Murder Is Easy - Agatha Christie [34]
Bridget, in the act of rising, stopped as though frozen into immobility.
“What’s that? Miss Pinkerton—worried—about me?”
“That’s what Rose Humbleby said.”
“Rose Humbleby said that?”
“Yes.”
“What more did she say?”
“Nothing more.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite sure.”
There was a pause, then Bridget said, “I see.”
“Miss Pinkerton was worried about Humbleby and he died. Now I hear she was worried about you—”
Bridget laughed. She stood up and shook her head so that her long black hair flew out round her head.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “The devil looks after his own.”
Eleven
DOMESTIC LIFE OF MAJOR HORTON
Luke leaned back in his chair on the other side of the bank manager’s table.
“Well, that seems very satisfactory,” he said. “I’m afraid I’ve been taking up a lot of your time.”
Mr. Jones waved a deprecating hand. His small, dark, plump face wore a happy expression.
“No, indeed, Mr. Fitzwilliam. This is a quiet spot, you know. We are always glad to see a stranger.”
“It’s a fascinating part of the world,” said Luke. “Full of superstitions.”
Mr. Jones sighed and said it took a long time for education to eradicate superstition. Luke remarked that he thought education was too highly rated nowadays and Mr. Jones was slightly shocked by the statement.
“Lord Whitfield,” he said, “has been a handsome benefactor here. He realizes the disadvantages under which he himself suffered as a boy and is determined that the youth of today shall be better equipped.”
“Early disadvantages haven’t prevented him from making a large fortune,” said Luke.
“No, he must have had ability—great ability.”
“Or luck,” said Luke.
Mr. Jones looked rather shocked.
“Luck is the one thing that counts,” said Luke. “Take a murderer, for example. Why does the successful murderer get away with it? Is it ability? Or is it sheer luck?”
Mr. Jones admitted that it was probably luck.
Luke continued:
“Take a fellow like this man Carter, the landlord of one of your pubs. The fellow was probably drunk six nights out of seven—yet one night he goes and pitches himself off the footbridge into the river. Luck again.”
“Good luck for some people,” said the bank manager.
“You mean?”
“For his wife and daughter.”
“Oh, yes, of course.”
A clerk knocked and entered bearing papers. Luke gave two specimen signatures and was given a cheque-book. He rose.
“Well, I’m glad that’s all fixed up. Had a bit of luck over the Derby this year. Did you?”
Mr. Jones said smilingly that he was not a betting man. He added that Mrs. Jones had very strong views on the subject of horse racing.
“Then I suppose you didn’t go to the Derby?”
“No indeed.”
“Anybody go to it from here?”
“Major Horton did. He’s quite a keen racing man. And Mr. Abbot usually takes the day off. He didn’t back the winner, though.”
“I don’t suppose many people did,” said Luke, and departed after the exchange of farewells.
He lit a cigarette as he emerged from the bank. Apart from the theory of the “least likely person,” he saw no reason for retaining Mr. Jones on his list of suspects. The bank manager had shown no interesting reactions to Luke’s test questions. It seemed quite impossible to visualize him as a murderer. Moreover, he had not been absent on Derby Day. Incidentally, Luke’s visit had not been wasted, he had received two small items of information. Both Major Horton and Mr. Abbot, the solicitor, had been away from Wychwood on Derby Day. Either of them, therefore, could have been in London at the time when Miss Pinkerton was run down by a car.
Although Luke did not now suspect Dr. Thomas he felt he would be more satisfied if he knew for a fact that the latter had been at Wychwood engaged in his professional duties on that particular day. He made a mental note to verify that point.
Then there was Ellsworthy. Had Ellsworthy been in Wychwood on Derby Day? If he had, the presumption that he was the killer was correspondingly weakened. Although, Luke noted, it was possible that Miss Pinkerton’s death had been neither more nor less than the accident that it was supposed to be.
But