Agatha Christie - Murder is Easy

She nodded slowly and thoughtfully.

"What was your idea? Will you tell me? I fancy it may help somehow."

Bridget said quietly, "I had an idea that you came down here in connection with the death of that girl, Amy Gibbs."

"That's it, then! That's what I saw — what I felt — whenever her name cropped up! I knew there was something. So you thought I came down about that?"

"Didn't you?"

"In a way, yes."

He was silent, frowning. The girl beside him sat equally silent, not moving. She said nothing to disturb his train of thought. He made up his mind. "I've come down here on a wild-goose chase — on a fantastical and probably quite absurd and melodramatic supposition. Amy Gibbs is part of that whole business. I'm interested to find out exactly how she died."

"Yes, I thought so."

"But dash it all, why did you think so? What is there about her death that — well, aroused your interest?"

Bridget said, "I've thought all along that there was something wrong about it. That's why I took you to see Miss Waynflete."

"Why?"

"Because she thinks so too."

"Oh." Luke thought back rapidly. He understood now the underlying suggestions of that intelligent spinster's manner. "She thinks as you do — that there's something odd about it?" Bridget nodded. "Why, exactly?"

"Hat paint, to begin with."

"What do you mean — hat paint?"

"Well, about twenty years ago people did paint hats — one season you had a pink straw, next season, a bottle of hat paint and it became dark blue, then, perhaps, another bottle and a black hat! But not nowadays. Hats are cheap — tawdry stuff, to be thrown away when out of fashion."

"Even girls of the class of Amy Gibbs?"

"I'd be more likely to paint a hat than she would. Thrift's gone out. And there's another thing. It was red hat paint."

"Well?"

"And Amy Gibbs had red hair — carrots!"

"You mean it doesn't go together?"

Bridget nodded. "You wouldn't wear a scarlet hat with carroty hair. It's the sort of thing a man wouldn't realize, but –"

Luke interrupted her with heavy significance.

"No, a man wouldn't realize that. It fits in — it all fits in."

Bridget said, "Jimmy has got some odd friends at Scotland Yard. You're not –"

Luke said quickly, "I'm not an official detective, and I'm not a well known private investigator with rooms in Baker Street , and so on. I'm exactly what Jimmy told you I was — a retired policeman from the East. I'm homing in on this business because of an odd thing that happened in the train to London ."

He gave a brief synopsis of his conversation with Miss Fullerton and the subsequent events that had brought about his presence in Wychwood.

"So, you see," he ended, "it's fantastic! I'm looking for a certain man — a secret killer — a man here in Wychwood, probably well known and respected. If Miss Fullerton's right and you're right and Miss What's-Er-Name is right, that man killed Amy Gibbs."

Bridget said, "I see."

"It could have been done from outside, I suppose?"

"Yes, I think so," said Bridget slowly. "Reed, the constable, climbed up to her window by means of an outhouse. The window was open. It was a bit of a scramble, but a reasonably active man would find no real difficulty."

"And having done that, he did what?"

"Substituted a bottle of hat paint for the cough unctus."

"Hoping she'd do exactly what she did do — wake up, drink it off, and that everyone would say she'd made a mistake or committed suicide?"

"Yes."

"There was no suspicion of what they call in books 'foul play', at the inquest?"

"No."

"Men again, I suppose. The hat-paint point wasn't raised?"

"No."

"But it occurred to you?"

"Yes."

"And to Miss Waynflete? Have you discussed it together?"

Bridget smiled faintly. "Oh, no; not in the sense you mean. I mean we haven't said anything right out. I don't really know how far the old pussy has gone in her own mind. I'd say she'd been just worried to start with, and gradually getting more so. She's quite intelligent, you know, went to Girton, or wanted to, and was advanced when she was young. She's not got quite the woolly mind of most of the people down here."

"Miss Fullerton had rather a woolly mind, I should imagine," said Luke. "That's why I never dreamed there was anything in her story, to begin with."

"She was pretty shrewd, I always thought," said Bridget. "Most of these rambling old dears are as sharp as nails in some ways. You said she mentioned other names?"

Luke nodded. "Yes. A small boy — that was Tommy Pierce. I remembered the name as soon as I heard it. And I'm pretty sure that the man Carter came in too."

"Carter, Tommy Pierce, Amy Gibbs, Doctor Humbleby," said Bridget thoughtfully. "As you say, it's almost too fantastic to be true. Who on earth would want to kill those people? They were all so different!"

Luke asked, "Any idea as to why anyone should want to do away with Amy Gibbs?"

Bridget shook her head. "I can't imagine."

"What about the man Carter? How did he die, by the way?"

"Fell into the river and was drowned. He was on his way home, it was a misty night and he was quite drunk. There's a footbridge with a rail on only one side. It was taken for granted that he missed his footing."

"But someone could quite easily have given him a shove?"

"Oh, yes."

"And somebody else could quite easily have given nasty little Tommy a push when he was window-cleaning?"

"Again, yes."

"So it boils down to the fact that it's really quite easy to remove three human beings without anyone suspecting."

"Miss Fullerton suspected," Bridget pointed out.

Luke said: "I suppose it's no good my asking you if you've a hunch of any kind? There's no particular individual in Wychwood who gives you a creepy feeling down the spine, or who has strange pale eyes or a queer, maniacal giggle?"

Bridget said, "You think this man is definitely mad?"

"Oh, I should say so. A lunatic all right, but a cunning one. My Miss Fullerton spoke of the look in his eyes when he was measuring up his next victim. From the way she spoke, I got the impression — it's only an impression, mark you — that the man she was speaking of was at least her social equal. Of course, I may be wrong!"

"You're probably quite right! Those nuances of conversation can't be put down in black and white, but they're the sort of things one doesn't really make mistakes about."

"You know," said Luke, "it's a great relief to have you knowing all about it."

"It will probably cramp your style less, I agree. And I can probably help you."

"Your help will be invaluable. You really mean to see it through?"

"Of course."

Luke said, with a sudden slight embarrassment, "What about Lord Easterfield? Do you think –"

"Naturally, we won't tell Gordon anything about it," said Bridget.

"You mean, he wouldn't believe it?"

"Oh, he'd believe it! Gordon could believe anything! He'd probably be simply thrilled and insist on having half a dozen of his bright young men down to beat up the neighborhood! He'd simply adore it!"

"That does rather rule it out," agreed Luke.

"Yes, we can't allow him to have his simple pleasures, I'm afraid."

Luke looked at her. He seemed about to say something, then changed his mind. He looked, instead, at his watch.

"Yes," said Bridget, "we ought to be getting home." She got up. There was a sudden constraint between them, as though Luke's unspoken words hovered uncomfortably in the air. They walked home in silence.

Luke sat in his bedroom. At lunchtime he had sustained an interrogation by Mrs. Anstruther as to what flowers he'd had in his garden in the Mayang Straits. He had then been told what flowers would have done well there. He had also listened to further Talks to Young Men on the Subject of Myself by Lord Easterfield. Now he was mercifully alone.