“Now the others. Amy Gibbs. Why did Ellsworthy kill Amy Gibbs? The obvious reason—she was being a nuisance! Threatened an action for breach of promise, perhaps? Or had she assisted at a midnight orgy? Did she threaten to talk? Lord Whitfield has a good deal of influence in Wychwood and Lord Whitfield, according to Bridget, is a very moral man. He might have taken up the matter against Ellsworthy if the latter had been up to anything particularly obscene. So—exit Amy. Not, I think, a sadistic murder. The method employed is against that.
“Who’s next—Carter? Why Carter? Unlikely he would know about midnight orgies (or did Amy tell him?). Was the pretty daughter mixed up in it? Did Ellsworthy start making love to her? (Must have a look at Lucy Carter.) Perhaps he was just abusive to Ellsworthy, and Ellsworthy in his catlike feline way, resented it. If he’d already committed one or two murders he would be getting sufficiently callous to contemplate a killing for a very slight reason.
“Now Tommy Pierce. Why did Ellsworthy kill Tommy Pierce? Easy. Tommy had assisted at a midnight ritual of some kind. Tommy threatened to talk about it. Perhaps Tommy was talking about it. Shut Tommy’s mouth.
“Dr. Humbleby. Why did Ellsworthy kill Dr. Humbleby? That’s the easiest of the lot! Humbleby was a doctor and he’d noticed that Ellsworthy’s mental balance was none too good. Probably was getting ready to do something about it. So Humbleby was doomed. There’s a stumbling block there in the method. How did Ellsworthy ensure that Humbleby should die of blood poisoning? Or did Humbleby die of something else? Was the poisoned finger a coincidence?
“Last of all, Miss Pinkerton. Wednesday’s early closing. Ellsworthy might have gone up to town that day. Has he a car, I wonder? Never seen him in one, but that proves nothing. He knew she’d suspected him and he was going to take no chances of Scotland Yard believing her story. Perhaps they already knew something about him then?
“That’s the case against Ellsworthy! Now what is there for him? Well, for one thing, he’s certainly not the man Miss Waynflete thought Miss Pinkerton meant. For another, he doesn’t fit—quite—with my own vague impression. When she was talking I got a picture of a man—and it wasn’t a man like Ellsworthy. The impression she gave me was of a very normal man—outwardly, that is—the kind of man nobody would suspect. Ellsworthy is the kind of man you would suspect. No, I got more the impression of a man like—Dr. Thomas.
“Thomas, now. What about Thomas? I wiped him clean off the list after I’d had a chat with him. Nice unassuming fellow. But the whole point of this murderer—unless I’ve got the whole thing wrong—is that he would be a nice unassuming fellow. The last person you’d think ever would be a murderer! Which, of course, is exactly what one feels about Thomas.
“Now then, let’s go through it all again. Why did Dr. Thomas kill Amy Gibbs? Really, it seems most unlikely that he did! But she did go to see him that day, and he did give her that bottle of cough mixture. Suppose that was really oxalic acid. That would be very simple and clever! Who was called in, I wonder, when she was found poisoned—Humbleby or Thomas? If it was Thomas he might just come along with an old bottle of hat paint in his pocket, put it down unobtrusively on the table—and take off both bottles to be analysed as bold as brass! Something like that. It could be done if you were cool enough!
“Tommy Pierce? Again I can’t see a likely motive. That’s the difficulty with our Dr. Thomas—motive. There’s not even a crazy motive! Same with Carter. Why should Dr. Thomas want to dispose of Carter? One can only assume that Amy, Tommy and the publican all knew something about Dr. Thomas that it was unhealthy to know. Ah! Supposing now that that something was the death of Mrs. Horton. Dr. Thomas attended her. And she died of a rather unexpected relapse. He could have managed that easily enough. And Amy Gibbs, remember, was in the house at the time. She might have seen or heard something. That would account for her. Tommy Pierce, we have it on good authority, was a particularly inquisitive small boy. He may have got wise to something. Can’t get Carter in. Amy Gibbs told him something. He may have repeated it in his cups, and Thomas may have decided to silence him too. All this, of course, is pure conjecture. But what else can one do?
