AgathaChristie-EasyToKill Read online

  Copyist, 1938, 1939, by Agatha Christie MaUowan.

  Copyn^t renewed 1966, 1967 by Agatha Christie

  Mallow^

  All "Ats reserved.

  PubusQ^ m Large Print by arrangement with

  The I"inam Publishing Group, Inc.

  G.K. H:gu Large p^ ^yo^ Senes. Set in 1^ p^ piantin.

  Library i^f Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

  Christie Agatha, 18901976.

  Eas^ to kill / Agatha Christie.

  A>. cm--(G.K. Hall large print book series) Isp^ 0-8161-4543-1 (Ig. print). Isp^ 0-8161-4544-X (pbk. : Ig. print)

  "^arge type books. I. Tide. tpR6"^)5.H66E2 1990]

  823'.9^2_dc20 8924617

  Also available in Large Print

  by Agatha Christie:

  * The A.B.C. Murders

  * The Body in the Library

  * The Boomerang Clue

  A Caribbean Mystery

  * Crooked House

  Double Sin and Other Stones

  Elephants Can Remember

  * Endless Night

  * Evil Under the Sun

  * Miss Marple: The Complete Short Stories

  * Mr. Parker Pyne, Detective

  * The Moving Finger

  * The Murder at the Vicarage

  * Murder in Three Acts

  * A Murder is Announced

  * The Murder of Roger Ackroyd

  The Murder on the Links

  Ordeal by Innocence

  * The Patriotic Murders

  * Peril at End House

  * The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories

  * dip. .^prrpt A/1'J^pvvnvM

  Sleeping Murder

  They Came to Baghdad

  Thirteen at Dinner

  * Three Blind Mice and Other Stones

  * Towards Zero

  What Mrs. McGillicuddy Saw!

  * Witness for the Prosecution and Other Stories

  * Available in hardcover and paperback

  Cast of Characters

  luke fitzwilliam--Just retired from a police

  career in Asia, he ran smack into multiple

  murders before he'd been back in

  England a day.

  lavinia fullerton--Ostensibly she was a

  woolly-minded old lamb, but the wolf

  feared she knew too much.

  bridget conway--A devilishly clever beauty

  who'd decided to marry her boss because

  the salary was higher.

  lord easterfield--Bridget's fiance, a potbellied,

  moralistic newspaper magnate who

  believed what he read in his own papers.

  alfred wake--The vicar of Wychwood under

  Ashe, he gossiped of many deaths and

  obscure feuds and weird witchcraft.

  mr. abbot--The village lawyer--too genial, too florid, too hot-tempered and, perhaps, too indiscreet with his lady friends.

  honoria waynflete--Another elderly but

  sharp-witted spinster who suspected more

  than she mentioned about the strange accidents

  in Wychwood.

  mr. ellsworthy--The arty and disreputable

  keeper of an antique shop whose odd tastes

  included strange midnight rites in the

  Witches5 Meadow.

  major horton--A retired military man. His

  wife's death had released him and his beloved

  dogs from unrelenting henpecking.

  doctor geoffrey thomas--An affable

  young chap who remarked how surprisingly

  easy it was to get away with murder.

  rose humbleby--Lovely, timid daughter of

  Doctor Thomas" late senior partner, whose

  death cleared the way for Rose to become

  Mrs. Thomas.

  mrs. humbleby--Rose's mother. Her husband's

  recent death had unsettled her so

  much that she saw wickedness in the most

  improbable places.

  sir william ossington--Of Scotland Yard.

  Because of their long friendship. Billy

  Bones reluctantly listened to Luke's yarn

  of eight unsuspected murders.

  superintendent battle--The Yard's stolidfaced

  top deputy. Despite his calm, reassuring

  manner, not a detail escaped his

  shrewd eye.

  One

  england! England after many years!

  How was he going to like it? Luke

  Fitzwilliam asked himself that question as he

  walked down the gangplank to the dock. It

  was present at the back of his mind all

  through the wait in the customs shed. It

  came suddenly to the fore when he was finally

  seated in the boat train. Here he was, honorably retired on a pension, with some

  small private means of his own, a gentleman

  of leisure, come home to England. What was

  he going to do with himself? With an effort, Luke Fitzwilliam averted his eyes from the

  landscape outside the railway-carriage window

  and settled down to a perusal of the

  papers he had just bought. The Times, the Daily Clarion and Punch.

  He started with the Daily Clarion. The Clarion was given over entirely to Epsom.

  He had drawn a horse in the club sweep and

  he looked now to see what the Clarion's racing

  correspondent thought of its chances. He

  found it dismissed contemptuously in a sentence:

  Of the others. Jujube the II, Mark's Mile,

  Santony and Jerry Boy are hardly likely to

  qualify for a place. A likely outsider is--

  But Luke paid no attention to the likely

  outsider. His eye had shifted to the betting.

