Slowly she raised her face from her hands.
Her face troubled him. She looked as though
she were returning from some far-off world, as though she had difficulty in adjusting herself
to the world of now and here.
Luke said, rather inadequately, "I say, you're--you're all right, aren't you?"
It was a minute or two before she answered--as
though she still had not quite
come back from that far-off world that had
held her. Luke felt that his words had to
travel a long way before they reached her.
Then she said, "Of course I'm all right.
Why shouldn't I be?" And now her voice
was sharp and almost hostile.
Luke grinned. "I'm hanged if I know. I
got the wind-up about you suddenly."
"Why?"
"Mainly, I think, because of the melodramatic
atmosphere in which I'm living at
present. It makes me see things out of all
proportion. If I lose sight of you for an hour
or two, I naturally assume that the next thing
will be to find your gory corpse in a ditch. It
would be, in a play or a book."
"Heroines are never killed," said Bridget.
"No, but--" Luke stopped just in time.
"What were you going to say?"
"Nothing."
Thank goodness, he had just stopped himself
in time. One couldn't very well say to an
attractive young woman, "But you're not the
heroine."
Bridget went on, "They are abducted, imprisoned, left to die of sewer gas or be
drowned in cellars; they are always in danger, but they don't ever die."
"Nor even fade away," said Luke. He
went on, "So this is the Witches' Meadow?"
"Yes."
He looked down at her. "You only need a
broomstick," he said kindly.
"Thank you. Mr. Ellsworthy said much
the same."
"I met him just now," said Luke.
"Did you talk to him at all?"
"Yes. I think he tried to annoy me."
"Did he succeed?"
"His methods were rather childish." He
paused, and then went on abruptly, "He's
an odd sort of fellow. One minute you think
he's just a mess, and then suddenly one wonders
if there isn't a bit more to it than that."
Bridget looked up at him. "You've felt
that too?"
"You agree, then?"
"Yes." Luke waited. Bridget said, "There's something--odd about him. I've
been wondering, you know. I lay awake last
night racking my brains. About the whole
business. It seemed to me that if there was
a--a killer about, I ought to know who it
was. I mean, living down here, and all that.
I thought and thought, and it came to this--
if there is a killer, he must definitely be
mad."
Thinking of what Doctor Thomas had
said, Luke asked: "You don't think that a
murderer can be as sane as you or I?"
"Not this kind of a murderer. As I see it, this murderer must be crazy. And that, you
see, brought me straight to Ellsworthy. Of
all the people down here, he's the only one
who is definitely queer. He is queer, you
can't get away from it!"
Luke said doubtfully, "There are a good
many of his sort--dilettantes, poseurs--usually
quite harmless."
"Yes. But I think there might be a little
more than that. He's got such nasty hands."
"You noticed that? Funny, I did too!"
"They're not just white, they're green."
"They do give one that effect. All the
same, you can't convict a man of being a
murderer because of the color of his flesh."
"Oh, quite. What we want is evidence."
"Evidence," growled Luke. "Just the one
thing that's absolutely lacking. The man's
been too careful. A careful murderer! A careful
lunatic!"
"I've been trying to help," said Bridget.
"With Ellsworthy, you mean?"
"Yes. I thought I could probably tackle
him better than you could. I've made a beginning."
"Tell me."
"Well, it seems that he has a kind of little
coterie--a band of nasty friends. They come
"Do you mean what are called nameless
orgies?"
"I don't know about nameless but certainly
orgies. Actually, it all sounds very silly
and childish."
"I suppose they worship the devil and do
obscene dances."
"Something of the kind. Apparently they
get a kick out of it."
"I can contribute something to this," said
Luke. "Tommy Pierce took part in one of
their ceremonies. He was an acolyte. He had
a red cassock."
"So he knew about it?"
"Yes. And that might explain his death."
"You mean he talked about it?"
"Yes--or he may have tried a spot of
quiet blackmail."
Bridget said thoughtfully, "I know it's all
fantastic, but it doesn't seem quite so fantastic
when applied to Ellsworthy as it does to
anyone else."
"No, I agree. The thing becomes just conceivable
instead of being ludicrously unreal."
"We've got a connection with two of the
victims," said Bridget. "Tommy Pierce and
Amy Gibbs."
"Where do the publican and Humbleby
come in?"
"At the moment, they don't."
"Not the publican. But I can imagine a
motive for Humbleby's removal. He was a
doctor and he may have tumbled to Ellsworthy's
abnormal state."
"Yes, that's possible."
Then Bridget laughed. "I did my stuff
pretty well this morning. My psychic possibilities
are grand, it seems, and when I told
how one of my great-great-grandmothers had
a near escape of being burnt for witchcraft, my stock went soaring up. I rather think
that I shall be invited to take part in the
orgies at the next meeting of the Satanic
Games, whenever that may be."
Luke said, "Bridget, for God's sake, be
careful." She looked at him, surprised. He
got up. "I met Humbleby's daughter just
now. We were talking about Miss Fullerton.
And the Humbleby girl said that Miss
Fullerton had been worried about you."
Bridget, in the act of rising, stopped as
though frozen into immobility. "What's that?
Miss Fullerton worried--about me."
"That's what Rose Humbleby said."
"Rose Humbleby said that?"
"Yes."
"What more did she say?"
"Nothing more."
"Are you sure?"
"Quite sure."
There was a pause, then Bridget said, "I
see."
"Miss Fullerton was worried about
Humbleby, and he died. Now I hear she was
worried about you--"
Bridget laughed. She stood up and shook
her head, so that her long black hair flew
out round her head. "Don't worry," she said.
"The devil looks after his own."
Eleven
he leaned back in his chair on the other £ of the bank manager's table. "Well, that
ms very satisfactory," he said. "I'm afraid s been taking up a lot of your time."
^ir. Jones waved a deprecating hand. His
all, dark, plump face wore a happy ex;ssion.
"No, indeed, Mr. Fitzwilliam. This
a quiet spot, you know. We are always
d to see a stranger."
'It's a fascinating part of the world," said he . "Full of superstitions."
^ir. Jones sighed and said it took a long ie for education to eradicate superstition. he remarked that he thought education
s too highly rated nowadays, and Mr.
ies was slightly shocked by the statement. 'Lord Easterfield," he said, "has been a
idsome benefactor here. He realizes the
advantages under which he himself suf-
Nero, Nero, Nero!" Again the protuberant
eyes stared at Luke. But this time there was
more to follow. Major Horton said, "Excuse
me, Mr. Fitzwilliam, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"Horton here--Major Horton. Believe I'm
going to meet you tomorrow up at the Manor.
Tennis party. Miss Conway very kindly asked
me. Cousin of yours, isn't she?"
"Yes."
"Thought so. Soon spot a new face down
here, you know." Here a diversion occurred, the two bulldogs advancing upon a nondescript
white mongrel. "Augustus! . . . Nero!
Come here, sir! Come here, I say!" When
Augustus and Nero had finally reluctantly
obeyed the command. Major Horton returned
to the conversation. Luke was patting
Nelly, who was gazing up at him sentimentally.
"Nice bitch, that, isn't she?" said the
Major. "I like bulldogs. I've always had 'em.
Prefer 'em to any other breed. My place is
just near here, come in and have a drink."
Luke accepted and the two men walked
together while Major Horton held forth on
the subject of dogs and the inferiority of all
other breeds to that which he himself preferred.
Luke heard of the prizes Nelly had
won, of the infamous conduct of a judge in
awarding Augustus merely a Highly Commended, and of the triumphs of Nero in the
show ring.
By then they had turned in at the Major's
gate. He opened the front door, which was
not locked, and the two men passed into the
house. Leading the way into a small, slightly
doggy-smelling room lined with bookshelves, Major Horton busied himself with the drinks.
Luke looked round him. There were photographs
of dogs, copies of the Field and Country
Life, and a couple of well-worn armchairs.
Silver cups were arranged round the bookcases.
There was one oil painting over the
mantlepiece. "My wife," said the Major, looking up from the siphon and noting the
direction of Luke's glance. "Remarkable
woman. A lot of character in her face, don't
you think?"
"Yes, indeed," said Luke, looking at the
late Mrs. Horton. She was represented in a
pink satin dress and was holding a bunch of
lilies of the valley. Her brown hair was parted
in the middle and her lips were pressed
grimly together. Her eyes, of a cold gray, looked out ill-temperedly at the beholder.
"A remarkable woman," said the Major, handing a glass to Luke. "She died over a
year ago. I haven't been the same man since."
"No?" said Luke, a little at a loss to know
what to say.
"Sit down," said the Major, waving a hand
toward one of the leather chairs. He himself
took the other one and, sipping his whisky
and soda, he went on: "No, I haven't been
the same man since."
"You must miss her," said Luke awkwardly.
Major Horton shook his head darkly.
"Fellow needs a wife to keep him up to
scratch," he said. "Otherwise he gets slack--
yes, slack. He lets himself go."
"But surely--"
"My boy, I know what I'm talking about.