“Now Humbleby. Ah! At last we come to a perfectly plausible murder. Adequate motive and ideal means! If Dr. Thomas couldn’t give his partner blood poisoning, no one could! He could reinfect the wound every time he dressed it! I wish the earlier killings were a little more plausible.
“Miss Pinkerton? She’s more difficult, but there is one definite fact. Dr. Thomas was not in Wychwood for at least a good part of the day. He gave out that he was attending a confinement. That may be. But the fact remains that he was away from Wychwood in a car.
“Is there anything else? Yes, just one thing. The look he gave me when I went away from the house the other day. Superior, condescending, the smile of a man who’d just led me up the garden path and knew it.”
Luke sighed, shook his head and went on with his reasoning.
“Abbot? He’s the right kind of man too. Normal, well-to-do, respected, last sort of man, etc., etc. He’s conceited, too, and confident. Murderers usually are! They’ve got overweening conceit! Always think they’ll get away with it. Amy Gibbs paid him a visit once. Why? What did she want to see him for? To get legal advice? Why? Or was it a personal matter? There’s that mention of “a letter from a lady” that Tommy saw. Was that letter from Amy Gibbs? Or was it a letter written by Mrs. Horton—a letter, perhaps, that Amy Gibbs had got hold of? What other lady could there be writing to Mr. Abbot on a matter so private that he loses control when the office boy inadvertently sees it? What else can we think of re Amy Gibbs? The hat paint? Yes, right kind of old-fashioned touch—men like Abbot are usually well behind the times where women are concerned. The old-world style of philanderer! Tommy Pierce? Obvious—on account of the letter (really, it must have been a very damning letter!). Carter? Well, there was trouble about Carter’s daughter. Abbot wasn’t going to have a scandal—a low-down ruffianly half-wit like Carter dare to threaten him! He who had got away with two clever killings! Away with Mr. Carter! Dark night and a well-directed push. Really, this killing business is almost too easy.
“Have I got the Abbot mentality? I think so. Nasty look in an old lady’s eye. She’s thinking things about him…Then, row with Humbleby. Old Humbleby daring to set himself against Abbot, the clever solicitor and murderer. The old fool—he little knows what’s in store for him! He’s for it! Daring to browbeat me!
“And then—what? Turning to catch Lavinia Pinkerton’s eyes. And his own eyes falter—show a consciousness of guilt. He who was boasting of being unsuspected has definitely aroused suspicion. Miss Pinkerton knows his secret…She knows what he has done…Yes, but she can’t have proof. But suppose she goes about looking for it…Suppose she talks…Suppose…He’s quite a shrewd judge of character. He guesses what she will finally do. If she goes with this tale of hers to Scotland Yard they may believe her—they may start making inquiries. Something pretty desperate has got to be done. Has Abbot got a car or did he hire one in London? Anyway, he was away from here on Derby Day….”
Again Luke paused. He was so entering into the spirit of the thing that he found it hard to make a transition from one suspect to another. He had to wait a minute before he could force himself into the mood where he could visualize Major Horton as a successful murderer.
“Horton murdered his wife. Let’s start with that! He had ample provocation and he gained considerably by her death. In order to carry it off successfully he had to make a good show of devotion. He’s had to keep that up. Sometimes, shall we say, he overdoes it a bit?
“Very good, one murder successfully accomplished. Who’s the next? Amy Gibbs. Yes, perfectly credible. Amy was in the house. She may have seen something—the major administering a soothing cup of beef tea or gruel? She mayn’t have realized the point of what she saw till some time later. The hat paint trick is the sort of thing that would occur to the major quite naturally—a very masculine man with litt
le knowledge of women’s fripperies.
“Amy Gibbs all serene and accounted for.
“The drunken Carter? Same suggestion as before. Amy told him something. Another straightforward murder.
