Agatha Christie - Murder is Easy

The afternoon of the tennis party was, fortunately, fine. Lord Easterfield was in his most genial mood, acting the part of the host with a good deal of enjoyment. He referred frequently to his humble origin. The players were eight in all — Lord Easterfield, Bridget, Luke, Rose Humbleby, Mr. Abbot, Doctor Thomas, Major Horton and Hetty Jones, a giggling young woman who was the daughter of the bank manager.

In the second set of the afternoon, Luke found himself partnering Bridget against Lord Easterfield and Rose Humbleby. Rose was a good player with a strong forehand drive, and played in county matches. She atoned for Lord Easterfield's failures, and Bridget and Luke, who were neither of them particularly strong, made quite an even match of it. They were three games all, and then Luke found a streak of erratic brilliance and he and Bridget forged ahead to 5-3. It was then he observed that Lord Easterfield was losing his temper. He argued over a line ball, declared a serve to be a fault, in spite of Rose's disclaimer, and displayed all the attributes of a peevish child. It was set point, but Bridget sent an easy shot into the net and immediately after served a double fault. Deuce. The next ball was returned down the middle line, and as he prepared to take it, he and his partner collided. Then Bridget served another double fault and the game was lost.

Bridget apologized, "Sorry; I've gone to pieces."

It seemed true enough. Bridget's shots were wild and she seemed to be unable to do anything right. The set ended with Lord Easterfield and his partner victorious with the score of 8-6. There was a momentary discussion as to the composition of the next set. In the end, Rose played again, with Mr. Abbot as her partner, against Doctor Thomas and Miss Jones.

Lord Easterfield sat down, wiping his forehead and smiling complacently, his good humor quite restored. He began to talk to Major Horton on the subject of a series of articles on "Fitness for Britain " which one of his papers was starting. Luke said to Bridget, "Show me the kitchen garden."

"Why the kitchen garden?"

"I have a feeling for cabbages."

"Won't green peas do?"

"Green peas would be admirable."

They walked away from the tennis court and came to the walled kitchen garden. It was empty of gardeners this Saturday afternoon and looked lazy and peaceful in the sunshine.

"Here are your peas," said Bridget.

Luke paid no attention to the object of the visit. He said, "Why did you give them the set?"

Bridget's eyebrows went up a fraction.

"I'm sorry. I went to bits. My tennis is erratic."

"Not so erratic as that! Those double faults of yours wouldn't deceive a child! And those wild shots — each of them half a mile out!"

Bridget said calmly, "That's because I'm such a rotten tennis player. If I were a bit better I could, perhaps, have made it a bit more plausible! But as it is, if I try to make a ball go just out, it's always just on the line and all the good work still to do."

"Oh, you admit it then."

"Obvious, my dear Watson."

"And the reason?"

"Equally obvious, I should have thought. Gordon doesn't like losing."

"And what about me? Supposing I like to win?"

"I'm afraid, my dear Luke, that that isn't equally important."

"Would you like to make your meaning just a little clearer still?"

"Certainly, if you like. One mustn't quarrel with one's bread and butter. Gordon is my bread and butter. You are not."

Luke drew a deep breath. Then he exploded.

"What do you mean by marrying that absurd little man? Why are you doing it?"

"Because as his secretary I get six pounds a week, and as his wife I shall get a hundred thousand settled on me, a jewel case full of pearls and diamonds, a handsome allowance, and various perquisites of the married state."

"But for somewhat different duties!"

Bridget said coldly, "Must we have this melodramatic attitude towards every single thing in life? If you are contemplating a pretty picture of Gordon as an luxurious lover, you can wash it right out. Gordon, as you should have realized, is a small boy who has not quite grown up. What he needs is a mother, not a wife. Unfortunately, his mother died when he was four years old. What he wants is someone at hand to whom he can brag, someone who will reassure him about himself and who is prepared to listen indefinitely to Lord Easterfield on the subject of himself."

"You've got a bitter tongue, haven't you?"

Bridget retorted sharply, "I don't tell myself fairy stories, if that's what you mean! I'm a young woman with a certain amount of intelligence, very moderate looks, and no money. I intend to earn an honest living. My job as Gordon's wife will be practically indistinguishable from my job as Gordon's secretary. After a year, I doubt if he'll remember to kiss me good night. The only difference is in the salary."

They looked at each other. Both of them were pale with anger. Bridget said jeeringly, "Go on. You're rather old-fashioned, aren't you, Mr. Fitzwilliam? Hadn't you better trot out the old cliches — say that I'm selling myself for money — that's always a good one, I think!"

Luke said, "You're a cold-blooded little devil!"

"That's better than being a hot-blooded little fool!"

"Is it?"

"Yes. I know."

Luke sneered. "What do you know?"

"I know what it is to care about a man! Did you ever meet Johnnie Cornish? I was engaged to him for three years. He was adorable. I cared like hell about him — cared so much that it hurt! Well, he threw me over and married a nice plump widow with a North Country accent and three chins, and an income of thirty thousand a year! That sort of thing rather cures one of romance, don't you think?"

Luke turned away with a sudden groan. He said, "It might."

"It did."

There was a pause. The silence lay heavy between them. Bridget broke it at last. She said, but with a slight uncertainty in her tone, "I hope you realize that you had no earthly right to speak to me as you did. You're staying in Gordon's house and it's damned bad taste."

Luke had recovered his composure. "Isn't that rather a cliche too?" he inquired politely.

Bridget flushed. "It's true, anyway."

"It isn't. I had every right."

"Nonsense!"

Luke looked at her. His face had a queer pallor, like a man who is suffering physical pain. He said, "I have a right. I've the right of caring for you — what did you say just now? — of caring so much that it hurts!"

She drew back a step. She said, "You –"

"Yes, funny, isn't it? The sort of thing that ought to give you a hearty laugh! I came down here to do a job of work and you came round the corner of that house and — how can I say it? — put a spell on me! That's what it feels like. You mentioned fairy stories just now. I'm caught up in a fairy story! You've bewitched me. I've a feeling that if you pointed your finger at me and said, 'Turn into a frog,' I'd go hopping away with my eyes popping out of my head." He took a step nearer to her. "I love you like hell, Bridget Conway. And, loving you like hell, you can't expect me to enjoy seeing you get married to a pot-bellied, pompous little peer who loses his temper when he doesn't win at tennis."

"What do you suggest I should do?"

"I suggest that you should marry me instead. But doubtless that suggestion will give rise to a lot of merry laughter."

"The laughter is positively uproarious."

"Exactly. Well, now we know where we are. Shall we return to the tennis court? Perhaps this time you will find me a partner who can play to win."

"Really," said Bridget sweetly. "I believe you mind losing just as much as Gordon does."

Luke caught her suddenly by the shoulders.

"You've got a devilish tongue, haven't you, Bridget?"