Copyist, 1938, 1939, by Agatha Christie MaUowan. Copyn^t renewed 1966, 1967 by Agatha Christie Mallow^ All "Ats reserved. PubusQ^ m Large Print by arrangement with The I"inam Publishing Group, Inc. G.K. H:gu Large p^ ^yo^ Senes. Set in 1^ p^ piantin. Library i^f Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Christie Agatha, 18901976. Eas^ to kill / Agatha Christie. A>. cm--(G.K. Hall large print book series) Isp^ 0-8161-4543-1 (Ig. print). Isp\^ 0-8161-4544-X (pbk. : Ig. print) "^arge type books. I. Tide. tpR6"^)5.H66E2 1990] 823'.9^2_dc20 8924617 Also available in Large Print by Agatha Christie: * The A.B.C. Murders * The Body in the Library * The Boomerang Clue A Caribbean Mystery * Crooked House Double Sin and Other Stones Elephants Can Remember * Endless Night * Evil Under the Sun * Miss Marple: The Complete Short Stories * Mr. Parker Pyne, Detective * The Moving Finger * The Murder at the Vicarage * Murder in Three Acts * A Murder is Announced * The Murder of Roger Ackroyd The Murder on the Links Ordeal by Innocence * The Patriotic Murders * Peril at End House * The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories * dip. .^prrpt A/1'J^pvvnvM Sleeping Murder They Came to Baghdad Thirteen at Dinner * Three Blind Mice and Other Stones * Towards Zero What Mrs. McGillicuddy Saw! * Witness for the Prosecution and Other Stories * Available in hardcover and paperback Cast of Characters luke fitzwilliam--Just retired from a police career in Asia, he ran smack into multiple murders before he'd been back in England a day. lavinia fullerton--Ostensibly she was a woolly-minded old lamb, but the wolf feared she knew too much. bridget conway--A devilishly clever beauty who'd decided to marry her boss because the salary was higher. lord easterfield--Bridget's fiance, a potbellied, moralistic newspaper magnate who believed what he read in his own papers. alfred wake--The vicar of Wychwood under Ashe, he gossiped of many deaths and obscure feuds and weird witchcraft. mr. abbot--The village lawyer--too genial, too florid, too hot-tempered and, perhaps, too indiscreet with his lady friends. honoria waynflete--Another elderly but sharp-witted spinster who suspected more than she mentioned about the strange accidents in Wychwood. mr. ellsworthy--The arty and disreputable keeper of an antique shop whose odd tastes included strange midnight rites in the Witches5 Meadow. major horton--A retired military man. His wife's death had released him and his beloved dogs from unrelenting henpecking. doctor geoffrey thomas--An affable young chap who remarked how surprisingly easy it was to get away with murder. rose humbleby--Lovely, timid daughter of Doctor Thomas" late senior partner, whose death cleared the way for Rose to become Mrs. Thomas. mrs. humbleby--Rose's mother. Her husband's recent death had unsettled her so much that she saw wickedness in the most improbable places. sir william ossington--Of Scotland Yard. Because of their long friendship. Billy Bones reluctantly listened to Luke's yarn of eight unsuspected murders. superintendent battle--The Yard's stolidfaced top deputy. Despite his calm, reassuring manner, not a detail escaped his shrewd eye. One england! England after many years! How was he going to like it? Luke Fitzwilliam asked himself that question as he walked down the gangplank to the dock. It was present at the back of his mind all through the wait in the customs shed. It came suddenly to the fore when he was finally seated in the boat train. Here he was, honorably retired on a pension, with some small private means of his own, a gentleman of leisure, come home to England. What was he going to do with himself? With an effort, Luke Fitzwilliam averted his eyes from the landscape outside the railway-carriage window and settled down to a perusal of the papers he had just bought. The Times, the Daily Clarion and Punch. He started with the Daily Clarion. The Clarion was given over entirely to Epsom. He had drawn a horse in the club sweep and he looked now to see what the Clarion's racing correspondent thought of its chances. He found it dismissed contemptuously in a sentence: Of the others. Jujube the II, Mark's Mile, Santony and Jerry Boy are hardly likely to qualify for a place. A likely outsider is-- But Luke paid no attention to the likely outsider. His eye had shifted to the betting. Jujube the II was listed at a modest 40 to 1. He glanced at his watch. A quarter to four. "Well," he thought, "it's over now." And he wished he'd had a bet on Clarigold, who was the second favorite. Then he opened the Times and became absorbed in more serious matters. A full half hour afterward the train slowed down and finally stopped. Luke looked out of the window. They were in a large empty-looking station with many platforms. He caught sight of a bookstall some way up the platform with a placard DERBY RESULT. Luke opened the door, jumped out, and ran toward the bookstall. A moment later he was staring with a broad grin at a few smudged lines in the stop press. DERBY RESULT TUTUBE THE II MAZEPPA CLARIGOLD Luke grinned broadly. A hundred pounds to blow! Good old Jujube the II, so scornfully dismissed by all the tipsters. He folded the paper, still grinning to himself, and turned back--to face emptiness. In the excitement of Jujube the IPs victory, his train had slipped out of the station unnoticed by him. "When the devil did that train go out?" he demanded of a gloomy-looking porter. "What train? There hasn't been no train since the 3:14." "There was a train here just now. I got out of it. The boat express." "The boat express don't stop anywhere till London." "But it did," Luke assured him. "I got out of it." Faced by facts, the porter changed his ground. "You didn't ought to have done," he said reproachfully. "It don't stop here." "But it did." "That was signal, that was. Signal against it. It didn't what you'd call 'stop.' You didn't ought to have got out." "We'll admit that," said Luke. "The wrong is done, past all recall. What I'm trying to get at is, what do you, a man experienced in the services of the railway company, advise me to do?" "Reckon," said the porter, "you'd best go on by the 4:25." "If the 4:25 goes to London," said Luke, "the 4:25 is the train for me." Reassured on that point, Luke strolled up and down the platform. A large board informed him that he was at FENNY CLAYTON JUNCTION FOR WYCHWOOD UNDER ASHE, and presently a train consisting of one carriage pushed backward by an antiquated little engine came slowly puffing in and deposited itself in a modest way. At last, with immense importance, the London train came in. Luke scrutinized each compartment. The first, a smoker, contained a gentleman of military aspects smoking a cigar. He passed on to the next one, which contained a tired-looking, genteel young woman, possibly a nursery governess, and an active-looking small boy of about three. Luke passed on quickly. The next door was open and the carriage contained one passenger, an elderly lady. She reminded Luke slightly of one of his aunts, his Aunt Mildred, who had courageously allowed him to keep a grass snake when he was ten years old. Aunt Mildred had been decidedly a good aunt as aunts go. Luke entered the carriage and sat down. After some five minutes of intense activity on the part of milk vans, luggage trucks and other excitements, the train moved slowly out of the station. Luke unfolded his paper and turned to such items of news as might interest a man who had already read his morning paper. He did not hope to read it for long. Being a man of many aunts, he was fairly certain that the nice old lady in the corner did not propose to travel in silence to London. He was right--a window that needed adjusting, a dropped umbrella, and the old lady was telling him what a good train this was. "Only an hour and ten minutes. That's very good, you know, very good indeed. Much better than the morning one. That takes an hour and forty minutes." She went on: "Of course, nearly everyone goes by the morning one. I mean when it is the cheap way it's silly to go up in the afternoon. I meant to go up this morning but Wonky Pooh was missing--that's my cat, a Persian; such a beauty, only he's had a painful ear lately--and of course I couldn't leave home till he was found!" Luke murmured, "Of course not," and let his eyes drop ostentatiously to his paper. But it was of no avail. The flood went on: "So I just made the best of a bad job and took the afternoon train instead, and, of course, it's a blessing in one way, because it's not so crowded--not that that matters when one is traveling first class. Of course, I don't usually do that, but really I was so upset because, you see, I'm going up on very important business, and I wanted to think out exactly what I was going to say--just quietly, you know." Luke repressed a smile. "So I thought, just for once, the expense was quite permissible. Of course," she went on quickly, with a swift glance at Luke's bronzed face, "I know soldiers on leave have to travel first class, I mean, being officers, it's expected of them." Luke sustained the inquisitive glance of a pair of bright twinkling eyes. He capitulated at once. It would come to it, he knew, in the end. "I'm not a soldier," he said. "Oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean--I just thought--you were so brown--perhaps home from the East on leave." "I'm home from the East," said Luke, "but not on leave." He stalled off further researches with a bald statement, "I'm a policeman." "In the police? Now, really, that's very interesting. A dear friend of mine, her boy has just joined the Palestinian police." "Mayang Straits," said Luke, taking another short cut. "Oh, dear; very interesting. Really, it's quite a coincidence--I mean that you should be traveling in this carriage. Because, you see, this business I'm going up to town about--well, actually it is to Scotland Yard I'm going." "Really?" said Luke. The old lady continued happily, "Yes, I meant to go up this morning, and then, as I told you, I was so worried about Wonky Pooh. But you don't think it will be too late, do you? I mean there aren't any special office hours at Scotland Yard." "I don't think they close down at four 01 anything like that," said Luke. "No, of course, they couldn't, could they? I mean somebody might want to report a serious crime at any minute, mightn't they?" "Exactly," said Luke. For a moment the old lady relapsed into silence. She looked worried. "I always think it's better to go to the fountain-head," she said at last. "John Reed is quite a nice fellow—that's our constable in Wychwood—a very civil-spoken, pleasant man, but I don't feel, you know, that he would be quite the person to deal with anything serious. He's quite used to dealing with people who've drunk too much, or with exceeding the speed limit, or lighting-up time, or people who haven't taken out a dog license, and perhaps with burglary even. But I don't think—I'm quite sure—he isn't the person to deal with murder!" Luke's eyebrows rose. "Murder?" The old lady nodded vigorously. "Yes, murder. You're surprised, I can see. I was, myself, at first. I really couldn't believe it. I thought I must be imagining things." "Are you quite sure you weren't?" Luke asked gently. "Oh, no." She shook her head positively. "I might have been the first time, but not the second, or the third, or the fourth. After that, one knows." Luke said, "Do you mean there have been—er—several murders?" The quiet, gentle voice replied, "A good many, I'm afraid." She went on, "That's why I thought it would be best to go straight to Scotland Yard and tell them about it. Don't you think that's the best thing to do?" Luke looked at her thoughtfully, then he said, "Why, yes, I think you're quite right." He thought to himself: "They'll know how to deal with her. Probably get half a dozen old ladies a week coming in burbling about the amount of murders committed in their nice quiet country villages. There may be a special department for dealing with the old dears." He was roused from these meditations by the thin gentle voice continuing, "You know, I remember reading once—I think it was the Abercrombie case. Of course he'd poisoned quite a lot of people before any suspicion was aroused. . . . What was I saying? Oh, yes, somebody said that there was a look—a special look that he gave anyone, and then, very shortly afterwards, that person would be taken ill. I didn't really believe that when I read about it, but it's true." "What's true?" "The look on a person's face." Luke stared at her. She was trembling a little and her nice pink cheeks had lost some of their color. "I saw it first with Amy Gibbs—and she died. And then it was Carter. And Tommy Pierce. But now, yesterday, it was Doctor Humbleby--and he's such a good man--a really good man. Carter, of course, drank, and Tommy Pierce was a dreadfully cheeky, impertinent little boy, and bullied the tiny boys, twisting their arms and pinching them. I didn't feel quite so badly about them, but Doctor Humbleby's different. He must be saved. And the terrible thing is that if I went to him and told him about it, he wouldn't believe me! He'd only laugh! And John Reed wouldn't believe me either. But at Scotland Yard it will be different. Because, naturally, they're used to crime there!" She glanced out of the window. "Oh, dear, we shall be in in a minute." She fussed a little, opening and shutting her bag, collecting her umbrella. "It's been such a relief talking to you. Most kind of you, I'm sure. So glad you think I'm doing the right thing." Luke said kindly, "I'm sure they'll give you good advice at Scotland Yard." "I really am most grateful." She fumbled in her bag. "My card--oh dear, I only have one. I must keep that for Scotland Yard." "Of course, of course." "But my name is Fullerton." "Miss Fullerton," said Luke, smiling. "My name is Luke Fitzwilliam." As the train drew into the platform, he added, "Can I get you a taxi?" "Oh, no, thank you." Miss Fullerton seemed quite shocked at the idea. "I shall take the tube. That will take me to Trafalgar Square, and I shall walk down Whitehall." "Well, good luck," said Luke. Miss Fullerton shook him warmly by the hand. "So kind," she murmured again. "You know, just at first I thought you didn't believe me." Luke had the grace to blush. "Well," he said. "So many murders! Rather hard to do a lot of murders and get away with it, eh?" Miss Fullerton shook her head. She said earnestly, "No, no, my dear boy, that's where you're wrong. It's very easy to kill, so long as no one suspects you. And, you see, the person in question is just the last person anyone would suspect." "Well, anyway, good luck," said Luke. Miss Fullerton was swallowed up in the crowd. He himself went off in search of his luggage, thinking as he did so: "Just a little bit batty? No, I don't think so. A vivid imagination, that's all. Hope they let her down lightly. Rather an old dear." Two jimmy lorrimer was one of Luke's oldest friends. As a matter of course, Luke stayed with Jimmy as soon as he got to London. It was with Jimmy that he sailed forth on the evening of his arrival in search of amusement. It was Jimmy's coffee that he drank with an aching head the morning after, and it was Jimmy's voice that went unanswered while he read, twice over, a small, insignificant paragraph in the morning paper. "Sorry, Jimmy," he said, coming to himself with a start. "What were you absorbed in--the political situation?" Luke grinned. "No fear. No, it's rather queer. Old pussy I traveled up with in the train yesterday got run over." "Probably trusted to a Belisha Beacon," said Jimmy. "How do you know it's her?" "Of course, it mayn't be. But it's the same name--Fullerton. She was knocked down and killed by a car as she was crossing Whitehall. The car didn't stop." "Whoever was driving that car will pay for it. Bring in manslaughter as likely as not. I tell you I'm scared stiff of driving a car nowadays." "What have you got at present in the way of a car?" "Ford V-8. I tell you, my boy--" The conversation became severely mechanical. It was over a week later that Luke, carelessly scanning the front page of the Times, gave a sudden startled exclamation: "Well, I'm damned!" Jimmy Lorrimer looked up. "What's the matter?" Luke raised his head and looked at his friend. His expression was so peculiar that Jimmy was quite taken aback. "What's up, Luke? You look as though you'd seen a ghost." For a minute or two, the other did not reply. He dropped the paper, strode to the window and back again. Jimmy watched him with increasing surprise. Luke dropped into a chair and leaned forward. "Jimmy, old son, do you remember my mentioning an old lady I traveled up to town with the day I arrived in England?" "The one you said reminded you of your Aunt Mildred? And then she got run over by a car?" "That's the one. Listen, Jimmy. The old girl came out with a long rigmarole of how she was going up to Scotland Yard to tell them about a lot of murders. There was a murderer loose in her village, that's what it amounted to, and he'd been doing some pretty rapid execution." "You didn't tell me she was batty," said Jimmy. "I didn't think she was off her head. She was quite circumstantial; mentioned one or two victims by name, and then explained that what had really rattled her was the fact that she knew who the next victim was going to be." "Yes?" said Jimmy encouragingly. "The point is that the man's name was Humbleby—Doctor Humbleby. My old lady said Doctor Humbleby would be the next, and she was distressed because he was 'such a good man.' " "Well?" said Jimmy. "Well, look at this." Luke passed over the paper) his finger pressed against an entry in the column of deaths. Humbleby—On June 12, suddenly, at his residence Sandgate, Wychwood under Ashe, John Ward Humbleby, M.D., beloved husband of Jessie Rose Humbleby. Funeral Friday. No flowers, by request. "You see. Jimmy? That's the name and the place, and he's a doctor. What do you make of it?" Jimmy took a moment or two to answer. His voice was serious when he said, at last, rather uncertainly, "I suppose it's just a damned odd coincidence." Luke wheeled round suddenly. "Suppose that every word that dear bleating old sheep said was true! Suppose that that fantastic story was just the plain literal truth!" "Oh, come now, old boy! That would be a bit thick. Things like that don't happen." "How do you know? They may happen a good deal oftener than you suppose." "There speaks the police wallah! Can't you forget you're a policeman, now that you've retired into private life?" "Once a policeman, always a policeman, I suppose," said Luke. "Now look here, Jimmy. The case stands like this. I was told a story—an improbable but not an impossi- -Sta,. ble story. One piece of evidence--the death of Doctor Humbleby--supports that story. And there's one other significant fact. Miss Fullerton was going to Scotland Yard with this improbable story of hers. But she didn't get there. She was run over and killed by a car that didn't stop." Jimmy objected, "You don't know that she didn't get there. She might have been killed after her visit, not before." "She might have been, yes; but I don't think she was." "That's pure supposition. It boils down to this: You believe in this--this melodrama." Luke shook his head sharply. "No. I don't say that. All I say is, there's a case for investigation." "In other words, you are going to Scotland Yard?" "No, it hasn't come to that yet--not nearly. As you say, this man Humbleby's death may be merely a