“Now Tommy Pierce. We’ve got to fall back on his inquisitive nature. I suppose the letter in Abbot’s office couldn’t have been a complaint from Mrs. Horton that her husband was trying to poison her? That’s a wild suggestion, but it might be so. Anyway, the major becomes alive to the fact that Tommy is a menace, so Tommy joins Amy and Carter. All quite simple and straightforward and according to Cocker. Easy to kill? My God, yes.
“But now we come to something rather more difficult. Humbleby! Motive? Very obscure. Humbleby was attending Mrs. Horton originally. Did he get puzzled by the illness, and did Horton influence his wife to change to the younger, more unsuspicious doctor? But if so, what made Humbleby a danger so long after? Difficult, that…The manner of his death, too. A poisoned finger. Doesn’t connect up with the major.
“Miss Pinkerton? That’s perfectly possible. He has a car. I saw it. And he was away from Wychwood that day, supposedly gone to the Derby. It might be—yes. Is Horton a cold-blooded killer? Is he? Is he? I wish I knew….”
Luke stared ahead of him. His brow was puckered with thought.
“It’s one of them…I don’t think it’s Ellsworthy—but it might be! He’s the most obvious one! Thomas is wildly unlikely—if it weren’t for the manner of Humbleby’s death. That blood poisoning definitely points to a medical murderer! It could be Abbot—there’s not as much evidence against him as against the others—but I can see him in the part, somehow…Yes—he fits as the others don’t. And it could be Horton! Bullied by his wife for years, feeling his insignificance—yes, it could be! But Miss Waynflete doesn’t think it is, and she’s no fool—and she knows the place and the people in it….
“Which does she suspect, Abbot or Thomas? It must be one of these two…If I tackled her outright—‘Which of them is it?’—I’d get it out of her then, perhaps.
“But even then she might be wrong. There’s no way of proving her right—like Miss Pinkerton proved herself. More evidence—that’s what I want. If there were to be one more case—just one more—then I’d know—”
He stopped himself with a start.
“My God,” he said under his breath. “What I’m asking for is another murder….”
Fifteen
IMPROPER CONDUCT OF A CHAUFFEUR
In the bar of the Seven Stars Luke drank his pint and felt somewhat embarrassed. The stare of half a dozen bucolic pairs of eyes followed his least movement, and conversation had come to a standstill upon his entrance. Luke essayed a few comments of general interest such as the crops, the state of the weather, and football coupons, but to none did he get any response.
He was reduced to gallantry. The fine-looking girl behind the counter with her black hair and red cheeks he rightly judged to be Miss Lucy Carter.
His advances were received in a pleasant spirit. Miss Carter duly giggled and said, “Go on with you! I’m sure you don’t think nothing of the kind! That’s telling!”—and other such rejoinders. But the performance was clearly mechanical.
Luke, seeing no advantage to be gained by remaining, finished his beer and departed. He walked along the path to where the river was spanned by a footbridge. He was standing looking at this when a quavering voice behind him said:
“That’s it, mister, that’s where old Harry went over.”
Luke turned to see one of his late fellow drinkers, one who had been particularly unresponsive to the topic of crops, weather and coupons. He was now clearly about to enjoy himself as a guide to the macabre.
“Went over into the mud he did,” said the ancient labourer. “Right into the mud and stuck in it head downwards.”
“Odd he should have fallen off here,” said Luke.
“He were drunk, he were,” said the rustic indulgently.
“Yes, but he must have come this way drunk many times before.”
“Most every night,” said the other. “Always in liquor, Harry were.”
“Perhaps someone pushed him over,” said Luke, making the suggestion in a casual fashion.
“They might of,” the rustic agreed. “But I don’t know who’d go for to do that,” he added.
“He might have made a few enemies. He was fairly abusive when he was drunk, wasn’t he?”
“His language was a treat to hear! Didn’t mince his words, Harry didn’t. But no one would go for to push a man what’s drunk.”
Luke did not combat this statement. It was evidently regarded as wildly unsporting for advantage to be taken of a man’s state of intoxication. The rustic had sounded quite shocked at the idea.
“Well,” he said vaguely, “it was a sad business.”
“None so sad for his missus,” said the old man. “Reckon her and Lucy haven’t no call to be sad about it.”
