Murder Is Easy - Agatha Christie [71]
Miss Waynflete seemed a little disappointed. Feeling that she had been ungracious, Bridget said hastily:
“I wonder how long Luke will be?”
“Now don’t worry, my dear. I’m sure Mr. Fitzwilliam is well able to look after himself.”
“Oh, Luke’s tough all right!”
At that moment the telephone rang. Bridget hurried to it. Luke’s voice spoke.
“Hallo? That you, Bridget? I’m at the Bells and Motley. Can you wait for your traps till after lunch? Because Battle has arrived here—you know who I mean—”
“The superintendent man from Scotland Yard?”
“Yes. And he wants to have a talk with me right away.”
“That’s all right by me. Bring my things round after lunch and tell me what he says about it all.”
“Right. So long, my sweet.”
“So long.”
Bridget replaced the receiver and retailed the conversation to Miss Waynflete. Then she yawned. A feeling of fatigue had succeeded her excitement.
Miss Waynflete noticed it.
“You’re tired, my dear! You’d better lie down—no, perhaps that would be a bad thing just before lunch. I was just going to take some old clothes to a woman in a cottage not very far away—quite a pretty walk over the fields. Perhaps you’d care to come with me? We’ll just have time before lunch.”
Bridget agreed willingly.
They went out the back way. Miss Waynflete wore a straw hat and, to Bridget’s amusement, had put on gloves.
“We might be going to Bond Street!” she thought to herself.
Miss Waynflete chatted pleasantly of various small village matters as they walked. They went across two fields, crossed a rough lane and then took a path leading through a ragged copse. The day was hot and Bridget found the shade of the trees pleasant.
Miss Waynflete suggested that they should sit down and rest a minute.
“It’s really rather oppressively warm today, don’t you think? I fancy there must be thunder about!”
Bridget acquiesced somewhat sleepily. She lay back against the bank—her eyes half-closed—some lines of poetry wandering through her brain.
“O why do you walk through the fields in gloves
O fat white woman whom nobody loves?”
But that wasn’t quite right! Miss Waynflete wasn’t fat. She amended the words to fit the case.
“O why do you walk through the fields in gloves,
O lean grey woman whom nobody loves?”
Miss Waynflete broke in upon her thoughts.
“You’re very sleepy, dear, aren’t you?”
The words were said in a gentle everyday tone, but something in them jerked Bridget’s eyes suddenly open.
Miss Waynflete was leaning forward towards her. Her eyes were eager, her tongue passed gently over her lips. She repeated her question:
“You’re very sleepy, aren’t you?”
This time there was no mistaking the definite significance of the tone. A flash passed through Bridget’s brain—a lightning flash of comprehension, succeeded by one of contempt at her own density!
She had suspected the truth—but it had been no more than a dim suspicion. She had meant, working quietly and secretly, to make sure. But not for one moment had she realized that anything was to be attempted against herself. She had, she thought, concealed her suspicious entirely. Nor would she have dreamed that anything would be contemplated so soon. Fool—seven times fool!
And she thought suddenly:
“The tea—there was something in the tea. She doesn’t know I never drank it. Now’s my chance! I must pretend! What stuff was it, I wonder? Poison? Or just sleeping stuff? She expects me to be sleepy—that’s evident.”
She let her eyelids droop again. In what she hoped was a natural drowsy voice, she said:
“I do—frightfully…How funny! I don’t know when I’ve felt so sleepy.”
Miss Waynflete nodded softly.
Bridget watched the older woman narrowly through her almost closed eyes.
She thought:
“I’m a match for her anyway! My muscles are pretty tough—she’s a skinny frail old pussy. But I’ve got to make her talk—that’s it—make her talk!”
Miss Waynflete was smiling. It was not a nice smile. It was sly and not very human.
Bridget thought:
“She’s like a goat. God! how like a goat she is! A goat’s always been an evil symbol! I see why now! I was right—I was