  Jujube the II was listed at a modest 40 to 1.

  He glanced at his watch. A quarter to four.

  "Well," he thought, "it's over now." And he

  wished he'd had a bet on Clarigold, who was

  the second favorite.

  Then he opened the Times and became

  absorbed in more serious matters. A full half

  hour afterward the train slowed down and

  finally stopped. Luke looked out of the window.

  They were in a large empty-looking

  station with many platforms. He caught sight

  of a bookstall some way up the platform

  with a placard DERBY RESULT. Luke

  opened the door, jumped out, and ran toward

  the bookstall. A moment later he was

  staring with a broad grin at a few smudged

  lines in the stop press.

  DERBY RESULT

  TUTUBE THE II

  MAZEPPA

  CLARIGOLD

  Luke grinned broadly. A hundred pounds

  to blow! Good old Jujube the II, so scornfully

  dismissed by all the tipsters. He folded

  the paper, still grinning to himself, and

  turned back--to face emptiness. In the excitement

  of Jujube the IPs victory, his train

  had slipped out of the station unnoticed by

  him. "When the devil did that train go out?"

  he demanded of a gloomy-looking porter.

  "What train? There hasn't been no train

  since the 3:14."

  "There was a train here just now. I got

  out of it. The boat express."

  "The boat express don't stop anywhere till

  London."

  "But it did," Luke assured him. "I got

  out of it."

  Faced by facts, the porter change
d his

  ground. "You didn't ought to have done,"

  he said reproachfully. "It don't stop here."

  "But it did."

  "That was signal, that was. Signal against

  it. It didn't what you'd call 'stop.' You didn't

  ought to have got out."

  "We'll admit that," said Luke. "The

  wrong is done, past all recall. What I'm

  trying to get at is, what do you, a man

  experienced in the services of the railway

  company, advise me to do?"

  "Reckon," said the porter, "you'd best go

  on by the 4:25."

  "If the 4:25 goes to London," said Luke,

  "the 4:25 is the train for me."

  Reassured on that point, Luke strolled up

  and down the platform. A large board informed

  him that he was at FENNY

  CLAYTON JUNCTION FOR WYCHWOOD

  UNDER ASHE, and presently a

  train consisting of one carriage pushed backward

  by an antiquated little engine came

  slowly puffing in and deposited itself in a

  modest way.

  At last, with immense importance, the

  London train came in. Luke scrutinized each

  compartment. The first, a smoker, contained

  a gentleman of military aspects smoking a

  cigar. He passed on to the next one, which contained a tired-looking, genteel young

  woman, possibly a nursery governess, and an

  active-looking small boy of about three. Luke

  passed on quickly. The next door was open

  and the carriage contained one passenger, an

  elderly lady. She reminded Luke slightly of

  one of his aunts, his Aunt Mildred, who had

  courageously allowed him to keep a grass

  snake when he was ten years old. Aunt

  Mildred had been decidedly a good aunt as

  aunts go. Luke entered the carriage and sat

  down.

  After some five minutes of intense activity

  on the part of milk vans, luggage trucks and

  other excitements, the train moved slowly

  out of the station. Luke unfolded his paper

  and turned to such items of news as might

  interest a man who had already read his

  morning paper. He did not hope to read it

  for long. Being a man of many aunts, he was

  fairly certain that the nice old lady in the

  corner did not propose to travel in silence to

  London. He was right--a window that

  needed adjusting, a dropped umbrella, and

  the old lady was telling him what a good

  train this was. "Only an hour and ten minutes.

  That's very good, you know, very good

  indeed. Much better than the morning one.

  That takes an hour and forty minutes." She

  went on: "Of course, nearly everyone goes

  by the morning one. I mean when it is the

  cheap way it's silly to go up in the afternoon.

  I meant to go up this morning but Wonky

  Pooh was missing--that's my cat, a Persian;

  such a beauty, only he's had a painful ear

  lately--and of course I couldn't leave home

  till he was found!"

  Luke murmured, "Of course not," and let

  his eyes drop ostentatiously to his paper. But

  it was of no avail. The flood went on:

  "So I just made the best of a bad job and

  took the afternoon train instead, and, of

  course, it's a blessing in one way, because

  it's not so crowded--not that that matters

  when one is traveling first class. Of course, I

  don't usually do that, but really I was so

  upset because, you see, I'm going up on very

  important business, and I wanted to think

  out exactly what I was going to say--just

  quietly, you know." Luke repressed a smile.

  "So I thought, just for once, the expense was

  quite permissible. Of course," she went on

  quickly, with a swift glance at Luke's bronzed

  face, "I know soldiers on leave have to travel

  first class, I mean, being officers, it's expected

  of them."

  Luke sustained the inquisitive glance of a

  pair of bright twinkling eyes. He capitulated

  at once. It would come to it, he knew, in the

  end. "I'm not a soldier," he said.

