Murder Is Easy - Agatha Christie [65]
“I see you believe that,” said Luke.
“Because it’s the truth! Anyone who goes against me pays the penalty. You and Bridget will be no exception.”
Luke said:
“That’s where you’re wrong. However long a run of luck may be, it breaks in the end. Yours is very near breaking now.”
Lord Whitfield said gently:
“My dear young man, you don’t know who it is you’re talking to. Nothing can touch Me!”
“Can’t it? We’ll see. You’d better watch your step, Whitfield.”
A little ripple of movement passed over the other. His voice had changed when he spoke.
“I’ve been very patient,” said Lord Whitfield. “Don’t strain my patience too far. Get out of here.”
“I’m going,” said Luke. “As quick as I can. Remember that I’ve warned you.”
He turned on his heel and went quickly out of the room. He ran upstairs. He found Bridget in her room superintending the packing of her clothes by a housemaid.
“Ready soon?”
“In ten minutes.”
Her eyes asked a question which the presence of the maid prevented her from putting into words.
Luke gave a short nod.
He went to his own room and flung his things hurriedly into his suitcase.
He returned ten minutes later to find Bridget ready for departure.
“Shall we go now?”
“I’m ready.”
As they descended the staircase they met the butler ascending.
“Miss Waynflete has called to see you, miss.”
“Miss Waynflete? Where is she?”
“In the drawing room with his lordship.”
Bridget went straight to the drawing room, Luke close behind her.
Lord Whitfield was standing by the window talking to Miss Waynflete. He had a knife in his hand—a long slender blade.
“Perfect workmanship,” he was saying. “One of my young men brought it back to me from Morocco where he’d been special correspondent. It’s Moorish, of course, a Riff knife.” He drew a finger lovingly along the blade. “What an edge!”
Miss Waynflete said sharply:
“Put it away, Gordon, for goodness’ sake!”
He smiled and laid it down among a collection of other weapons on a table.
“I like the feel of it,” he said softly.
Miss Waynflete had lost some of her usual poise. She looked white and nervous.
“Ah, there you are, Bridget, my dear,” she said.
Lord Whitfield chuckled.
“Yes, there’s Bridget. Make the most of her, Honoria. She won’t be with us long.”
Miss Waynflete said, sharply:
“What d’you mean?”
“Mean? I mean she’s going to London. That’s right, isn’t it? That’s all I meant.”
He looked round at them all.
“I’ve got a bit of news for you, Honoria,” he said. “Bridget isn’t going to marry me after all. She prefers Fitzwilliam here. A queer thing, life. Well, I’ll leave you to have your talk.”
He went out of the room, his hands jingling the coins in his pockets.
“Oh, dear—” said Miss Waynflete. “Oh, dear—”
The deep distress in her voice was so noticeable that Bridget looked slightly surprised. She said uncomfortably:
“I’m sorry. I really am frightfully sorry.”
Miss Waynflete said:
“He’s angry—he’s frightfully angry—oh, dear, this is terrible. What are we going to do?”
Bridget stared.
“Do? What do you mean?”
Miss Waynflete said, including them both in her reproachful glance:
“You should never have told him!”
Bridget said:
“Nonsense. What else could we do?”
“You shouldn’t have told him now. You should have waited till you’d got right away.”
Bridget said shortly:
“That’s a matter of opinion. I think myself it’s better to get unpleasant things over as quickly as possible.”
“Oh, my dear, if it were only a question of that—”
She stopped. Then her eyes asked a question of Luke.
Luke shook his head. His lips formed the words, “Not yet.”
Miss Waynflete murmured, “I see.”
Bridget said with some slight exasperation:
“Did you want to see me about something in particular, Miss Waynflete?”
“Well—yes. As a matter of fact I came to suggest that you should come and pay me a little visit. I thought—er—you might find it uncomfortable to remain on here and that you might want a few days to—er—well, mature your plans.”
“Thank you, Miss Waynflete, that was very kind of you.”