Murder Is Easy - Agatha Christie [18]
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 upon 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 Pinkerton. 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.
“Marvellously 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 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 Whitfield 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 vandalised. 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 Whitfield 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 good-bye 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.”
Luke answered promptly. He had no mind for further investigations with Bridget Conway standing by listening. He said:
“Go round 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