coincidence." "Then what, may I ask, is the idea?" "The idea is to go down to this place and look into the matter." "So that's the idea, is it?" "Don't you agree that that is the only sensible way to set about it?" Jimmy stared at him, then he said, "Are you serious about this business, Luke?" "Absolutely." "Suppose the whole thing's a mare's nest?" "That would be the best thing that could happen." "Yes, of course." Jimmy frowned. "But you don't think it is, do you?" "My dear fellow, I'm keeping an open mind." Jimmy was silent for a minute or two. Then he said, "Got any plan? I mean, you'll have to have some reason for suddenly arriving in this place." "Yes, I suppose I shall." "No 'suppose' about it. Do you realize what a small English country town is like? Anyone new sticks out a mile!" "I shall have to adopt a disguise," said Luke, with a sudden grin. "What do you suggest? Artist? Hardly; I can't draw, let alone paint." Jimmy said, "Wait a sec. Give me that paper again." Taking it, he gave it a cursory glance and announced triumphantly, "I thought so! Luke, old boy, to put it in a nutshell, I'll fix you O.K. Everything's as easy as winking." Luke wheeled round. "What?" Jimmy was continuing with modest pride, "I thought something struck a chord! Wychwood under Ashe. Of course! The very place!" "Have you, by any chance, a pal who knows the coroner there?" "Not this time. Better than that, my boy. Nature, as you know, has endowed me plentifully with aunts and cousins; my father having been one of a family of thirteen. Now listen to this: I have a cousin in Wychwood under Ashe." "Jimmy, you're a blinking marvel." "It is pretty good, isn't it?" said Jimmy modestly. "Tell me about him." "It's a her. Her name's Bridget Conway. For the last two years she's been secretary to Lord Easterfield." "The man who owns those nasty little weekly papers?" "That's right. Rather a nasty little man too. Pompous! He was born in Wychwood under Ashe, and being the kind of snob who rams his birth and breeding down your throat and glories in being self-made, he has returned to his home village, bought up the only big house in the neighborhood--it belonged to Bridget's family originally, by the way--and is busy making the place into a model estate." "And your cousin is his secretary?" "She was," said Jimmy darkly. "Now she's gone one better! She's engaged to him!" "Oh," said Luke, rather taken aback. "He's a catch, of course," said Jimmy. "Rolling in money. Bridget took rather a toss over some fellow. It pretty well knocked the romance out of her. I dare say this will pan out very well. She'll probably be kind but firm with him and he'll eat out of her hand." "And where do I come in?" Jimmy replied promptly, "You go down there to stay. You'd better be another cousin. Bridget's got so many that one more or less won't matter. I'll fix that up with her all right. She and I have always been pals. Now, for your reason for going there--witchcraft, my boy." "Witchcraft?" "Folklore, local superstitions--all that sort of thing. Wychwood under Ashe has got rather a reputation that way. One of the last places where they had a witches' Sabbath; witches were still burnt there in the last century, all sorts of traditions. You're writing a book, see? Correlating the customs of the Mayang Straits and old English folklore-- points of resemblance, and so on. You know the sort of stuff. Go round with a notebook and interview the oldest inhabitant about local superstitions and customs. They're quite used to that sort of thing down there, and if you're staying at Ashe Manor, it vouches for you." "What about Lord Easterfield?" "He'll be all right. He's quite uneducated and completely credulous--actually believes things he reads in his own papers. Anyway, Bridget will fix him. Bridget's all right. I'll answer for her." Luke drew a deep breath. "Jimmy, old scout, it looks as though the thing was going to be easy. You're a wonder. If you can really fix me up with your cousin--" "That will be absolutely O.K. Leave it to me." "I'm no end grateful to you." Jimmy said, "All I ask is, if you're hunting down a homicidal murderer, let me be in at the death." He added sharply, "What is it?" Luke said slowly, "Just something I remembered my old lady saying to me. I'd said to her that it was a bit thick to do a lot of murders and get away with it, and she answered that I was wrong—that it was very easy to kill." He stopped, and then said slowly, "I wonder if that's true. Jimmy? I wonder if it is—" "What?" "—easy to kill." Three the June sun was shining when Luke came over the hill and down into the little country town of Wychwood under Ashe. It lay innocently and peacefully in the sunlight; mainly composed of a long straggling street that ran along under the overhanging brow of Ashe Ridge. It seemed singularly remote, strangely untouched. Luke thought: Pm probably mad. The whole thing's fantastic. He drove gently down the twisting road, and so entered the main street. Wychwood, as has been said, consisted mainly of its one principal street. There were shops, small Georgian houses, prim and aristocratic, with whitened steps and polished knockers; there were picturesque cottages with flower gardens. There was an inn, the Bells and Motley, standing a little back from the street. There was a village green and a duck pond, and presiding over them a dignified Geor- gian house which Luke thought at first must be his destination, Ashe Manor. But on coming nearer he saw that there was a large painted board announcing that it was the Museum and Library. Farther on there was an anachronism, a large white modem building, austere and irrelevant to the cheerful haphazardness of the rest of the place. It was, Luke gathered, a local Institute and Lads' Club. It was at this point that he stopped and asked the way to his destination. He was told that Ashe Manor was about half a mile farther on; he would see the gates on his right. Luke continued his course. He found the gates easily; they were of new and elaborate wrought iron. He drove in, caught a gleam of red brick through the trees, and turned a corner of the drive to be stupefied by the appalling and incongruous castellated mass that greeted his eyes. While he was contemplating the nightmare, the sun went in. He became suddenly conscious of the overlying menace of Ashe Ridge. There was a sudden sharp gust of wind, blowing back the leaves of the trees, and at that moment a girl came round the corner of the castellated mansion. Her black hair was blown up off