AgathaChristie-EasyToKill Read online

  seemed quite shocked at the idea. "I shall

  take the tube. That will take me to Trafalgar

  Square, and I shall walk down Whitehall."

  "Well, good luck," said Luke.

  Miss Fullerton shook him warmly by the

  hand. "So kind," she murmured again. "You

  know, just at first I thought you didn't believe

  me."

  Luke had the grace to blush. "Well," he

  said. "So many murders! Rather hard to do

  a lot of murders and get away with it, eh?"

  Miss Fullerton shook her head. She said

  earnestly, "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."

  "Well, anyway, good luck," said Luke.

  Miss Fullerton was swallowed up in the

  crowd. He himself went off in search of his

  luggage, thinking as he did so: "Just a little

  bit batty? No, I don't think so. A vivid

  imagination, that's all. Hope they let her

  down lightly. Rather an old dear."

  Two

  jimmy lorrimer was one of Luke's oldest

  friends. As a matter of course, Luke stayed

  with Jimmy as soon as he got to London. It

  was with Jimmy that he sailed forth on the

  evening of his arrival in search of amusement.

  It was Jimmy's coffee that he drank

  with an aching head the morning after, and

  it was Jimmy's voice that went unanswered

  while he read, twice over, a small, insignificant

  paragraph in the morning paper. "Sorry, Jimmy," he said, coming to himself with a

  start.

  "What were you absorbed in--the political

  situation?"

  Luke grinned. "No fear. No, it's rather

  queer. Old pussy I traveled up with in the

  train yesterday got run over."

  "Probably trusted to a Belisha Beacon,"

  said Jimmy. "How do you know it's her?"

  "Of course, it mayn't be. But it's the same

  name--Fullerton. She was knocked down

  and killed by a car as she was crossing

  Whitehall. The car didn't stop."

  "Whoever was driving that car will pay for

  it. Bring in manslaughter as likely as not. I

  tell you I'm scared stiff of driving a car

  nowadays."

  "What have you got at present in the way

  of a car?"

  "Ford V-8. I tell you, my boy--"

  The conversation became severely mechanical.

  It was over a week later that Luke, carelessly

  scanning the front page of the Times, gave a

  sudden startled exclamation: "Well, I'm

  damned!"

  Jimmy Lorrimer looked up. "What's the

  matter?"

  Luke raised his head and looked at his

  friend. His expression was so peculiar that

  Jimmy was quite taken aback. "What's up, Luke? You look as though you'd seen a

  ghost."

  For a minute or two, the other did not

  reply. He dropped the paper, strode to the

  window and back again. Jimmy watched him

  with increasing surprise. Luke dropped into

  a chair and leaned forward. "Jimmy, old

  son, do you remember my mentioning an

  old lady I traveled up to town with the day I

  arrived in England?"

  "The one you said reminded you of your

  Aunt Mildred? And then she got run over by

  a car?"

  "That's the one. Listen, Jimmy. The old

  girl came out with a long rigmarole of how

  she was going up to Scotland Yard to tell

  them about a lot of murders. There was a

  murderer loose in her village, that's what it

  amounted to, and he'd been doing some

  pretty rapid execution."

  "You didn't tell me she was batty," said

  Jimmy.

  "I didn't think she was off her head. She

  was quite circumstantial; mentioned one or

  two victims by name, and then explained

  that what had really rattled her was the fact

  that she knew who the next victim was going

  to be."

  "Yes?" said Jimmy encouragingly.

  "The point is that the man's name was

  Humbleby—Doctor Humbleby. My old lady

  said Doctor Humbleby would be the next,

  and she was distressed because he was 'such

  a good man.' "

  "Well?" said Jimmy.

  "Well, look at this." Luke passed over the

  paper) his finger pressed against an entry in

  the column of deaths. Humbleby—On June

  12, suddenly, at his residence Sandgate, Wychwood

  under Ashe, John Ward Humbleby,

  M.D., beloved husband of Jessie Rose

  Humbleby. Funeral Friday. No flowers, by

  request.

  "You see. Jimmy? That's the name and

  the place, and he's a doctor. What do you

  make of it?"

  Jimmy took a moment or two to answer.

  His voice was serious when he said, at last,

  rather uncertainly, "I suppose it's just a

  damned odd coincidence."

  Luke wheeled round suddenly. "Suppose

  that every word that dear bleating old sheep

  said was true! Suppose that that fantastic

  story was just the plain literal truth!"

  "Oh, come now, old boy! That would be

  a bit thick. Things like that don't happen."

  "How do you know? They may happen a

  good deal oftener than you suppose."

  "There speaks the police wallah! Can't you

  forget you're a policeman, now that you've

  retired into private life?"

