Murder Is Easy - Agatha Christie [29]
Luke gathered the implications of this somewhat confused speech.
“Mr. Abbot looks as though he’d appreciate a good-looking girl,” he said.
“It’s often the way with gentlemen,” said Mrs. Pierce. “They don’t mean anything by it—just a word or two in passing, but the gentry’s the gentry and it gets noticed in consequence. It’s only to be expected in a quiet place like this.”
“It’s a very charming place,” said Luke. “So unspoilt.”
“That’s what artists always say, but I think we’re a bit behind the times myself. Why, there’s been no building here to speak of. Over at Ashevale, for instance, they’ve got a lovely lot of new houses, some of them with green roofs and stained glass in the windows.”
Luke shuddered slightly.
“You’ve got a grand new institute here,” he said.
“They say it’s a very fine building,” said Mrs. Pierce, without great enthusiasm. “Of course, his lordship’s done a lot for the place. He means well, we all know that.”
“But you don’t think his efforts are quite successful?” said Luke, amused.
“Well, of course, sir, he isn’t really gentry—not like Miss Waynflete, for instance, and Miss Conway. Why, Lord Whitfield’s father kept a boot-shop only a few doors from here. My mother remembers Gordon Ragg serving in the shop—remembers it as well as anything. Of course he’s his lordship now and he’s a rich man—but it’s never the same, is it, sir?”
“Evidently not,” said Luke.
“You’ll excuse me mentioning it, sir,” said Mrs. Pierce. “And of course I know you’re staying at the manor and writing a book. But you’re a cousin of Miss Bridget’s, I know, and that’s quite a different thing. Very pleased we shall be to have her back as mistress of Ashe Manor.”
“Rather,” said Luke. “I’m sure you will.”
He paid for his cigarettes and paper with sudden abruptness.
He thought to himself:
“The personal element. One must keep that out of it! Hell, I’m here to track down a criminal. What does it matter who that black-haired witch marries or doesn’t marry? She doesn’t come into this….”
He walked slowly along the street. With an effort he thrust Bridget into the back of his mind.
“Now then,” he said to himself. “Abbot. The case against Abbot. I’ve linked him up with three of the victims. He had a row with Humbleby, a row with Carter and a row with Tommy Pierce—and all three died. What about the girl Amy Gibbs? What was the private letter that infernal boy saw? Did he know who it was from? Or didn’t he? He mayn’t have said so to his mother. But suppose he did. Suppose Abbot thought it necessary to shut his mouth. It could be! That’s all one can say about it. It could be! Not good enough!”
Luke quickened his pace, looking about him with sudden exasperation.
“This damned village—it’s getting on my nerves. So smiling and peaceful—so innocent—and all the time this crazy streak of murder running through it. Or am I the crazy one? Was Lavinia Pinkerton crazy? After all, the whole thing could be coincidence—yes, Humbleby’s death and all….”
He glanced back down the length of the High Street—and he was assailed by a strong feeling of unreality.
He said to himself:
“These things don’t happen….”
Then he lifted his eyes to the long frowning line of Ashe Ridge—and at once the unreality passed. Ashe Ridge was real—it knew strange things—witchcraft and cruelty and forgotten bloodlusts and evil rites….
He started. Two figures were walking along the side of the ridge. He recognized them easily—Bridget and Ellsworthy. The young man was gesticulating with those curious, unpleasant hands of his. His head was bent to Bridget’s. They looked like two figures out of a dream. One felt that their feet made no sound as they sprang catlike from turf to turf. He saw her black hair stream out behind her blown by the wind. Again that queer magic of hers held him.
“Bewitched, that’s what I am, bewitched,” he said to himself.
He stood quite still—a queer numbed feeling spreading