her head by the slid- den gust, and Luke was reminded of a picture he had once seen--Nevinson's Witch. The long, pale, delicate face, the black hair flying up to the stars. He could see this girl on a broomstick flying up to the moon. She came straight toward him. "You must be Luke Fitzwilliam. I'm Bridget Conway." He took the hand she held out. He could see her now as she was--not in a sudden moment of fantasy. Tall, slender, a long delicate face with slightly hollow cheekbones, ironic black brows, black eyes and hair. She was like a delicate etching, he thought-- poignant and beautiful. He said, "How d'you do? I must apologize for wishing myself on you like this. Jimmy would have it that you wouldn't mind." "Oh, we don't. We're delighted." She smiled, a sudden curving smile that brought the corners of her mouth half-way up her cheeks. "Jimmy and I always stand in together. And if you're writing a book on folklore, this is a splendid place. All sorts of legends and picturesque spots." "Splendid," said .Luke. They went together toward the house. Luke stole another glance at it. He discerned now traces of a sober Queen Anne dwelling overlaid and smothered by the florid magnif- icence. He remembered that Jimmy had mentioned the house as having originally belonged to Bridget's family. That, he thought, grimly, was in its unadorned days. Inside, Bridget Conway led the way to a room with book shelves and comfortable chairs where a tea table stood near the window with two people sitting by it. She said, "Gordon, this is Luke, a sort of cousin of mine." 1 Lord Easterfield was a small man with a semibald head. His face was round and ingenuous, with a pouting mouth and boiled gooseberry eyes. He was dressed in carelesslooking country clothes. They were unkind to his figure, which ran mostly to stomach. He greeted Luke with affability, "Glad to see you--very glad. Just come back from the East, I hear. Interesting place. Writing a book, so Bridget tells me. They say too many books are written nowadays. I say 'no,5 always room for a good one." Bridget said, "My aunt, Mrs. Anstruther," and Luke shook hands with a middle-aged woman with a rather foolish mouth. Mrs. Anstruther, as Luke soon learned, was devoted, body and soul, to gardening. After acknowledging the introduction, she said now, "I believe those new rock roses would do perfectly in this climate," and proceeded to immerse herself in catalogues. Throwing his squat little figure back in his chair. Lord Easterfield sipped his tea and studied Luke appraisingly. "So you write books," he murmured. Feeling slightly nervous, Luke was about to enter on explanations, when he perceived that Lord Easterfield was not really seeking for information. "I've often thought," said His Lordship complacently, "that I'd like to write a book myself. Trouble is, I haven't got the time. I'm a very busy man." "Of course. You must be." "You wouldn't believe what I've got on my shoulders," said Lord Easterfield. "I take a personal interest in each one of my publications. I consider that I'm responsible for molding the public mind. Next week millions of people will be thinking and feeling just exactly what I've intended to make them feel and think. That's a very solemn thought. That means responsibility. Well, I don't mind responsibility. I'm not afraid of it. I can do with responsibility." Lord Easterfield swelled out his chest, attempted to draw in his stomach, and glared amiably at Luke. Bridget Comway said lightly, "You're a great man, Gordon. Have some more tea." Lord Easterfield replied simply, "I am a great man. No, I won't have any more tea." Then, descending from his own Olympian heights to the level of more ordinary mortals, he inquired kindly of his guest: "Know anybody round this part of the world?" Luke shook his head. Then, on an impulse, and feeling that the sooner he began to get down to his job the better, he added: "At least, there's a man here that I promised to look up--friend of mine. Man called Humbleby. He's a doctor." "Oh!" Lord Easterfield struggled upright in his chair. "Doctor Humbleby? Pity." "What's a pity?" "Died about a week ago," said Lord Easterfield. "Oh, dear," said Luke. "I'm sorry about that." "Don't think you'd have cared for him," said Lord Easterfield. "Opinionated, pestilential, muddle-headed old fool." "Which means," put in Bridget, "that he disagreed with Gordon." "Question of our water supply," said Lord Easterfield. "I may tell you, Mr. Fitzwilliam, that I'm a public-spirited man. I've got the welfare of this town at heart. I was born here. Yes, born in this very town." Exhaustive details of Lord Easterfield's career were produced for Luke's benefit, and the former wound up triumphantly: "Do you know what stands where my father's shop used to be? A fine building, built and endowed by me--Institute, Boys' Club, everything tiptop and up to date. Employed the best architect in the country! I must say he's made a bare plain job of it--looks like a workhouse or a prison to me--but they say it's all right, so I suppose it must be." "Cheer up," said Bridget. "You had your own way over this house." Lord Easterfield chuckled appreciatively. "Yes, they tried to put it over on me here! When one architect wouldn't do what I wanted, I sacked him and got another. The fellow I got in the end understood my ideas pretty well." "He pandered to your worst flights of imagination," said Bridget. "She'd have liked the place left as it was," said Lord Easterfield. He patted her arm. "No use living in the past, my dear. I always had a fancy for a castle, and now I've got one!" "Well," said Luke, a little at a loss for words, "it's a great thing to know what you want." "And I usually get it too," said the other, chuckling. "You nearly didn't get your way about the water scheme," Bridget reminded him. "Oh, that!" said Lord Easterfield. "Humbleby was a fool. These elderly men are inclined to be pigheaded. They won't listen to reason." "Doctor Humbleby was rather an outspoken man, wasn't he?" Luke ventured. "He made a good many enemies that way, I should imagine." "N-no, I don't know that I should say that," demurred Lord Easterfield, rubbing his nose. "Eh, Bridget?" "He was very popular with everyone, I always thought," said Bridget. "I only saw him when he came about my ankle that time, but I thought he was a dear." "Yes, he was popular enough, on the whole," admitted Lord Easterfield. "Though I know one or two people who had it in for him. Lots of little feuds and cliques in a place like this," he