  "Once a policeman, always a policeman, I

  suppose," said Luke. "Now look here,

  Jimmy. The case stands like this. I was told

  a story—an improbable but not an impossi-

  -Sta,.

  ble story. One piece of evidence--the death

  of Doctor Humbleby--supports that story.

  And there's one other significant fact. Miss

  Fullerton was going to Scotland Yard with

  this improbable story of hers. But she didn't

  get there. She was run over and killed by a

  car that didn't stop."

  Jimmy objected, "You don't know that

  she didn't get there. She might have been

  killed after her visit, not before."

  "She might have been, yes; but I don't

  think she was."

  "That's pure supposition. It boils down to

  this: You believe in this--this melodrama."

  Luke shook his head sharply. "No. I don't

  say that. All I say is, there's a case for investigation."

  "In other words, you are going to Scotland

  Yard?"

  "No, it hasn't come to that yet--not

  nearly. As you say, this man Humbleby's

  death may be merely a coincidence."

  "Then what, may I ask, is the idea?"

  "The idea is to go down to this place and

  look into the matter."

  "So that's the idea, is it?"

  "Don't you agree that that is the only

  sensible way to set about it?"

  Jimmy stared at him, then he said, "Are

  you serious about this business, Luke?"

  "Absolutely."

  "Suppose the whole thing's a mare's nest?"

 
"That would be the best thing that could

  happen."

  "Yes, of course." Jimmy frowned. "But you don't think it is, do you?"

  "My dear fellow, I'm keeping an open

  mind."

  Jimmy was silent for a minute or two.

  Then he said, "Got any plan? I mean, you'll

  have to have some reason for suddenly arriving

  in this place."

  "Yes, I suppose I shall."

  "No 'suppose' about it. Do you realize

  what a small English country town is like?

  Anyone new sticks out a mile!"

  "I shall have to adopt a disguise," said

  Luke, with a sudden grin. "What do you

  suggest? Artist? Hardly; I can't draw, let

  alone paint."

  Jimmy said, "Wait a sec. Give me that

  paper again." Taking it, he gave it a cursory

  glance and announced triumphantly, "I

  thought so! Luke, old boy, to put it in a

  nutshell, I'll fix you O.K. Everything's as

  easy as winking."

  Luke wheeled round. "What?"

  Jimmy was continuing with modest pride, "I thought something struck a chord!

  Wychwood under Ashe. Of course! The very

  place!"

  "Have you, by any chance, a pal who

  knows the coroner there?"

  "Not this time. Better than that, my boy.

  Nature, as you know, has endowed me plentifully

  with aunts and cousins; my father

  having been one of a family of thirteen. Now

  listen to this: I have a cousin in Wychwood

  under Ashe."

  "Jimmy, you're a blinking marvel."

  "It is pretty good, isn't it?" said Jimmy

  modestly.

  "Tell me about him."

  "It's a her. Her name's Bridget Conway.

  For the last two years she's been secretary to

  Lord Easterfield."

  "The man who owns those nasty little

  weekly papers?"

  "That's right. Rather a nasty little man

  too. Pompous! He was born in Wychwood

  under Ashe, and being the kind of snob who

  rams his birth and breeding down your throat

  and glories in being self-made, he has returned

  to his home village, bought up the only big house in the neighborhood--it belonged

  to Bridget's family originally, by the

  way--and is busy making the place into a

  model estate."

  "And your cousin is his secretary?"

  "She was," said Jimmy darkly. "Now she's

  gone one better! She's engaged to him!"

  "Oh," said Luke, rather taken aback.

  "He's a catch, of course," said Jimmy.

  "Rolling in money. Bridget took rather a

  toss over some fellow. It pretty well knocked

  the romance out of her. I dare say this will

  pan out very well. She'll probably be kind

  but firm with him and he'll eat out of her

  hand."

  "And where do I come in?"

  Jimmy replied promptly, "You go down

  there to stay. You'd better be another cousin.

  Bridget's got so many that one more or less

  won't matter. I'll fix that up with her all

  right. She and I have always been pals. Now, for your reason for going there--witchcraft, my boy."

  "Witchcraft?"

  "Folklore, local superstitions--all that sort

  of thing. Wychwood under Ashe has got

  rather a reputation that way. One of the last

  places where they had a witches' Sabbath;

  witches were still burnt there in the last century, all sorts of traditions. You're writing a

  book, see? Correlating the customs of the

  Mayang Straits and old English folklore--

  points of resemblance, and so on. You know

  the sort of stuff. Go round with a notebook and interview the oldest inhabitant about local

  superstitions and customs. They're quite

  used to that sort of thing down there, and if

  you're staying at Ashe Manor, it vouches for

  you."

  "What about Lord Easterfield?"

  "He'll be all right. He's quite uneducated

  and completely credulous--actually believes

  things he reads in his own papers. Anyway, Bridget will fix him. Bridget's all right. I'll

  answer for her."

