Murder Is Easy

by Agatha Christie

  Now—he didn’t know if he liked Bridget Conway or not—but he knew that that secret picture wavered and broke up—became meaningless and foolish….

  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 long mouth halfway 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 towards the house. Luke stole another glance at it. He discerned now traces of a sober Queen Anne dwelling overlaid and smothered by the florid magnificence. 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. Stealing a glance at the line of her profile, at the long beautiful hands, he wondered.

  She was about twenty-eight or -nine, he supposed. And she had brains. And she was one of those people about whom you knew absolutely nothing unless they chose that you should….

  Inside, the house was comfortable and in good taste—the good taste of a first-class decorator. Bridget Conway led the way to a room with bookshelves 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 a cousin of mine.”

  Lord Whitfield was a small man with a semi-bald head. His face was round and ingenuous, with a pouting mouth and boiled gooseberry eyes. He was dressed in careless-looking 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—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. She never talked of anything else, and her mind was constantly occupied by considerations of whether some rare plant was likely to do well in the place she intended to put it.

  After acknowledging the introduction, she said now:

  “You know, Gordon, the ideal spot for a rockery would be just beyond the rose garden, and then you could have the most marvellous water garden where the stream comes through that dip.”

  Lord Whitfield stretched himself back in his chair.

  “You fix all that with Bridget,” he said easily. “Rock plants are niggly little things, I think—but that doesn’t matter.”

  Bridget said:

  “Rock plants aren’t sufficiently in the grand manner for you, Gordon.”

  She poured out some tea for Luke and Lord Whitfield said placidly:

  “That’s right. They’re not what I call good value for money. Little bits of flowers you can hardly see…I like a nice show in a conservatory, or some good beds of scarlet geraniums.”

  Mrs. Anstruther, who possessed par excellence the gift of continuing with her own subject undisturbed by that of anyone else, said:

  “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 Whitfield 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 Whitfield was not really seeking for information.

  “I’ve often thought,” said his lordship complacently, “that I’d like to write a book myself.”

  “Yes?” said Luke.

  “I could, mark you,” said Lord Whitfield. “And a very interesting book it would be. I’ve come across a lot of interesting people. 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 Whitfield. “I take a personal interest in each one of my publications. I consider that I’m responsible for moulding 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 Whitfield swelled out his chest, attempted to draw in his stomach, and glared amiably at Luke.

  Bridget Conway said lightly:

  “You’re a great man, Gordon. Have some more tea.”

  Lord Whitfield replied simply:

  “I am a great man. No, I won’t have anymore 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 friends of mine. Man called Humbleby. He’s a doctor.”

  “Oh!” Lord Whitfield struggled upright in his chair. “Dr. Humbleby? Pity.”

  “What’s a pity?”

  “Died about a week ago,” said Lord Whitfield.

  “Oh, dear,” said Luke. “I’m sorry about that.”

  “Don’t think you’d have cared for him,” said Lord Whitfield. “Opinionated, pestilential, muddleheaded old fool.”

  “Which means,” put in Bridget, “that he disagreed with Gordon.”

  “Question of our water supply,” said Lord Whitfield. “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—”

  With chagrin Luke perceived that they had left the topic of Dr. Humbleby and had reverted to the topic of Lord Whitfield.

  “I’m not ashamed of it and I don’t care who knows it,” went on that gentleman. “I had none of your natural advantages. My father kept a boot-shop—yes, a plain boot-shop. And I served in that shop when I was a young lad. I raised myself by my own efforts, Fitzwilliam—I determined to get out of the rut—and I got out of the rut! Perseverance, hard work and the help of God—that’s what did it! That’s what made me what I am today.”

  Exhaustive details of Lord Whitfield’s career were produced for Luke’s benefit and the former wound up triumphantly:

  “And here I am and the whole world’s welcome to know how I’ve got here! I’m not ashamed of my beginnings—no, sir—I’ve come back here where I was born. Do you know what stands where my father’s shop used to be? A fine building built and endowed by me—Institute, Boys’ Clubs, everything tip-top 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 Whitfield chuckled appreciatively.

  “Yes, they tried to put it over on me here! Carry out the original spirit of the building. No, I said, I’m going to live in the place, and I want something to show for my money! 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 Whitfield. He patted her arm. “No use living in the past, my dear. Those old Georges didn’t know much. I didn’t want a plain redbrick house. I always had a fancy for a castle—and now I’ve got one!�
� He added, “I know my taste isn’t very classy, so I gave a good firm carte blanche to do the inside, and I must say they haven’t done too badly—though some of it is a bit drab.”

  “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 Whitfield. “Humbleby was a fool. These elderly men are inclined to be pigheaded. They won’t listen to reason.”

  “Dr. 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 Whitfield, 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 Whitfield. “Though I know one or two people who had it in for him. Pigheadedness again.”

  “One or two of the people living here?”

  Lord Whitfield nodded.

  “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’ dittoes. About six women to every man.”

  “But there are some men?” hazarded Luke.

  “Oh, yes, there’s Mr. Abbot, the solicitor, and young Dr. Thomas, Dr. Humbleby’s partner, and Mr. Wake, the rector, and—who else is there, Gordon? Oh! Mr. Ellsworthy, who keeps the antique shop and who is too, too terribly sweet! 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.”

  Bridget laughed. “That applies to half the village!”

  “What was the name now? I’ve got it. Pinkerton.”

  Lord Whitfield 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 Whitfield 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 Dr. Humbleby’s death an accident too?”

  Lord Whitfield shook his head.

  “Oh, no,” he said. “Humbleby died of acute septicæmia. 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 rebelling against the will of providence,” said Lord Whitfield easily.

  II

  “But was it the will of providence?” Luke asked himself later as he changed into his dinner jacket. Septicæmia? Perhaps. A very sudden death, though.

  And there echoed through his head Bridget Conway’s lightly spoken words:

  “There have been a lot of deaths in the last year.”

  Four

  LUKE MAKES A BEGINNING

  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 Whitfield 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 persists.”

  “Dare say you’re right,” said Lord Whitfield. “Education, that’s what people need. Did I tell you that I’d endowed a very fine library here? Used to be the old manor house—was going for a song—now it’s one of the finest libraries—”

  Luke firmly quelled the tendency of the conversation to turn in the direction of Lord Whitfield’s doings.

  “Splendid,” he said heartily. “Good work. You’ve evidently realized the background of old-world ignorance there is here. Of course, from my point of view, that’s just what I want. Old customs—old wives’ tales—hints of the old rituals such as—”

  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. Whom 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:

  “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 Whitfield. “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 Whitfield.

  “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 Pinkerton 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 Whitfield slowly shook his head. Bridget Conway said:

  “We shouldn’t be likely to hear of things like that—”

  Luke took it up almost before she finished speaking.

  “No doubt about it, I’ve got to move in lower social spheres to get what I want. I’ll be off to the vicarage first and see what I can get there. After that perhaps a visit to the—Seven Stars, did you say? And what about the small boy of unpleasant habits? Did he leave any sorrowing relatives?”

  “Mrs. Pierce keeps a tobacco and paper shop in High Street.”

  “That,” said Luke, “is nothing less than providential. Well, I’ll be on my way.”

  With a swift graceful movement Bridget moved from the window.

  “I think,” she said, “I’ll come with you, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course not.”

  He said it as heartily as possible, but he wondered if she had noticed that, just for a moment, he had been taken aback.

  It would have been easier for him to handle an elderly antiquarian clergyman without an alert discerning intelligence by his side.

  “Oh well,” he thought to himself. “It’s up to me to do my stuff convincingly.”

  Bridget said: