Murder Is Easy - Agatha Christie [3]
Luke’s eyebrows rose.
“Murder?”
The old lady nodded vigorously.
“Yes, murder. You’re surprised, I can see. I was myself at first…I really couldn’t believe it. I thought I must be imagining things.”
“Are you quite sure you weren’t?” Luke asked gently.
“Oh, no.” She shook her head positively. “I might have been the first time, but not the second, or the third or the fourth. After that one knows.”
Luke said:
“Do you mean there have been—er—several murders?”
The quiet gentle voice replied:
“A good many, I’m afraid.”
She went on:
“That’s why I thought it would be best to go straight to Scotland Yard and tell them about it. Don’t you think that’s the best thing to do?”
Luke looked at her thoughtfully, then he said:
“Why, yes—I think you’re quite right.”
He thought to himself:
“They’ll know how to deal with her. Probably get half a dozen old ladies a week coming in burbling about the amount of murders committed in their nice quiet country villages! There may be a special department for dealing with the old dears.”
And he saw in imagination a fatherly superintendent, or a good-looking young inspector, tactfully murmuring:
“Thank you, ma’am, very grateful to you, I’m sure. Now just go back and leave it all in our hands and don’t worry anymore about it.”
He smiled a little to himself at the picture. He thought:
“I wonder why they get these fancies? Deadly dull lives, I suppose—an unacknowledged craving for drama. Some old ladies, so I’ve heard, fancy everyone is poisoning their food.”
He was roused from these meditations by the thin, gentle voice continuing:
“You know, I remember reading once—I think it was the Abercrombie case—of course he’d poisoned quite a lot of people before any suspicion was aroused—what was I saying? Oh, yes, somebody said that there was a look—a special look that he gave anyone—and then very shortly afterwards that person would be taken ill. I didn’t really believe that when I read about it—but it’s true!”
“What’s true?”
“The look on a person’s face….”
Luke stared at her. She was trembling a little, and her nice pink cheeks had lost some of their colour.
“I saw it first with Amy Gibbs—and she died. And then it was Carter. And Tommy Pierce. But now—yesterday—it was Dr. Humbleby—and he’s such a good man—a really good man. Carter, of course, drank, and Tommy Pierce was a dreadfully cheeky impertinent little boy, and bullied the tiny boys, twisting their arms and pinching them. I didn’t feel quite so badly about them, but Dr. Humbleby’s different. He must be saved. And the terrible thing is that if I went to him and told him about it he wouldn’t believe me! He’d only laugh! And John Reed wouldn’t believe me either. But at Scotland Yard it will be different. Because, naturally, they’re used to crime there!”
She glanced out of the window.
“Oh, dear, we shall be in in a minute.” She fussed a little, opening and shutting her bag, collecting her umbrella.
“Thank you—thank you so much.” This to Luke as he picked the umbrella up for the second time. “It’s been such a relief talking to you—most kind of you, I’m sure—so glad you think I’m doing the right thing.”
Luke said kindly:
“I’m sure they’ll give you good advice at Scotland Yard.”
“I really am most grateful.” She fumbled in her bag. “My card—oh, dear, I only have one—I must keep that—for Scotland Yard—”
“Of course, of course—”
“But my name is Pinkerton.”
“Very suitable name, too, Miss Pinkerton,” said Luke, smiling, adding hastily as she looked a little bewildered, “My name is Luke Fitzwilliam.”
As the train drew in to the platform he added:
“Can I get you a taxi?”
“Oh, no, thank you.” Miss Pinkerton seemed quite shocked at the idea. “I shall take the tube. That will take me to Trafalgar Square, and I shall walk down Whitehall.”
“Well, good luck,” said Luke.
Miss Pinkerton shook him warmly by the hand.
“So kind,” she murmured again. “You