  "Oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean--I just

  thought--you were so brown--perhaps home

  from the East on leave."

  "I'm home from the East," said Luke, "but not on leave." He stalled off further

  researches with a bald statement, "I'm a policeman."

  "In the police? Now, really, that's very

  interesting. A dear friend of mine, her boy

  has just joined the Palestinian police."

  "Mayang Straits," said Luke, taking another

  short cut.

  "Oh, dear; very interesting. Really, it's

  quite a coincidence--I mean that you should

  be traveling in this carriage. Because, you

  see, this business I'm going up to town

  about--well, actually it is to Scotland Yard

  I'm going."

  "Really?" said Luke.

  The old lady continued happily, "Yes, I

  meant to go up this morning, and then, as I

  told you, I was so worried about Wonky

  Pooh. But you don't think it will be too late, do you? I mean there aren't any special office

  hours at Scotland Yard."

  "I don't think they close down at four 01

  anything like that," said Luke.

  "No, of course, they couldn't, could they?

  I mean somebody might want to report a

  serious crime at any minute, mightn't they?"

  "Exactly," said Luke.

  For a moment the old lady relapsed into

  silence. She looked worried. "I always think

  it's better to go to the fountain-head," she

  said at last. "John Reed is quite a nice fellow—that's

  our constable in Wychwood—a

  very civil-spoken, pleasant man, but I don't

  feel, you know, that he would be quite the

  person to deal with anything serious. He's

  quite used to dealing with people who've

  drunk too much, or with exceeding the speed

  limit, or lighting-up time, or people who

  haven't taken out a dog license, and perhaps

  with burglary even. But I don't think—I'm

  quite sure—he isn't the person to deal with

  murder!"

  Luke's eyebrows rose. "Murder?"

  The old lady nodded vigorously. "Yes,

  murder. You're surprised, I can see. I was,

  myself, at first. I really couldn't believe it. I

  thought I must be imagining things."

  "Are you quite sure you weren't?" Luke

  asked gently.

  "Oh, no." She shook her head positively.

  "I might have been the first time, but not

  the second, or the third, or the fourth. After

  that, one knows."

  Luke said, "Do you mean there have

  been—er—several murders?"

  The quiet, gentle voice replied, "A good

  many, I'm afraid." She went on, "That's

  why I thought it would be best to go straight

  to Scotland Yard and tell them about it.

  Don't you think that's the best thing to do?"

  Luke looked at her thoughtfully, then he

  said, "Why, yes, I think you're quite right."

  He thought to himself: "The
y'll know how

  to deal with her. Probably get half a dozen

  old ladies a week coming in burbling about

  the amount of murders committed in their

  nice quiet country villages. There may be a

  special department for dealing with the old

  dears."

  He was roused from these meditations by

  the thin gentle voice continuing, "You know,

  I remember reading once—I think it was the

  Abercrombie case. Of course he'd poisoned

  quite a lot of people before any suspicion

  was aroused. . . . What was I saying? Oh,

  yes, somebody said that there was a look—a

  special look that he gave anyone, and then,

  very shortly afterwards, that person would

  be taken ill. I didn't really believe that when

  I read about it, but it's true."

  "What's true?"

  "The look on a person's face." Luke stared

  at her. She was trembling a little and her

  nice pink cheeks had lost some of their color.

  "I saw it first with Amy Gibbs—and she

  died. And then it was Carter. And Tommy

  Pierce. But now, yesterday, it was Doctor

  Humbleby--and he's such a good man--a

  really good man. Carter, of course, drank, and Tommy Pierce was a dreadfully cheeky, impertinent little boy, and bullied the tiny

  boys, twisting their arms and pinching them.

  I didn't feel quite so badly about them, but

  Doctor Humbleby's different. He must be

  saved. And the terrible thing is that if I went

  to him and told him about it, he wouldn't

  believe me! He'd only laugh! And John Reed

  wouldn't believe me either. But at Scotland

  Yard it will be different. Because, naturally, they're used to crime there!"

  She glanced out of the window. "Oh, dear, we shall be in in a minute." She fussed a

  little, opening and shutting her bag, collecting

  her umbrella. "It's been such a relief

  talking to you. Most kind of you, I'm sure.

  So glad you think I'm doing the right thing."

  Luke said kindly, "I'm sure they'll give

  you good advice at Scotland Yard."

  "I really am most grateful." She fumbled

  in her bag. "My card--oh dear, I only have

  one. I must keep that for Scotland Yard."

  "Of course, of course."

  "But my name is Fullerton."

  "Miss Fullerton," said Luke, smiling. "My

  name is Luke Fitzwilliam." As the train drew

  into the platform, he added, "Can I get you

  a taxi?"

  "Oh, no, thank you." Miss Fullerton