall were chairs
and settees and dressers with china and pewter
in them. Two rooms full of goods opened
at either side. Luke went into the room on
the left and picked up the slipware dish. At
the same moment a dim figure came forward
from the back of the room, where he had
been sitting at a Queen Anne walnut desk.
"Ah, dear Miss Conway, what a pleasure to
see you."
"Good morning, Mr. Ellsworthy."
Mr. EUsworthy was a thin young man
dressed in russet brown. He had a long pale
face and long black hair. Luke was introduced, and Mr. EUsworthy immediately
transferred his attention to him. "Genuine
old English slipware. Lovely, isn't it? I have
some good pieces, but I hate to sell them.
It's always been my dream to live in the
country and have a little shop. Marvelous
place, Wychwood; it has atmosphere, if you
know what I mean."
"The artistic temperament," murmured
Bridget.
Ellsworthy turned on her with a flash of
long white hands. "Not that terrible phrase, Miss Conway. I'm a tradesman, that's all;
just a tradesman."
"But you're really an artist, aren't you?"
said Luke. "I mean, you do water colors, don't you? Miss Waynflete told us that you
had made several sketches of a girl--Amy
Gibbs."
I "Oh, Amy," said Mr. Ellsworthy. He took
a step backward and set a beer mug rocking.
He steadied it carefully. He said, "Did I?
Oh, yes, I suppose I did." His poise seemed
somewhat shaken.
"She was a pretty girl," said Bridget.
FR1;"Ob ^^^tly had recovered his aplomb.
commo^ you 1lunk soyy he b^^' "Very
interest^13065 ^^ thought. . . . If you're
«p ^ in sliJware," he went on, to Luke,
T nk1 a cou^e °^ slipware birds."
^a ^ <lisplayd a faint interest in the birds
and th^ 1,1 r ^i. -r i.
Ellswon" as^d the pnce °
Luke <w nanled a fig111'6- "Thanks," said
,t ofr^ ^ut I ^n't think I'll deprive you of
it, aner „„ „
«T, ^U.
Ellswnn always relieved, you know," said
ish of y9 <<wlen I don?t n1^6 a sale Fool- l .^e, isn't it? Look here; I'll let you
stuff T ^or a §llmea ^ess- ^ou care ^or ^le ' * ^an see that; it makes all the differ-
"No ^ Bfterall, this is a shop."
3 thanks^ said Luke. Mr. EUsworthy i ^^nied them out to the door. "Queer
he and ^r' EUsvorthy," he remarked, when
"T hel0^1 yere out °^ earsnot' . R1leve hedabbles in black magic. Not
Bride r 'c^ ^asses? ^ut tnat sort 0^ t^mg5" helns" sald" <<rlle rePutation of thls P^6
Luke
y ^aid, rather awkwardly, "Good Lord,
I ouen^ he5s the kmd of chap J reany need0 ^o have talked to him on the subject."
^^° ^ou th^ so?" said Bridget. ^He Knows a ini ahnit ir »
Luke said, r^" ^aeas^' "ru look him
up some oth^1'(lay' t,, r
Bridget di^ t01 answer- They were out of the town no^. $he turned aside to followa
footpath, and P"^ they came to the river. There thcY Passed a small man with a
stiff mustache ^d Protuberant eyes. He had
three bulldog ^.th lum to whom hewas shouting hosd-seW m turn: Ner0' come here'
sirl NpltV leave it' ^"P lt' I te11 y0"'
01A. , . . l^CUJ? » T 5» TT 1 1
I Augustus--Augustus'I say-- Hebroke
off to raise his 1^"° BndSet' stared at Luke with what w^s ^^"tly a devouring curiosity,
and passed on' resummg his hoarse expostulations.
, , . , „, -,„ ,
"Major Hort013 aad tns blllldo8s? q"0™ Luke.
I "Quite right.'" , „ ,
"Haven't u^e seen practically everyone of
note in Wychwo^this morning?"
"Practically." , . „ ., , , ^ "I feel ratfier obtruslve' sald Luke- I
suppose a strand " an Enfshvllla8e is
bound to sdc)< ^ut a nule' he added rue'
fuUy, remember J^n'y Lommer's remarks.
,. . ..
"Maior Hni-to^1 never ^^'"^s his cunos----'f
V/A. A A.v/^' « --^ I CiT T 1*1
ity very well ^ ^ald K1'1^1- He dld stare
rather "
"He's the sort of man you could tell was a
major anywhere," said Luke rather viciously.
Bridget said abruptly, "Shall we sit on the
bank a bit? We've got lots of time."
&
nbsp; They sat on a fallen tree that made a
convenient seat. Bridget went on, "Yes, Major
Horton is very military; has an orderlyroom
manner. You'd hardly believe he was
the most henpecked man in existence a year
ago."
"What, that fellow?"
"Yes. He had the most disagreeable woman
for a wife that I've ever known. She had the
money, too, and never scrupled to underline
the fact in public."
"Poor brute--Horton, I mean."
"He behaved very nicely to her--always
the officer and gentleman. Personally, I wonder
he didn't take a hatchet to her."
"She wasn't popular, I gather."
"Everybody disliked her. She snubbed
Gordon and patronized me, and made herself
generally unpleasant wherever she went."
"But I gather a merciful Providence removed
her?"
"Yes, about a year ago. Acute gastritis.
She gave her husband. Doctor Thomas, and
two nurses absolute hell, but she died all
right. The bulldogs brightened up at once."
"Intelligent brutes."
There was a silence. Bridget was idly picking
at the long grass. Luke frowned at the
opposite bank unseeingly. Once again the
dreamlike quality of his mission obsessed
him. How much was fact, how much imagination?
Wasn't it bad for one to go about
studying every fresh person you met as a
potential murderer? Something degrading
about that point of view. "Damn it all,"
thought Luke. "I've been a policeman too
long."
He was brought out of his abstraction with
a shock. Bridget's cold clear voice was speaking.
"Mr. Fitzwilliam," she said, "just exactly
why have you come down here?"
Six
luke had been just in the act of applying a
match to a cigarette. The unexpectedness of her remark momentarily paralyzed his hand.
He remained quite motionless for a second
or two; the match burned down and scorched
his finger. "Damn!" said Luke, as he
dropped the match and shook his hand vigorously.
"I beg your pardon. You gave me
rather a nasty jolt." He smiled ruefully.
"Did I?"
"Yes." He sighed. "Oh, well, I suppose
anyone of real intelligence was bound to see
through me. That story of my writing a book
on folklore didn't take you in for a moment, I suppose?"
"Not after I'd once seen you."