Murder Is Easy - Agatha Christie [19]
“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 on 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. Ellsworthy was a very exquisite young man dressed in a colour scheme of russet brown. He had a long pale face with a womanish mouth, long black artistic hair and a mincing walk.
Luke was introduced and Mr. Ellsworthy immediately transferred his attention to him.
“Genuine old English slipware. Delicious, isn’t it? I love my bits and pieces, you know, hate to sell them. It’s always been my dream to live in the country and have a little shop. Marvellous 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. No—no, I implore you. Don’t tell me I’m all arty and crafty—I couldn’t bear it. Really, really, you know, I don’t stock handwoven tweeds and beaten pewter. 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-colours, don’t you?”
“Now who told you that?” cried Mr. Ellsworthy, clasping his hands together. “You know this place is really too marvellous—one simply can’t keep a secret! That’s what I like about it—it’s so different from that inhuman you-mind-your-own-business-and-I-will-mind-mine of a city! Gossip and malice and scandal—all so delicious if one takes them in the right spirit!”
Luke contented himself with answering Mr. Ellsworthy’s question and paying no attention to the latter part of his remarks.
“Miss Waynflete told us that you had made several sketches of a girl—Amy Gibbs.”
“Oh, Amy,” said Mr. Ellsworthy. He took a step backwards 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.
Mr. Ellsworthy had recovered his aplomb.
“Oh, do you think so?” he asked. “Very commonplace, I always thought. If you’re interested in slipware,” he went on to Luke, “I’ve got a couple of slipware birds—delicious things.”
Luke displayed a faint interest in the birds and then asked the price of the dish.
Ellsworthy named a figure.
“Thanks,” said Luke, “but I don’t think I’ll deprive you of it after all.”
“I’m always relieved, you know,” said Ellsworthy, “when I don’t make a sale. Foolish of me, isn’t it? Look here, I’ll let you have it for a guinea less. You care for the stuff. I can see that—it makes all the difference. And after all, this is a shop!”
“No, thanks,” said Luke.
Mr. Ellsworthy accompanied them out to the door, waving his hands—very unpleasant hands, Luke thought they were—the flesh seemed not so much white as faintly greenish.
“Nasty bit of goods, Mr. Ellsworthy,” he remarked when he and Bridget were out of earshot.
“A nasty mind and nasty habits I should say,” said Bridget.
“Why does he really come to a place like this?”
“I believe he dabbles in black magic. Not quite black Masses but that sort of thing. The reputation of this place helps.”
Luke said rather awkwardly: “Good lord—I suppose he’s the kind of chap I really need. I ought to have talked to him on the subject.”
“Do you think so?” said Bridget. “He knows a lot about it.”
Luke said rather uneasily:
“I’ll look him up some other day.”
Bridget did not answer. They were out of the town