Murder Is Easy - Agatha Christie [68]
Bridget nodded. She was silent for a minute or two, thinking, then she asked abruptly:
“What exactly did Miss Pinkerton say to you—in the train that day? How did she begin?”
Luke cast his mind back.
“Told me she was going to Scotland Yard, mentioned the village constable, said he was a nice fellow but not up to dealing with murder.”
“That was the first mention of the word?”
“Yes.”
“Go on.”
“Then she said, ‘You’re surprised, I can see. I was myself at first. I really couldn’t believe it. I thought I must be imagining things.’”
“And then?”
“I asked her if she was sure she wasn’t—imagining things, I mean—and she said quite placidly, ‘Oh, no! I might have been the first time, but not the second, or the third or the fourth. After that one knows.’”
“Marvellous,” commented Bridget. “Go on.”
“So of course I humoured her—said I was sure she was doing the right thing. I was an unbelieving Thomas if there ever was one!”
“I know. So easy to be wise after the event! I’d have felt the same, nice and superior to the poor old dame! How did the conversation go on?”
“Let me see—oh! she mentioned the Abercrombie case—you know, the Welsh poisoner. Said she hadn’t really believed that there had been a look—a special look—that he gave his victims. But that she believed it now because she had seen it herself.”
“What words did she use exactly?”
Luke thought, creasing his brow.
“She said, still in that nice ladylike voice, ‘Of course, I didn’t really believe that when I read about it—but it’s true.’ And I said, ‘What’s true?’ And she said, ‘The look on a person’s face.’ And by Jove, Bridget, the way she said that absolutely got me! Her quiet voice and the look on her face—like someone who had really seen something almost too horrible to speak about!”
“Go on, Luke. Tell me everything.”
“And then she enumerated the victims—Amy Gibbs and Carter and Tommy Pierce, and said that Tommy was a horrid boy and Carter drank. And then she said, ‘But now—yesterday—it was Dr. Humbleby—and he’s such a good man—a really good man.’ And she said if she went to Humbleby and told him, he wouldn’t believe her, he’d only laugh!”
Bridget gave a deep sigh.
“I see,” she said. “I see.”
Luke looked at her.
“What is it, Bridget? What are you thinking of?”
“Something Mrs. Humbleby once said. I wondered—no, never mind, go on. What was it she said to you right at the end?”
Luke repeated the words soberly. They had made an impression on him and he was not likely to forget them.
“I’d said it was difficult to get away with a lot of murders, and she answered, ‘No, no, my dear boy, that’s where you’re wrong. It’s very easy to kill—so long as no one suspects you. And you see, the person in question is just the last person anyone would suspect….’”
He was silent. Bridget said with a shiver:
“Easy to kill? Horribly easy—that’s true enough! No wonder those words stuck in your mind, Luke. They’ll stick in mine—all my life! A man like Gordon Whitfield—oh! of course it’s easy.”
“It’s not so easy to bring it home to him,” said Luke.
“Don’t you think so? I’ve an idea I can help there.”
“Bridget, I forbid you—”
“You can’t. One can’t just sit back and play safe. I’m in this, Luke. It may be dangerous—yes, I’ll admit that—but I’ve got to play my part.”
“Bridget—”
“I’m in this, Luke! I shall accept Miss Waynflete’s invitation and stay down here.”
“My darling, I implore you—”
“It’s dangerous for both of us. I know that. But we’re in it, Luke—we’re in it—together!”
Twenty-one
“O WHY DO YOU WALK THROUGH THE FIELDS IN GLOVES?”
The calm interior of Miss Waynflete’s house was almost an anti-climax after that tense moment in the car.
Miss Waynflete received Bridget’s acceptance of her invitation a little doubtfully, hastening, however, to reiterate her offer of hospitality by way of showing that her doubts were due to quite another cause than unwillingness to receive the girl.
Luke said:
“I