Murder Is Easy - Agatha Christie [22]
Luke interrupted her with heavy significance.
“No—a man wouldn’t realize that. It fits in—it all fits in.”
Bridget said:
“Jimmy has got some odd friends at Scotland Yard. You’re not—”
Luke said quickly:
“I’m not an official detective—and I’m not a well-known private investigator with rooms in Baker Street, etc. I’m exactly what Jimmy told you I was—a retired policeman from the East. I’m horning in on this business because of an odd thing that happened in the train to London.”
He gave a brief synopsis of his conversation with Miss Pinkerton and the subsequent events which had brought about his presence in Wychwood.
“So you see,” he ended. “It’s fantastic! I’m looking for a certain man—a secret killer—a man here in Wychwood—probably well-known and respected. If Miss Pinkerton’s right and you’re right and Miss What’s-’er-name is right—that man killed Amy Gibbs.”
Bridget said: “I see.”
“It could have been done from outside, I suppose?”
“Yes, I think so,” said Bridget slowly. “Reed, the constable, climbed up to her window by means of an outhouse. The window was open. It was a bit of a scramble, but a reasonably active man would find no real difficulty.”
“And having done that, he did what?”
“Substituted a bottle of hat paint for the cough linctus.”
“Hoping she’d do exactly what she did do—wake up, drink it off, and that everyone would say she’d made a mistake or committed suicide?”
“Yes.”
“There was no suspicion of what they call in books, ‘foul play’ at the inquest?”
“No.”
“Men again, I suppose—the hat paint point wasn’t raised?”
“No.”
“But it occurred to you?”
“Yes.”
“And to Miss Waynflete? Have you discussed it together?”
Bridget smiled faintly:
“Oh, no—not in the sense you mean. I mean we haven’t said anything right out. I don’t really know how far the old pussy has gone in her own mind. I’d say she’d been just worried to start with—and gradually getting more so. She’s quite intelligent, you know, went to Girton or wanted to, and was advanced when she was young. She’s not got quite the woolly mind of most of the people down here.”
“Miss Pinkerton had rather a woolly mind I should imagine,” said Luke. “That’s why I never dreamed there was anything in her story to begin with.”
“She was pretty shrewd, I always thought,” said Bridget. “Most of these rambling old dears are as sharp as nails in some ways. You said she mentioned other names?”
Luke nodded.
“Yes. A small boy—that was Tommy Pierce—I remembered the name as soon as I heard it. And I’m pretty sure that the man Carter came in too.”
“Carter, Tommy Pierce, Amy Gibbs, Dr. Humbleby,” said Bridget thoughtfully. “As you say, it’s almost too fantastic to be true! Who on earth would want to kill all those people? They were all so different!”
Luke said:
“Any idea as to why anyone should want to do away with Amy Gibbs?”
Bridget shook her head.
“I can’t imagine.”
“What about the man Carter? How did he die, by the way?”
“Fell into the river and was drowned. He was on his way home, it was a misty night and he was quite drunk. There’s a footbridge with a rail on only one side. It was taken for granted that he missed his footing.”
“But someone could quite easily have given him a shove?”
“Oh, yes.”
“And somebody else could quite easily have given nasty little Tommy a push when he was window cleaning?”
“Again yes.”
“So it boils down to the fact that it’s really quite easy to remove three human beings without anyone suspecting.”
“Miss Pinkerton suspected,” Bridget pointed out.
“So she did, bless her. She wasn’t troubled with ideas of being too melodramatic, or of imagining things.”
“She often told me the world was a very wicked place.”
“And you smiled tolerantly, I suppose?”
“In a superior manner!”
“Anybody who can believe six impossible things before breakfast wins hands down at this game.”
Bridget nodded.
Luke said:
“I suppose it’s no good my asking you if you’ve a hunch of any kind? There’s no particular individual in Wychwood who gives you a creepy feeling down the spine, or who has strange pale eyes—or a queer maniacal giggle.”
“Everybody