‘Never mind what you think, Jimmy. At the moment, I’m telling you, see?’
‘Oh, quite—quite—get on with it.’
‘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.
‘Sometimes a name sticks in your head for some silly reason or other. This name stuck in mine because I linked it up with a silly nursery rhyme they used to sing to me when I was a kid. Fiddle de dee, fiddle de dee, the fly has married the bumble bee.’
‘Very intellectual, I’m sure, but what’s the point?’
‘The point, my good ass, is that the man’s name was Humbleby—Dr Humbleby. My old lady said Dr Humbleby would be the next, and she was distressed because he was “such a good man”. The name stuck in my head because of the aforementioned rhyme.’
‘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 13, suddenly, at his residence, Sandgate, Wychwood-under-Ashe, John Edward Humbleby, md, 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.’
‘Is it, Jimmy? Is it? Is that all it is?’
Luke began to walk up and down again.
‘What else could it be?’ asked Jimmy.
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.’
‘What about the Abercrombie case? Wasn’t he supposed to have done away with a goodish few?’
‘More than ever came out,’ said Jimmy. ‘A pal of mine had a cousin who was the local coroner. I heard a bit through him. They got Abercrombie for feeding the local vet with arsenic, then they dug up his wife and she was full of it, and it’s pretty certain his brother-in-law went the same way—and that wasn’t all, by a long chalk. This pal of mine told me the unofficial view was that Abercrombie had done away with at least fifteen people in his time. Fifteen!’
‘Exactly. So these things do happen!’
‘Yes, but they don’t happen often.’
‘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, supposing that before Abercrombie had got so foolhardy as fairly to push his murders under the nose of the police, some dear loquacious old spinster had just simply guessed what he was up to and had trotted off to tell someone in authority all about it. Do you suppose they’d have listened to her?’
Jimmy grinned.
‘No fear!’
‘Exactly. They’d have said she’d got bats in the belfry. Just as you said! Or they’d have said, “Too much imagination. Not enough to do.” As I said! And both of us, Jimmy, would have been wrong.’
Lorrimer took a moment or two to consider, then he said:
‘What’s the position exactly—as it appears to you?’
Luke said slowly:
‘The case stands like this. I was told a story—an improbable, but not an impossible story. One piece of evidence, the death of Dr Humbleby, supports that story. And there’s one other significant fact. Miss Pinkerton 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.’
‘You could be a modern artist,’ suggested Jimmy. ‘Then that wouldn’t matter.’
But Luke was intent on the matter in hand.
‘An author? Do authors go to strange country inns to write? They might, I suppose. A fisherman, perhaps—but I’ll have to find out if there’s a handy river. An invalid ordered country air? I don’t look the part, and anyway everyone goes to a nursing home nowadays. I might be looking for a house in the neighbourhood. But that’s not very good. Hang it all, Jimmy, there must be some plausible reason for a hearty stranger to descend upon an English village?’
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 OK. 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 Whitfield.’
‘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 neighbourhood (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, etc. 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 Whitfield?’
‘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 is going to be easy. You’re a wonder. If you can really fix me up with your cousin—’
‘That will be absolutely OK. 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 …’
CHAPTER 3
Witch Without Broomstick
The sun was shining when Luke came over the hill and down into the little country town of Wychwood-under-Ashe. He had bought a second-hand Standard Swallow, and he stopped for a moment on the brow of the hill and switched off the engine.
The summer day was warm and sunny. Below him was the village, singularly unspoilt by recent developments. 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, ‘I’m probably mad. The whole thing’s fantastic.’
Had he really come here solemnly to hunt down a killer—simply on the strength of some garrulous ramblings on the part of an old lady, and a chance obituary notice?
He shook his head.
‘Surely these things don’t happen,’ he murmured. ‘Or—do they? Luke, my boy, it’s up to you to find out if you’re the world’s most credulous prize ass, or if your policeman’s nose has led you hot on the scent.’
He switched on the engine, threw in the gear and drove gently down the twisting road and so entered the main street.
Wychwood, as has been said, consists 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 Georgian 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 modern 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 castellated mansion.
Her black hair was blown up off her head by the sudden 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 towards 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 cheek-bones—ironic black brows—black eyes and hair. She was like a delicate etching, he thought—poignant and beautiful.