Mind you, I'm not saying marriage doesn't
come hard on a fellow at first. It does. Fellow
says to himself, 'Damn it all,' he says, 'I
can't call my soul my own!' But he gets
broken in. It's all discipline."
Luke thought that Major Horton's married
life must have been more like a military
campaign than an idyl of domestic bliss.
"Women," soliloquized the Major, "are a
rum lot. It seems sometimes that there's no
pleasing them. But, by jove, they keep a
man up to the mark." Luke preserved a
respectful silence. "You married?" inquired
the Major.
"No."
"Ah, well, you'll come to it. And mind
you, my boy, there's nothing like it."
"It's always cheering," said Luke, "to hear
someone speak well of the marriage state.
Especially in these days of easy divorce."
"Pah!" said the Major. "Young people
make me sick. No stamina, no endurance.
They can't stand anything. No fortitude!"
Luke itched to ask why such exceptional
fortitude should be needed, but he controlled
himself.
"Mind you," said the major, "Lydia was a
woman in a thousand--in a thousand! Everyone
here respected and looked up to her."
"Yes?"
"She wouldn't stand any nonsense. She'd
got a way of fixing a person with her eye, and the person wilted--just wilted. Some of
these half-baked girls who call themselves
servants nowadays. They think you'll put up
with any insolence. Lydia soon showed them!
Do you know, we had fifteen cooks and
house-parlormaids in one year. Fifteen!"
Luke felt that this was hardly a tribute to
Mrs. Norton's domestic management, but
since it seemed to strike his host differently, he merely murmured some vague remark.
"Turned 'em out neck and crop, she did, if
they didn't suit."
"Was it always that way about?" asked
Luke.
"Well, of course, a lot of them walked out
on us. A good riddance--that's what Lydia
used to say!"
"A fine spirit," said Luke. "But wasn't it
sometimes rather awkward?"
"Oh, I didn't mind turning to and putting
my hand to things," said Horton. "I'm a
pretty fair cook and I can lay a fire with
anyone. I've never cared for washing up, but
of course it's got to be done; you can't get
away from that."
Luke agreed that you couldn't. He asked
whether Mrs. Horton had been good at domestic
work. "I'm not the sort of fellow to
let his wife wait on him," said Major Horton.
"And anyway, Lydia was far too delicate to
do any housework."
"She wasn't strong then?"
Major Horton shook his head. "She had
wonderful spirit. She wouldn't give in. But
what the woman suffered! And no sympathy
from the doctors either. Doctors are callous
brutes. They only understand downright
physical pain. Anything out of the ordinary
&
nbsp; is beyond most of them. Humbleby, for in
stance; everyone seemed to think he was a good doctor."
"You don't agree?"
"The man was an absolute ignoramus.
Knew nothing of modem discoveries. Doubt
if he'd ever heard of a neurosis! He understands
measles and mumps and broken
bones, all right, I suppose. But nothing else.
Had a row with him in the end. He didn't
understand Lydia's case at all. I gave it to
him straight from the shoulder and he didn't
like it. Got huffed and backed right out.
Said I could send for any other doctor I
chose. After that, we had Thomas."
"You liked him better?"
"Altogether a much cleverer man. If anyone
could have pulled her through her last
illness, Thomas would have done it. As a
matter of fact, she was getting better, but
she had a sudden relapse."
"Was it painful?"
"H'm, yes. Gastritis. Acute pain, sickness, all the rest of it. How that poor woman
suffered! She was a martyr, if there ever was
one. And a couple of hospital nurses in the
house who were about as sympathetic as a
brace of grandfather clocks. The patient this'
and 'the patient that.' " The Major shook his
head and drained his glass. "Can't stand hos-
pital nurses! So smug. Lydia insisted they
were poisoning her. That wasn't true, of
course--a regular sick fancy; lots of people
have it, so Thomas said--but there was this
much truth behind it--those women disliked
her. That's the worst of women--always
down on their own sex."
"I suppose," said Luke, feeling that he
was putting it awkwardly, but not seeing
how to put it better, "that Mrs. Horton had
a lot of devoted friends in Wychwood?"
"People were very kind," said the Major, somewhat grudgingly. "Easterfield sent down
grapes and peaches from his hothouses. And
the old tabbies used to come and sit with
her. Honoria Waynflete and Lavinia Fullerton."
"Miss
Fullerton came often, did she?"
"Yes. Regular old maid, but a kind creature!
Very worried about Lydia, she was.
Used to inquire into the diet and the medicines.
All kindly meant, you know, but what
I call a lot of fuss." Luke nodded comprehendingly.
"Can't stand fuss," said the
Major. "Too many women in this place. Difficult
to get a decent game of golf."