Murder Is Easy - Agatha Christie [67]
“Possibly that’s at the root of the trouble. I don’t know. But think, Bridget—just think a minute. Remember all the phrases you’ve used laughingly yourself about him—lèse-majesté, etc. Don’t you realize that the man’s ego is swollen out of all proportion? And it’s allied with religion. My dear girl, the man’s as mad as a hatter!”
Bridget thought for a minute.
She said at last: “I still can’t believe it. What evidence have you got, Luke?”
“Well, there are his own words. He told me, quite plainly and distinctly, the night before last, that anyone who opposed him in any way always died.”
“Go on.”
“I can’t quite explain to you what I mean—but it was the way he said it. Quite calm and complacent and—how shall I put it?—quite used to the idea! He just sat there smiling to himself…It was uncanny and rather horrible, Bridget!”
“Go on.”
“Well, then he went on to give me a list of people who’d passed out because they’d incurred his sovereign displeasure! And, listen to this, Bridget, the people he mentioned were Mrs. Horton, Amy Gibbs, Tommy Pierce, Harry Carter, Humbleby, and that chauffeur fellow, Rivers.”
Bridget was shaken at last. She went very pale.
“He mentioned those actual people?”
“Those actual people! Now do you believe?”
“Oh, God, I suppose I must…What were his reasons?”
“Horribly trivial—that’s what made it so frightening. Mrs. Horton had snubbed him, Tommy Pierce had done imitations of him and made the gardeners laugh, Harry Carter had abused him, Amy Gibbs had been grossly impertinent, Humbleby had dared to oppose him publicly, Rivers threatened him before me and Miss Waynflete—”
Bridget put her hands to her eyes.
“Horrible…Quite horrible…” she murmured.
“I know. Then there’s some other outside evidence. The car that ran down Miss Pinkerton in London was a Rolls, and its number was the number of Lord Whitfield’s car.”
“That definitely clinches it,” said Bridget slowly.
“Yes. The police thought the woman who gave them that number must have made a mistake. Mistake indeed!”
“I can understand that,” said Bridget. “When it comes to a rich, powerful man like Lord Whitfield, naturally his story is the one to be believed!”
“Yes. One appreciates Miss Pinkerton’s difficulty.”
Bridget said thoughtfully:
“Once or twice she said rather queer things to me. As though she were warning me against something…I didn’t understand in the least at the time…I see now!”
“It all fits in,” said Luke. “That’s the way of it. At first one says (as you said), “Impossible!” and then once one accepts the idea, everything fits in! The grapes he sent to Mrs. Horton—and she thought the nurses were poisoning her! And that visit of his to the Wellerman Kreutz Institute—somehow or other he must have got hold of some culture of germs and infected Humbleby.”
“I don’t see how he managed that.”
“I don’t either, but the connection is there. One can’t get away from that.”
“No…As you say, if fits. And of course he could do things that other people couldn’t! I mean he would be so completely above suspicion!”
“I think Miss Waynflete suspected. She mentioned that visit to the institute. Brought it into conversation quite casually—but I believe she hoped I’d act upon it.”
“She knew, then, all along?”
“She had a very strong suspicion. I think she was handicapped by having once been in love with him.”
Bridget nodded.
“Yes, that accounts for several things. Gordon told me they had once been engaged.”
“She wanted, you see, not to believe it was him. But she became more and more sure that it was. She tried to give me hints, but she couldn’t bear to do anything outright against him! Women are odd creatures! I think, in a way, she still cares about him….”
“Even after he jilted her?”
“She jilted him. It was rather an ugly story. I’ll tell you.”
He recounted the short, ugly episode. Bridget stared at him.
“Gordon did that?”
“Yes. Even in those days, you see, he can’t have been normal!”
Bridget shivered and murmured:
“All those years ago…all those years….”
Luke said:
“He may have got rid of