“There may be other people who are glad to have him out of the way.”
The old man was vague about that.
“Maybe,” he said. “But he didn’t mean no harm, Harry didn’t.”
On this epitaph for the late Mr. Carter, they parted.
Luke bent his steps towards the old Hall. The library transacted its business in the two front rooms. Luke passed on to the back through a door which was labelled Museum. There he moved from case to case, studying the not very inspiring exhibits. Some Roman pottery and coins. Some South Sea curiosities, a Malay headdress. Various Indian gods “presented by Major Horton,” together with a large and malevolent-looking Buddha, and a case of doubtful-looking Egyptian beads.
Luke wandered out again into the hall. There was no one about. He went quietly up the stairs. There was a room with magazines and papers there, and a room filled with nonfiction books.
Luke went a storey higher. Here were rooms filled with what he designated to himself as junk. Stuffed birds removed from the museum owing to the moth having attacked them, stacks of torn magazines and a room whose shelves were covered with out-of-date works of fiction and children’s books.
Luke approached the window. Here it must have been that Tommy Price had sat, possibly whistling and occasionally rubbing a pane of glass vigorously when he heard anyone coming.
Somebody had come in. Tommy had shown his zeal—sitting half out of the window and polishing with zest. And then that somebody had come up to him, and while talking, had given a sudden sharp push.
Luke turned away. He walked down the stairs and stood a minute or two in the hall. Nobody had noticed him come in. Nobody had seen him go upstairs.
“Anyone might have done it!” said Luke. “Easiest thing in the world.”
He heard footsteps coming from the direction of the library proper. Since he was an innocent man with no objection to being seen, he could remain where he was. If he had not wanted to be seen, how easy just to step back inside the door of the museum room!
Miss Waynflete came out from the library, a little pile of books under her arm. She was pulling on her gloves. She looked very happy and busy. When she saw him her face lit up and she exclaimed:
“Oh, Mr. Fitzwilliam, have you been looking at the museum? I’m afraid there isn’t very much there, really. Lord Whitfield is talking of getting us some really interesting exhibits.”
“Really?”
“Yes, something modern, you know, and up-to-date. Like they have at the Science Museum in London. He suggests a model aeroplane and a locomotive and some chemical things too.”
“That would, perhaps, brighten things up.”
“Yes, I don’t think a museum should deal solely with the past, do you?”
“Perhaps not.”
“Then some food exhibits, too—calories and vitamins—all that sort of thing. Lord Whitfield is so keen on the Greater Fitness Campaign.”
“So he was saying the other night.”
“It’s the thing at present, isn’t it? Lord Whitfield was telling me how he?
??d been to the Wellerman Institute—and seen such a lot of germs and cultures and bacteria—it quite made me shiver. And he told me all about mosquitoes and sleeping sickness and something about a liver fluke that I’m afraid was a little too difficult for me.”
“It was probably too difficult for Lord Whitfield,” said Luke cheerfully. “I’ll bet he got it all wrong! You’ve got a much clearer brain than he has, Miss Waynflete.”
Miss Waynflete said sedately:
“That’s very nice of you, Mr. Fitzwilliam, but I’m afraid women are never quite such deep thinkers as men.”
Luke repressed a desire to criticize adversely Lord Whitfield’s processes of thought. Instead he said:
“I did look into the museum but afterwards I went up to have a look at the top windows.”
“You mean where Tommy—” Miss Waynflete shivered. “It’s really very horrible.”
“Yes, it’s not a nice thought. I’ve spent about an hour with Mrs. Church—Amy’s aunt—not a nice woman!”
“Not at all.”
“I had to take rather a strong line with her,” said Luke. “I fancy she thinks I’m a kind of super policeman.”
He stopped as he noted a sudden change of expression on Miss Waynflete’s face.
“Oh, Mr. Fitzwilliam, do you think that was wise?”
Luke said:
“I don’t really know. I think it was inevitable. The book story was wearing thin—I can’t get much further on that. I had to ask the kind of questions that were directly to the point.”
Miss Waynflete shook her head—the troubled expression still on her face.