  Luke drew a deep breath. "Jimmy, old

  scout, it looks as though the thing was going

  to be easy. You're a wonder. If you can

  really fix me up with your cousin--"

  "That will be absolutely O.K. Leave it to

  me."

  "I'm no end grateful to you."

  Jimmy said, "All I ask is, if you're hunting

  down a homicidal murderer, let me be in

  at the death." He added sharply, "What is

  it?"

  Luke said slowly, "Just something I remembered

  my old lady saying to me. I'd

  said to her that it was a bit thick to do a lot

  of murders and get away with it, and she

  answered that I was wrong—that it was very

  easy to kill." He stopped, and then said

  slowly, "I wonder if that's true. Jimmy? I

  wonder if it is—"

  "What?"

  "—easy to kill."

  Three

  the June sun was shining when Luke came

  over the hill and down into the little country

  town of Wychwood under Ashe. It lay innocently

  and peacefully in the sunlight; mainly

  composed of a long straggling street that ran

  along under the overhanging brow of Ashe

  Ridge. It seemed singularly remote, strangely

  untouched. Luke thought: Pm probably mad.

  The whole thing's fantastic.

  He drove gently down the twisting road, and so entered the main street. Wychwood, as has been said, consisted mainly of its one

  principal street. There were shops, small

  Georgian houses, prim and aristocratic, with whitened steps and polished knockers;

  there were picturesque cottages with flower

  gardens. There was an inn, the Bells and

  Motley, standing a little back from the street.

  There was a village green and a duck pond, and presiding over them a dignified Geor-

  gian house which Luke thought at first must

  be his destination, Ashe Manor. But on coming

  nearer he saw that there was a large

  painted board announcing that it was the

  Museum and Library. Farther on there was

  an anachronism, a large white modem building, austere and irrelevant to the cheerful

  haphazardness of the rest of the place. It

  was, Luke gathered, a local Institute and

  Lads' Club. It was at this point that he

  stopped and asked the way to his destination.

  He was told that Ashe Manor was about

  half a mile farther on; he would see the gates

  on his right. Luke continued his course. He

  found the gates easily; they were of new and

  elaborate wrought iron. He drove in, caught

  a gleam of red brick through the trees, and

  turned a corner of the drive to be stupefied

  by the appalling and incongruous castellated

  mass that greeted his eyes.

  While he was contemplating the nightmare, the sun went in. He became suddenly

  conscious of the overlying menace of Ashe

  Ridge. There was a sudden sharp gust of

  wind, blowing back the leaves of the trees, and at that moment a girl came round the corner of the castella
ted mansion. Her black

  hair was blown up off her head by the slid-

  den gust, and Luke was reminded of a picture

  he had once seen--Nevinson's Witch.

  The long, pale, delicate face, the black hair

  flying up to the stars. He could see this girl

  on a broomstick flying up to the moon. She

  came straight toward him. "You must be

  Luke Fitzwilliam. I'm Bridget Conway."

  He took the hand she held out. He could

  see her now as she was--not in a sudden

  moment of fantasy. Tall, slender, a long delicate

  face with slightly hollow cheekbones, ironic black brows, black eyes and hair. She

  was like a delicate etching, he thought--

  poignant and beautiful. He said, "How d'you

  do? I must apologize for wishing myself on

  you like this. Jimmy would have it that you

  wouldn't mind."

  "Oh, we don't. We're delighted." She

  smiled, a sudden curving smile that brought

  the corners of her mouth half-way up her

  cheeks. "Jimmy and I always stand in together.

  And if you're writing a book on folklore, this is a splendid place. All sorts of

  legends and picturesque spots."

  "Splendid," said .Luke.

  They went together toward the house.

  Luke stole another glance at it. He discerned

  now traces of a sober Queen Anne dwelling

  overlaid and smothered by the florid magnif-

  icence. He remembered that Jimmy had

  mentioned the house as having originally belonged

  to Bridget's family. That, he thought, grimly, was in its unadorned days. Inside, Bridget Conway led the way to a room with

  book shelves and comfortable chairs where a

  tea table stood near the window with two

  people sitting by it. She said, "Gordon, this

  is Luke, a sort of cousin of mine."

  1 Lord Easterfield was a small man with a

  semibald head. His face was round and ingenuous, with a pouting mouth and boiled

  gooseberry eyes. He was dressed in carelesslooking

  country clothes. They were unkind

  to his figure, which ran mostly to stomach.

  He greeted Luke with affability, "Glad to

  see you--very glad. Just come back from the

  East, I hear. Interesting place. Writing a

  book, so Bridget tells me. They say too many

  books are written nowadays. I say 'no,5 always

  room for a good one."

  Bridget said, "My aunt, Mrs. Anstruther,"

  and Luke shook hands with a middle-aged

  woman with a rather foolish mouth.