He had had an acknowledged picture at the back of his mind during his voyage home to England—a picture of an English girl flushed and sunburnt—stroking a horse’s neck, stooping to weed a herbaceous border, sitting holding out her hands to the blaze of a wood fire. It had been a warm gracious vision …
Now—he didn’t know if he liked Bridget Conway or not—but he knew that that secret picture wavered and broke up—became meaningless and foolish …
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 long 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 towards the house. Luke stole another glance at it. He discerned now traces of a sober Queen Anne dwelling overlaid and smothered by the florid magnificence. 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. Stealing a glance at the line of her profile, at the long beautiful hands, he wondered.
She was about twenty-eight or -nine, he supposed. And she had brains. And she was one of those people about whom you knew absolutely nothing unless they chose that you should …
Inside, the house was comfortable and in good taste—the good taste of a first-class decorator. Bridget Conway led the way to a room with bookshelves 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 a cousin of mine.’
Lord Whitfield was a small man with a semi-bald head. His face was round and ingenuous, with a pouting mouth and boiled gooseberry eyes. He was dressed in careless-looking 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—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.
Mrs Anstruther, as Luke soon learned, was devoted body and soul to gardening. She never talked of anything else, and her mind was constantly occupied by considerations of whether some rare plant was likely to do well in the place she intended to put it.
After acknowledging the introduction, she said now:
‘You know, Gordon, the ideal spot for a rockery would be just beyond the rose garden, and then you could have the most marvellous water garden where the stream comes through that dip.’
Lord Whitfield stretched himself back in his chair.
‘You fix all that with Bridget,’ he said easily. ‘Rock plants are niggly little things, I think—but that doesn’t matter.’
Bridget said:
‘Rock plants aren’t sufficiently in the grand manner for you, Gordon.’
She poured out some tea for Luke and Lord Whitfield said placidly:
‘That’s right. They’re not what I call good value for money. Little bits of flowers you can hardly see … I like a nice show in a conservatory, or some good beds of scarlet geraniums.’
Mrs Anstruther, who possessed par excellence the gift of continuing with her own subject undisturbed by that of anyone else, said:
‘I believe those new rock roses would do perfectly in this climate,’ and proceeded to immerse herself in catalogues.
Throwing his squat little figure back in his chair, Lord Whitfield sipped his tea and studied Luke appraisingly.
‘So you write books,’ he murmured.
Feeling slightly nervous, Luke was about to enter on explanations when he perceived that Lord Whitfield was not really seeking for information.
‘I’ve often thought,’ said his lordship complacently, ‘that I’d like to write a book myself.’
‘Yes?’ said Luke.
‘I could, mark you,’ said Lord Whitfield. ‘And a very interesting book it would be. I’ve come across a lot of interesting people. Trouble is, I haven’t got the time. I’m a very busy man.’
‘Of course. You must be.’
‘You wouldn’t believe what I’ve got on my shoulders,’ said Lord Whitfield. ‘I take a personal interest in each one of my publications. I consider that I’m responsible for moulding the public mind. Next week millions of people will be thinking and feeling just exactly what I’ve intended to make them feel and think. That’s a very solemn thought. That means responsibility. Well, I don’t mind responsibility. I’m not afraid of it. I can do with responsibility.’
Lord Whitfield swelled out his chest, attempted to draw in his stomach, and glared amiably at Luke.
Bridget Conway said lightly:
‘You’re a great man, Gordon. Have some more tea.’
Lord Whitfield replied simply:
‘I am a great man. No, I won’t have any more tea.’
Then, descending from his own Olympian heights to the level of more ordinary mortals, he inquired kindly of his guest:
‘Know anybody round this part of the world?’
Luke shook his head. Then, on an impulse, and feeling that the sooner he began to get down to his job the better, he added:
‘At least, there’s a man here that I promised to look up—friend of friends of mine. Man called Humbleby. He’s a doctor.’
‘Oh!’ Lord Whitfield struggled upright in his chair. ‘Dr Humbleby? Pity.’
‘What’s a pity?’
‘Died about a week ago,’ said Lord Whitfield.
‘Oh, dear,’ said Luke. ‘I’m sorry about that.’
‘Don’t think you’d have cared for him,’ said Lord Whitfield. ‘Opinionated, pestilential, muddle-headed old fool.’
‘Which means,’ put in Bridget, ‘that he disagreed with Gordon.’
