Murder Is Easy - Agatha Christie [52]
“Went over into the mud he did,” said the ancient labourer. “Right into the mud and stuck in it head downwards.”
“Odd he should have fallen off here,” said Luke.
“He were drunk, he were,” said the rustic indulgently.
“Yes, but he must have come this way drunk many times before.”
“Most every night,” said the other. “Always in liquor, Harry were.”
“Perhaps someone pushed him over,” said Luke, making the suggestion in a casual fashion.
“They might of,” the rustic agreed. “But I don’t know who’d go for to do that,” he added.
“He might have made a few enemies. He was fairly abusive when he was drunk, wasn’t he?”
“His language was a treat to hear! Didn’t mince his words, Harry didn’t. But no one would go for to push a man what’s drunk.”
Luke did not combat this statement. It was evidently regarded as wildly unsporting for advantage to be taken of a man’s state of intoxication. The rustic had sounded quite shocked at the idea.
“Well,” he said vaguely, “it was a sad business.”
“None so sad for his missus,” said the old man. “Reckon her and Lucy haven’t no call to be sad about it.”
“There may be other people who are glad to have him out of the way.”
The old man was vague about that.
“Maybe,” he said. “But he didn’t mean no harm, Harry didn’t.”
On this epitaph for the late Mr. Carter, they parted.
Luke bent his steps towards the old Hall. The library transacted its business in the two front rooms. Luke passed on to the back through a door which was labelled Museum. There he moved from case to case, studying the not very inspiring exhibits. Some Roman pottery and coins. Some South Sea curiosities, a Malay headdress. Various Indian gods “presented by Major Horton,” together with a large and malevolent-looking Buddha, and a case of doubtful-looking Egyptian beads.
Luke wandered out again into the hall. There was no one about. He went quietly up the stairs. There was a room with magazines and papers there, and a room filled with nonfiction books.
Luke went a storey higher. Here were rooms filled with what he designated to himself as junk. Stuffed birds removed from the museum owing to the moth having attacked them, stacks of torn magazines and a room whose shelves were covered with out-of-date works of fiction and children’s books.
Luke approached the window. Here it must have been that Tommy Price had sat, possibly whistling and occasionally rubbing a pane of glass vigorously when he heard anyone coming.
Somebody had come in. Tommy had shown his zeal—sitting half out of the window and polishing with zest. And then that somebody had come up to him, and while talking, had given a sudden sharp push.
Luke turned away. He walked down the stairs and stood a minute or two in the hall. Nobody had noticed him come in. Nobody had seen him go upstairs.
“Anyone might have done it!” said Luke. “Easiest thing in the world.”
He heard footsteps coming from the direction of the library proper. Since he was an innocent man with no objection to being seen, he could remain where he was. If he had not wanted to be seen, how easy just to step back inside the door of the museum room!
Miss Waynflete came out from the library, a little pile of books under her arm. She was pulling on her gloves. She looked very happy and busy. When she saw him her face lit up and she exclaimed:
“Oh, Mr. Fitzwilliam, have you been looking at the museum? I’m afraid there isn’t very much there, really. Lord Whitfield is talking of getting us some really interesting exhibits.”
“Really?”
“Yes, something modern, you know, and up-to-date. Like they have at the Science Museum in London. He suggests a model aeroplane and a locomotive and some chemical things too.”
“That would, perhaps, brighten things up.”
“Yes, I don’t think a museum should deal solely with the past, do you?”
“Perhaps not.”
“Then some food exhibits, too—calories and vitamins—all that sort of thing. Lord Whitfield is so keen on the Greater Fitness Campaign.”
“So he was saying the other night.”
“It’s the thing at present, isn’t it? Lord Whitfield was telling