Murder Is Easy

‘Did anyone see him fall?’ asked Luke with interest.

‘No. He was on the garden side—not the front of the house. They estimate he lay there for about half an hour before anyone found him.’

‘Who did find him?’

‘Miss Pinkerton. You remember, the lady I mentioned just now who was unfortunately killed in a street accident the other day. Poor soul, she was terribly upset. A nasty experience! She had obtained permission to take a cutting of some plants and found the boy there lying where he had fallen.’

‘It must have been a very unpleasant shock,’ said Luke thoughtfully.

‘A greater shock,’ he thought to himself, ‘than you know …’

‘A young life cut short is a very sad thing,’ said the old man, shaking his head. ‘Tommy’s faults may have been mainly due to high spirits.’

‘He was a disgusting bully,’ said Bridget. ‘You know he was, Mr Wake. Always tormenting cats and stray puppies and pinching other little boys.’

‘I know—I know.’ Mr Wake shook his head sadly. ‘But you know, my dear Miss Conway, sometimes cruelty is not so much innate as due to the fact that imagination is slow in ripening. That is why if you conceive of a grown man with the mentality of a child you realize that the cunning and brutality of a lunatic may be quite unrealized by the man himself. A lack of growth somewhere, that, I am convinced, is at the root of much of the cruelty and stupid brutality in the world today. One must put away childish things—’

He shook his head and spread out his hands.

Bridget said in a voice suddenly hoarse:

‘Yes, you’re right. I know what you mean. A man who is a child is the most frightening thing in the world …’

Luke looked at her with some curiosity. He was convinced that she was thinking of some particular person, and although Lord Whitfield was in some respects exceedingly childish, he did not believe she was thinking of him. Lord Whitfield was slightly ridiculous, but he was certainly not frightening.

Luke Fitzwilliam wondered very much whom the person Bridget was thinking of might be.

CHAPTER 5 (#ulink_b045780e-ab34-5b1d-b50e-4b0c223ed430)

Visit to Miss Waynflete (#ulink_b045780e-ab34-5b1d-b50e-4b0c223ed430)

Mr Wake murmured a few more names to himself.

‘Let me see now—poor Mrs Rose, and old Bell and that child of the Elkins and Harry Carter—they’re not all my people, you understand. Mrs Rose and Carter were dissenters. And that cold spell in March took off poor old Ben Stanbury at last—ninety-two he was.’

‘Amy Gibbs died in April,’ said Bridget.

‘Yes, poor girl—a sad mistake to happen.’

Luke looked up to find Bridget watching him. She lowered her eyes quickly. He thought, with some annoyance:

‘There’s something here that I haven’t got on to. Something to do with this girl Amy Gibbs.’

When they had taken leave of the vicar and were outside again, he said:

‘Just who and what was Amy Gibbs?’

Bridget took a minute or two to answer. Then she said—and Luke noticed the slight constraint in her voice:

‘Amy was one of the most inefficient housemaids I have ever known.’

‘That’s why she got the sack?’

‘No. She stayed out after hours playing about with some young man. Gordon has very moral and old-fashioned views. Sin in his view does not take place until after eleven o’clock, but then it is rampant. So he gave the girl notice and she was impertinent about it!’

Luke asked: ‘A good-looking girl?’

‘Very good-looking.’

‘She’s the one who swallowed hat paint in mistake for cough mixture?’

‘Yes.’

‘Rather a stupid thing to do?’ Luke hazarded.

‘Very stupid.’

‘Was she stupid?’

‘No, she was quite a sharp girl.’

Luke stole a look at her. He was puzzled. Her replies were given in an even tone, without emphasis or even much interest. But behind what she said, there was, he felt convinced, something not put into words.

At that moment Bridget stopped to speak to a tall man who swept off his hat and greeted her with breezy heartiness.

Bridget, after a word or two, introduced Luke.

‘This is my cousin, Mr Fitzwilliam, who is staying at the Manor. He’s down here to write a book. This is Mr Abbot.’

Luke looked at Mr Abbot with some interest. This was the solicitor who had employed Tommy Pierce.

Luke had a somewhat illogical prejudice against lawyers in general—based on the grounds that so many politicians were recruited from their ranks. Also their cautious habit of not committing themselves annoyed him. Mr Abbot, however, was not at all the conventional type of lawyer, he was neither thin, spare, nor tight-lipped. He was a big florid man, dressed in tweeds with a hearty manner and a jovial effusiveness. There were little creases at the corners of his eyes, and the eyes themselves were more shrewd than one appreciated in a first casual glance.

‘Writing a book, eh? Novel?’

‘Folklore,’ said Bridget.

‘You’ve come to the right place for that,’ said the lawyer. ‘Wonderfully interesting part of the world here.’

‘So I’ve been led to understand,’ said Luke. ‘I dare say you could help me a bit. You must come across curious old deeds—or know of some interesting surviving customs.’

‘Well, I don’t know about that—maybe—maybe—’

‘Much belief in ghosts round here?’ asked Luke.

‘As to that I couldn’t say—I really couldn’t say.’

‘No haunted houses?’