‘Question of our water supply,’ said Lord Whitfield. ‘I may tell you, Mr Fitzwilliam, that I’m a public-spirited man. I’ve got the welfare of this town at heart. I was born here. Yes, born in this very town—’
With chagrin Luke perceived that they had left the topic of Dr Humbleby and had reverted to the topic of Lord Whitfield.
‘I’m not ashamed of it and I don’t care who knows it,’ went on that gentleman. ‘I had none of your natural advantages. My father kept a boot-shop—yes, a plain boot-shop. And I served in that shop when I was a young lad. I raised myself by my own efforts, Fitzwilliam—I determined to get out of the rut—and I got out of the rut! Perseverance, hard work and the help of God—that’s what did it! That’s what made me what I am today.’
Exhaustive details of Lord Whitfield’s career were produced for Luke’s benefit and the former wound up triumphantly:
‘And here I am and the whole world’s welcome to know how I’ve got here! I’m not ashamed of my beginnings—no, sir—I’ve come back here where I was born. Do you know what stands where my father’s shop used to be? A fine building built and endowed by me—Institute, Boys’ Clubs, everything tip-top and up to date. Employed the best architect in the country! I must say he’s made a bare plain job of it—looks like a workhouse or a prison to me—but they say it’s all right, so I suppose it must be.’
‘Cheer up,’ said Bridget. ‘You had your own way over this house!’
Lord Whitfield chuckled appreciatively.
‘Yes, they tried to put it over on me here! Carry out the original spirit of the building. No, I said, I’m going to live in the place, and I want something to show for my money! When one architect wouldn’t do what I wanted I sacked him and got another. The fellow I got in the end understood my ideas pretty well.’
‘He pandered to your worst flights of imagination,’ said Bridget.
‘She’d have liked the place left as it was,’ said Lord Whitfield. He patted her arm. ‘No use living in the past, my dear. Those old Georges didn’t know much. I didn’t want a plain red-brick house. I always had a fancy for a castle—and now I’ve got one!’ He added, ‘I know my taste isn’t very classy, so I gave a good firm carte blanche to do the inside, and I must say they haven’t done too badly—though some of it is a bit drab.’
‘Well,’ said Luke, a little at a loss for words, ‘it’s a great thing to know what you want.’
‘And I usually get it too,’ said the other, chuckling.
‘You nearly didn’t get your way about the water scheme,’ Bridget reminded him.
‘Oh, that!’ said Lord Whitfield. ‘Humbleby was a fool. These elderly men are inclined to be pig-headed. They won’t listen to reason.’
‘Dr Humbleby was rather an outspoken man, wasn’t he?’ Luke ventured. ‘He made a good many enemies that way, I should imagine.’
‘N-no, I don’t know that I should say that,’ demurred Lord Whitfield, rubbing his nose. ‘Eh, Bridget?’
‘He was very popular with everyone, I always thought,’ said Bridget. ‘I only saw him when he came about my ankle that time, but I thought he was a dear.’
‘Yes, he was popular enough on the whole,’ admitted Lord Whitfield. ‘Though I know one or two people who had it in for him. Pig-headedness again.’
‘One or two of the people living here?’
Lord Whitfield nodded.
‘Lots of little feuds and cliques in a place like this,’ he said.
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said Luke. He hesitated, uncertain of his next step.
‘What sort of people live here mostly?’ he queried.
It was rather a weak question, but he got an instant response.
‘Relicts, mostly,’ said Bridget. ‘Clergymen’s daughters and sisters and wives. Doctors’ dittoes. About six women to every man.’
‘But there are some men?’ hazarded Luke.
‘Oh, yes, there’s Mr Abbot, the solicitor, and young Dr Thomas, Dr Humbleby’s partner, and Mr Wake, the rector, and—who else is there, Gordon? Oh! Mr Ellsworthy, who keeps the antique shop and who is too, too terribly sweet! And Major Horton and his bulldogs.’
‘There’s somebody else I believe my friends mentioned as living down here,’ said Luke. ‘They said she was a nice old pussy but talked a lot.’
Bridget laughed.
‘That applies to half the village!’
‘What was the name now? I’ve got it. Pinkerton.’
Lord Whitfield said with a hoarse chuckle:
‘Really, you’ve no luck! She’s dead too. Got run over the other day in London. Killed outright.’