said. "Yes, I suppose so," said Luke. He hesitated, uncertain of his next step. "What sort of people live here mostly?" he queried. It was rather a weak question, but he got an instant response. "Relicts, mostly," said Bridget. "Clergymen's daughters and sisters and wives. Doctors' dittos. About six women to every man." "But there are some men?" hazarded Luke. "Oh, yes, there's Mr. Abbot, the solicitor, and young Doctor Thomas, Doctor Humbleby's partner, and Mr. Wake, the rector, and--Who else is there, Gordon? Oh! Mr. Ellsworthy, who keeps the antique shop. And Major Horton and his bulldogs." "There's somebody else I believe my friends mentioned as living down here," said Luke. "They said she was a nice old pussy, but talked a lot. What was the name, now? I've got it. Fullerton." Lord Easterfield said, with a hoarse chuckle, "Really, you've no luck! She's dead too. Got run over the other day in London. Killed outright." "You seem to have a lot of deaths here," said Luke lightly. Lord Easterfield bridled immediately. "Not at all. One of the healthiest places in England. Can't count accidents. They may happen to anyone." But Bridget Conway said thoughtfully, "As a matter of fact, Gordon, there have been a lot of deaths in the last year. They're always having funerals." "Nonsense, my dear." Luke said, "Was Doctor Humbleby's death an accident too?" Lord Easterfield shook his head. "Oh, no," he said. "Humbleby died of acute septicemia. Just like a doctor. Scratched his finger with a rusty nail or something, paid no attention to it, and it turned septic. He was dead in three days." "Doctors are rather like that," said Bridget. "And of course they're very liable to infection, I suppose, if they don't take care. It was sad though. His wife was brokenhearted." "No good of rebelling against the will of Providence," said Lord Easterfield easily. But was it the will of Providence? Luke asked himself later as he changed into his dinner jacket. Septicemia? Perhaps. A very sudden death though. And there echoed through his head Bridget Conway's light spoken words: "--there have been a lot of deaths in the last year." Four luke had thought out his plan of campaign with some care and prepared to put it into action without more ado when he came down to breakfast the following morning. The gardening aunt was not in evidence, but Lord Easterfield was eating kidneys and drinking coffee, and Bridget Conway had finished her meal and was standing at the window looking out. After good-mornings had been exchanged and Luke had sat down with a plentifully heaped plate of eggs and bacon, he began. "I must get to work," he said. "Difficult thing is to induce people to talk. You know what I mean, not people like you and--er-- Bridget." He remembered just in time not to say "Miss Conway." "You'd tell me anything you knew. But the trouble is, you wouldn't know the things I want to know-- that is, the local superstitions. You'd hardly believe the amount of superstition that still lingers in out-of-the-way parts of the world. Why, there's a village in Devonshire. The rector had to remove some old granite menhirs that stood by the church, because the people persisted in marching round them in some old ritual every time there was a death. Extraordinary how old heathen rites persist." Here followed almost verbatim a page of a work that Luke had read up for the occasion. "Deaths are the most hopeful line," he ended. "Burial rites and customs always survive longer than any others. Besides, for some reason or other, village people always like talking about deaths." "They enjoy funerals," agreed Bridget from the window. "I thought I'd make that my starting point," went on Luke. "If I can get a list of recent demises in the parish, track down the relatives and get into conversation, I've no doubt I shall soon get a hint of what I'm after. Who had I better get the data from-- the parson?" "Mr. Wake would probably be very interested," said Bridget. "He's quite an old dear and a bit of an antiquary. He could give you a lot of stuff, I expect." Luke had a momentary qualm during which he hoped that the clergyman might not be so efficient an antiquary as to expose his own pretensions. Aloud, he said heartily 5 "Good. You've no idea, I suppose, of likely people who've died during the last year." Bridget murmured, "Let me see. Carter, of course. He was the landlord of the Seven Stars, that nasty little pub down by the river." "A drunken ruffian," said Lord Easterfield. "One of these socialistic, abusive brutes. A good riddance." "And Mrs. Rose, the laundress," went on Bridget. "And little Tommy Pierce; he was a nasty little boy, if you like. Oh, of course, and that girl Amy What's-Her-Name?" Her voice changed slightly as she uttered the last name. "Amy?" said Luke. "Amy Gibbs. She was housemaid here, and then she went to Miss Waynflete. There was an inquest on her." "Why?" "Fool of a girl mixed up some bottles in the dark," said Lord Easterfield. "She took what she thought was cough mixture, and it was hat paint," explained Bridget. Luke raised his eyebrows. "Somewhat of a tragedy." Bridget said, "There was some idea of her having done it on purpose. Some row with a young man." She spoke slowly, almost reluctantly. There was a pause. Luke felt instinctively the presence of some unspoken feeling weighing down the atmosphere. He thought, "Amy Gibbs? Yes, that was one of the names old Miss Fullerton mentioned." She had also mentioned a small boy--Tommy someone--of whom she had evidently held a low opinion--this, it seemed, was shared by Bridget. And, yes, he was almost sure; the name Carter had been spoken too. Rising, he said lightly, "Talking like this makes me feel rather ghoulish--as though I dabbled only in graveyards. Marriage customs are interesting, too, but rather more difficult to introduce into conversation unconcernedly." "I should imagine that was likely," said Bridget, with a faint twitch of the lips. "Ill-wishing or overlooking--there's another interesting subject," went on Luke, with a would-be show of enthusiasm. "You often get that in these Old World places. Know of any gossip of that kind here?" Lord Easter-field slowly shook his head. ridget Conway said, "We shouldn't be y to hear of things like that." uke took it up almost before she finished iking: "No doubt about it, I've got to re in lower social spheres to get what I it. I'll be off to the vicarage first and see it I can get there. After there perhaps a t to the—Seven Stars, did you say? And it about the small boy of unpleasant habDid he leave any sorrowing relatives?" 