Agatha Christie - Murder is Easy

Bridget, in the act of rising, stopped as though frozen into immobility. "What's that? Miss Fullerton worried — about me."

"That's what Rose Humbleby said."

"Rose Humbleby said that?"

"Yes."

"What more did she say?"

"Nothing more."

"Are you sure?"

"Quite sure."

There was a pause, then Bridget said, "I see."

"Miss Fullerton was worried about Humbleby, and he died. Now I hear she was worried about you –"

Bridget laughed. She stood up and shook her head, so that her long black hair flew out round her head. "Don't worry," she said. "The devil looks after his own."

He leaned back in his chair on the other side of the bank manager's table. "Well, that seems very satisfactory," he said. "I'm afraid I've been taking up a lot of your time."

Mr. Jones waved a deprecating hand. His tall, dark, plump face wore a happy expression.

"No, indeed, Mr. Fitzwilliam. This is a quiet spot, you know. We are always glad to see a stranger."

"It's a fascinating part of the world," said he. "Full of superstitions."

Mr. Jones sighed and said it took a long time for education to eradicate superstition.

Luke remarked that he thought education was too highly rated nowadays, and Mr. Jones was slightly shocked by the statement.

"Lord Easterfield," he said, "has been a handsome benefactor here. He realizes the disadvantages under which he himself suffered as a child, and does everything to favour the youth nowadays."

"These initial disadvantages did't stop him making a great fortune," said Luke.

"No, he's got capacity… a great capacity."

"Or luck," said Luke.

Jones seemed somewhat shocked.

"Luck is what counts," Luke went on. "Look at a murderer, for example. Why is a murderer successful and escapes? Is it for his hability? O just pure luck?"

Jones admitted that it was probably luck and Luke went on:

"Look at someone like this Carter, the pub owner. This man was probably drunk six nights a week, and then one night tumbles from the bridge into the river. Luck again."

"Good luck for some."

"Pardon me?"

"For his wife and daughter."

"Oh, yes. Of course."

A clerk knocked and came in, bringing some papers. Luke signed twice and got his cheque-book. He got up.

"Well, I am glad that everything is in order. I had a lot of luck this year at the races. How about you?"

Jones said smiling that he wasn't a gambling man. He added that Mrs. Jones had a very particular point of view about this subject.

"So I suppose that you didn't watch the Great Cup?"

"Actually, no."

"Someone from here went?"

"Major Horton went. He is quite a clever bet. And Mr. Abbot normally doesn't work on this day. But he didn't spot the winner."

"I don't think many did," said Luke and took leave.

He lighted a cigarrette as he left the bank. Leaving the least probable person theory aside, he didn't see a reason for keeping Mr. Jones on his suspect list. The bank manager hadn't had any reaction to the questions Luke put to him. It seemed completely impossible to think of him as a murderer. Furthermore, he hadn't been away on the day of the Great Cup. Accidentally, Luke's visit hadn't been lost; he got two informations. Both Major Horton and Mr. Abbot, the lawyer, had been away from Wychwood on the day of the Great Cup. Any of them could therefore have been in London when Mrs. Fullerton had been run over by a car.

Even though he didn't suspect Dr. Thomas at the moment, he would be more satisfied if he knew for sure that he had been in Wychwood, performing his duties, on that day. He noted down mentally the necessity of verifying this point. There was also Ellworthy. Had he been in Wychwood on that day? If he had, the assumption that he was the murderer would become much weaker. Nut there was, of course, the possibility of Mrs. Fullerton's death being an accident. But he rejected this theory. Her death had been too fortunate.

Luke went into his car and drove it to the Pipeweel Garageon the other end of High Street. The car had some minor troubles that needed fixing. A young nice-looking mechanic listened courteously to him. Lifting the hood, they became both absorbed in a technical discussion.

A voice called: "Jim, come here for a bit!"

The mechanic obeyed. Jim Harvey. That was it. Jim Harvey. Amy Gibbs' boyfriend. He came back soon, apologizing, and the talk became technical once more. Luke agreed to leaving his car. When he was about to say good-bye, he asked casually, "Were you lucky at the Great Cup this year?"

"No sir. I placed my bet on Clarigold."

"I wonder if many people put their money on Jujube II?"

"Actually no, sir. I even think some paper said she hadn't a chance."

Luke shook his head.

"Horse races are a risky game. Did you go to see the Great Cup?"

"No, sir. I would have liked to. I had already had a day off this year. There were cheap return tickets to Epson, but the boss wouldn't even hear of it. To tell the truth, we were short-staffed and had a lot of work that day."

"Luke said good-bye. He took Jim Harvey off his list. This nice-looking boy wasn't a murderer and hadn't run Lavinia Fullerton over.

He went home by the river. There, as had happened before, he met Major Horton and his dogs. The Major was still shouting: "Augustus!… Nelly! Nelly!… Nero, Nero, Nero!" Again the protuberant eyes stared at Luke. But this time there was more to follow. Major Horton said, "Excuse me, Mr. Fitzwilliam, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Horton here — Major Horton. Believe I'm going to meet you tomorrow up at the Manor. Tennis party. Miss Conway very kindly asked me. Cousin of yours, isn't she?"

"Yes."

"Thought so. Soon spot a new face down here, you know." Here a diversion occurred, the two bulldogs advancing upon a nondescript white mongrel. "Augustus!… Nero! Come here, sir! Come here, I say!"

When Augustus and Nero had finally reluctantly obeyed the command, Major Horton returned to the conversation. Luke was patting Nelly, who was gazing up at him sentimentally.

"Nice bitch, that, isn't she?" said the Major. "I like bulldogs. I've always had 'em. Prefer 'em to any other breed. My place is just near here, come in and have a drink."

Luke accepted and the two men walked together while Major Horton held forth on the subject of dogs and the inferiority of all other breeds to that which he himself preferred. Luke heard of the prizes Nelly had won, of the infamous conduct of a judge in awarding Augustus merely a Highly Commended, and of the triumphs of Nero in the show ring.

By then they had turned in at the Major's gate. He opened the front door, which was not locked, and the two men passed into the house. Leading the way into a small, slightly doggy-smelling room lined with bookshelves, Major Horton busied himself with the drinks. Luke looked round him. There were photographs of dogs, copies of the Field and Country Life, and a couple of well-worn armchairs. Silver cups were arranged round the bookcases. There was one oil painting over the mantlepiece.

"My wife," said the Major, looking up from the siphon and noting the direction of Luke's glance. "Remarkable woman. A lot of character in her face, don't you think?"

"Yes, indeed," said Luke, looking at the late Mrs. Horton. She was represented in a pink satin dress and was holding a bunch of lilies of the valley. Her brown hair was parted in the middle and her lips were pressed grimly together. Her eyes, of a cold gray, looked out ill-temperedly at the beholder.

"A remarkable woman," said the Major, handing a glass to Luke. "She died over a year ago. I haven't been the same man since."

"No?" said Luke, a little at a loss to know what to say.

"Sit down," said the Major, waving a hand toward one of the leather chairs. He himself took the other one and, sipping his whisky and soda, he went on: "No, I haven't been the same man since."