Murder Is Easy - Agatha Christie [35]
Luke got into his own car, which was standing by the kerb, and drove in it to Pipwell’s Garage, situated at the far end of the High Street.
There were various small matters in the car’s running that he wanted to discuss. A good-looking young mechanic with a freckled face listened intelligently. The two men lifted the bonnet and became absorbed in a technical discussion.
A voice called:
“Jim, come here a minute.”
The freckled-faced mechanic obeyed.
Jim Harvey. That was right. Jim Harvey, Amy Gibbs’s young man. He returned presently, apologizing, and conversation became technical once more. Luke agreed to leave the car there.
As he was about to leave he inquired casually:
“Do any good on the Derby this year?”
“No, sir. Backed Clarigold.”
“Can’t be many people who backed Jujube the II.?”
“No, indeed, sir. I don’t believe any of the papers even tipped it as an outside chance.”
Luke shook his head.
“Racing’s an uncertain game. Ever seen the Derby run?”
“No, sir, wish I had. Asked for a day off this year. There was a cheap ticket up to town and down to Epsom, but the boss wouldn’t hear of it. We were shorthanded, as a matter of fact, and had a lot of work in that day.”
Luke nodded and took his departure.
Jim Harvey was crossed off his list. That pleasant-faced boy was not a secret killer, and it was not he who had run down Lavinia Pinkerton.
He strolled home by way of the riverbank. Here, as once before, he encountered Major Horton and his dogs. The major was still in the same condition of apoplectic shouting. “Augustus—Nelly—NELLY, I say. Nero—Nero—NERO.”
Again the protuberant eyes stared at Luke. But this time there was more to follow. Major Horton said:
“Excuse me. Mr. Fitzwilliam, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Horton here—Major Horton. Believe I’m going to meet you tomorrow up at the Manor. Tennis party. Miss Conway very kindly asked me. Cousin of yours, isn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“Thought so. Soon spot a new face down here, you know.”
Here a diversion occurred, the three bulldogs advancing upon a nondescript white mongrel.
“Augustus—Nero. Come here, sir—come here, I say.”
When Augustus and Nero had finally reluctantly obeyed the command, Major Horton returned to the conversation. Luke was patting Nelly, who was gazing up at him sentimentally.
“Nice bitch, that, isn’t she?” said the major. “I like bulldogs. I’ve always had ’em. Prefer ’em to any other breed. My place is just near here, come in and have a drink.”
Luke accepted and the two men walked together while Major Horton held forth on the subject of dogs and the inferiority of all other breeds to that which he himself preferred.
Luke heard of the prizes Nelly had won, of the infamous conduct of a judge in awarding Augustus merely a Highly Commended, and of the triumphs of Nero in the show ring.
By then they had turned in at the major’s gate. He opened the front door, which was not locked, and the two men passed into the house. Leading the way into a small slightly doggy-smelling room lined with bookshelves, Major Horton busied himself with the drinks. Luke looked round him. There were photographs of dogs, copies of the Field and Country Life and a couple of well-worn armchairs. Silver cups were arranged round the bookcases. There was one oil painting over the mantelpiece.
“My wife,” said the major, looking up from the siphon and noting the direction of Luke’s glance. “Remarkable woman. A lot of character in her face, don’t you think?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Luke, looking at the late Mrs. Horton.
She was represented in a pink satin dress and was holding a bunch of lilies of the valley. Her brown hair was parted in the middle and her lips were pressed grimly together. Her eyes, of a cold grey, looked out ill-temperedly at the beholder.
“A remarkable woman,” said the major, handing a glass to Luke. “She died over a year ago. I haven’t been the same man since.”
“No?” said Luke, a little at a loss to know what to say.
“Sit down,” said the major, waving a hand towards one of the leather chairs.
He himself