'Mrs. Pierce keeps a tobacco and paper >p in High Street." That," said Luke, "is nothing less than evidential. Well, I'll be on my way." With a swift, graceful movement, Bridget »ved from the window. "I think," she said, 11 come with you, if you don't mind." "Of course not." He said it as heartily as ssible, but he wondered if she had noticed it, just for a moment, he had been taken ack. It would have been easier for him to ndle an elderly antiquarian clergyman withit an alert, discerning intelligence by his ie. "Oh, well," he thought to himself. "It's ) to me to do my stuff convincingly." Bridget said, "Will you just wait, Luke, hilst I change my shoes?" what else could she have called him? Since she had agreed to Jimmy's scheme of cousinship, she could hardly call him Mr. Fitzwilliam. He thought, suddenly and uneasily, "What does she think of it all? What does she think?" He had thought of her--if he had thought of her at all--as a little blond secretary person, astute enough to have captured a rich man's fancy. Instead she had force, brains, a cool clear intelligence, and he had no idea what she was thinking of him. He thought: "She's not an easy person to deceive." "I'm ready now," She had joined him so silently that he had not heard her approach. She wore no hat, and there was no net on her hair. As they stepped out from the house, the wind, sweeping round the corner of the castellated monstrosity, caught her long black hair and whipped it into a sudden frenzy round her face. Looking back at the battlements behind him, he said irritably, "What an abomination 1 Couldn't anyone stop him?" Bridget answered, "An Englishman's house is his castle--literally so in Gordon's case! He adores it." rnnspions that the remark was in bad taste, «By __ "It's your old home, isn't it? Do you 'adore' to see it the way it is now?" She looked at him then--a steady, slightly amused look, it was. "I hate to destroy the dramatic picture you are building up," she murmured. "But actually I left here when I was two and a half, so you see the old-home motive doesn't apply. I can't even remember this place." "You're right," said Luke. "Forgive the lapse into film language." She laughed! "Truth," she said, "is seldom romantic." And there was a sudden bitter scorn in her voice that startled him. He flushed a deep red under his tan, then realized suddenly that the bitterness had not been aimed at him. It was her own scorn and her own bitterness. Luke was wisely silent. But he wondered a good deal about Bridget Conway. Five minutes brought them to the church and to the vicarage that adjoined it. They found the vicar in his study. Alfred Wake was a small stooping old man with very mild blue eyes and an absent-minded but courteous air. He seemed pleased, but a little surprised by the visit. "Mr. Fitzwilliam is staying with us at Ashe Manor," said Bridget, "and he wants to consult you about a book he is writing." Mr. Wake turned his mild, inquiring eyes toward the younger man, and Luke plunged into explanations. He was nervous--doubly so. Nervous, in the first place, because this man had no doubt a far deeper knowledge of folklore and superstitious rites and customs than one could acquire by merely hurriedly cramming from a haphazard collection of books. Secondly, he was nervous because Bridget Conway was standing by, listening. Luke was relieved to find that Mr. Wake's special interest was Roman remains. He confessed gently that he knew very little of medieval folklore and witchcraft. He mentioned the existence of certain items in the history of Wychwood, offered to take Luke to the particular ledge of hill where it was said the witches5 Sabbaths had been held, but expressed himself regretful that he could add no special information of his own. Inwardly much relieved, Luke expressed himself as somewhat disappointed, and then plunged into inquiries as to deathbed superstitions. Mr. Wake shook his head gently. "I am afraid I should be the last person to know about those. My parishioners would be care ful to keep anything unorthodox from my ears." "That's so, of course." "But I've no doubt, all the same, there is a lot of superstition still rife. These village communities are very backward." Luke plunged boldly. "I've been asking Miss Conway for a list of all the recent deaths she could remember. I thought I might get at something that way. I suppose you could supply me with a list, so that I could pick out the likelies." "Yes, yes; that could be managed. Giles, our sexton, a good fellow, but sadly deaf, could help you there. Let me see now. There have been a good many--a good many--a treacherous spring and a hard winter behind it--and then a good many accidents. Quite a cycle of bad luck there seems to have been." "Sometimes," said Luke, "a cycle of bad luck is attributed to the presence of a particular person." "Yes, yes. The old story of Jonah. But I do not think there have been any strangers here--nobody, that is to say, outstanding in any way--and I've certainly never heard any rumor of such a feeling, but then again, as I said, perhaps I shouldn't. Now, let me see. Quite recently we have had Doctor Humbleby and poor Lavinia Fullerton. A fine man. Doctor Humbleby." Bridget put in, "Mr. Fitzwilliam knows friends of his." "Do you indeed? Very sad. His loss will be much felt. A man with many friends." "But surely a man with some enemies, too," said Luke. "I'm only going by what I've heard my friends say," he went on hastily. Mr. Wake sighed. "A man who spoke his mind, and a man who wasn't always very tactful, shall we say?" He shook his head. "It does get people's backs up. But he was greatly beloved among the poorer class." Luke said carelessly, "You know, I always feel that one of the most unpalatable facts to be faced in life is the fact that every death that occurs means a gain to someone--I don't mean only financially." The vicar nodded thoughtfully. "I see your meaning, yes. We read in an obituary notice that a man is regretted by everybody, but that can only be true very rarely, I fear. In Doctor Humbleby's case, there is no denying that his partner. Doctor Thomas, will find his position very much improved by Doctor Humbleby's death." "How is that?" "Thomas, I believe, is a very capable fellow--certainly Humbleby always said so-- but he didn't get on here very well. He was, I think, overshadowed by Humbleby, who was a man of very definite magnetism. Thomas appeared rather colorless in contrast. He didn't impress his patients at all. I think he worried over it, too, and that made him worse--more nervous and tongue-tied. As a matter of fact, I've noticed an astonishing difference already. More aplomb, more personality. I think he feels a new confidence in himself. He and Humbleby didn't always agree, I believe. Thomas was all for newer methods of treatment and Humbleby preferred to stick to the old ways. There were clashes between them more than once--over that as well as over a matter nearer home. But there, I mustn't gossip." Bridget said softly and clearly, "But I think Mr. Fitzwilliam would like you to gossip." Luke shot her a quick, disturbed look. Mr. Wake shook his head doubtfully, and then went on, smiling a little in deprecation: "I am afraid one learns to take too much interest in one's neighbors' affairs. Rose Humbleby is a very pretty girl. One doesn't wonder that Geoffrey Thomas lost his heart. And of course Humbleby's point of view was quite understandable, too—the girl is young, and buried away here, she hadn't much chance of seeing other men." "He objected?" said Luke. "Very definitely. Said they were far too young. And of course young people resent being told that. There was a very definite coldness between the two men. But I must say that I'm sure Doctor Thomas was deeply distressed at his partner's unexpected death." "Septicemia, Lord Easterfield told me." "Yes, just a little scratch that got infected. Doctors run grave risks in the course of their profession, Mr. Fitzwilliam." "They do indeed," said Luke. Mr. Wake gave a sudden start. "But I have wandered a long way from what we were talking about," he said. "A gossiping old man, I am afraid. We were speaking of the survival of pagan death customs and of recent deaths. There was Lavinia Fullerton— one of our most kindly church helpers. Then there was that poor girl, Amy Gibbs; you might discover something in your line there, Mr. Fitzwilliam. There was just a suspicion, you know, that it might have been suicide, and there are certain rather eerie rites in connection with that type of death. There is an aunt—not, I fear, a very estimable woman, and not very much attached to her niece, but a great talker." "Valuable," said Luke. "Then there was Tommy Pierce; he was in the choir at one time—a beautiful treble— quite angelic, but not a very angelic boy otherwise, I am afraid. We had to get rid of him in the end; he made the other boys behave badly too. Poor lad, I'm afraid he was not very much liked anywhere. He was dismissed from the post office, where we got him a job as telegraph boy. He was in Mr. Abbot's office for a while, but there again he was dismissed very soon—interfered with some confidential papers, I believe. Then, of course, he was at Ashe Manor for a time— wasn't he. Miss Conway?—as a garden boy, and Lord Easterfield had to discharge him for gross impertinence. I was so sorry for his mother—a very decent hardworking soul. Miss Waynflete very kindly got him some odd window-cleaning work. Lord Easterfield objected at first, then suddenly he gave in; actually, it was sad that he did so." "Why?" "Because the boy was killed that way. He was cleaning the top windows of the library— the old hall, you know—and tried some silly fooling—dancing on the window ledge or something of that sort--lost his balance, or else became dizzy, and fell. A nasty business! He never recovered consciousness and died a few hours after they got him to the hospital." "Did anyone else 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 Fullerton. 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." "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 Fitzwilliam wondered very much who the person Bridget was thinking of might be. Five 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—ninetytwo 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, "She's the one who swallowed off 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. Mr. Abbot 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." "No haunted houses?" "No, I don't know of anything of that kind." "There's the child superstition, of course," said Luke. "Death of a boy child--a violent death, that is--the boy always walks. Not a girl child--interesting that." "Very?" said Mr. Abbot. "I never heard that before." Since Luke had just invented it, that was hardly surprising. "Seems there's a boy here_Tommy something--was in your office at one time. I've reason to believe they think that he's walking." Mr. Abbot's red face turned slightly purple. "Tommy Pierce? A good-for-nothing, prying, meddlesome jackanapes. Who's seen him? What's this story?" "These things are difficult to pin down," said Luke. "People won't come out into the open with a statement. It's just in the air, so to speak." "Yes, yes, I suppose so." Luke changed the subject adroitly, "The real person to get hold of is the local doctor. They hear a lot in the poorer cases they attend. All sorts of superstitions and charms _probably love philters and all the rest of it." "You must get on to Thomas. Good fellow Thomas, thoroughly up-to-date man. Not like poor old Humbleby." "Bit of a reactionary, wasn't he?" "Absolutely pigheaded; a diehard of the worst description." "You had a real row over the water scheme, didn't you?" asked Bridget. Again a rich ruddy glow suffused Abbot's face. "Humbleby stood dead in the way of progress," he said sharply. "He held out against the scheme! He was pretty rude, too, in what he said. Didn't mince his words. Some of the things he said to me were positively actionable." Bridget murmured, "But lawyers never go to law, do they? They know better." Abbot laughed immoderately. His anger subsided as quickly as it had risen. "Pretty good. Miss Bridget! And you're not far wrong. We who are in it know too much about the law, ha-ha. Well, I must be getting along. Give me a call if you think I can help you in any way, Mr.--er--" "Fitzwilliam," said Luke. "Thanks, I will." As they walked on, Bridget 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 Waynflere. 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 gray silk blouse with a cairngorm 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. "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 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." 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 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 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. "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 ^