Agatha Christie - Murder is Easy

At that moment, Emily, a small clumsy-looking girl with pronounced adenoids, appeared in the doorway and said, "If you blease, biss, did you bean the frilled billow cases?"

Miss Waynflete hurriedly left the room, and Bridget took advantage of the respite to pour her tea out of the window, narrowly escaping scalding Wonky Pooh, who was on the flower bed below.

Wonky Pooh accepted her apologies, sprang up on the window sill and proceeded to wind himself in and out over Bridget's shoulders, purring in an affected manner.

"Handsome!" said Bridget, drawing a hand down his back. Wonky Pooh arched his tail and purred with redoubled vigor. "Nice pussy," said Bridget, tickling his ears. Miss Waynflete returned at that minute.

"Dear me," she exclaimed. "Wonky Pooh has quite taken to you, hasn't he? He's so standoffish as a rule! Mind his ear, my dear. He's had a bad ear lately and it's still very painful." The injunction came too late.

Bridget's hand had tweaked the painful ear. Wonky Pooh spat at her and retired, a mass of orange offended dignity. "Oh, dear, has he scratched you?" cried Miss Waynflete.

"Nothing much," said Bridget, sucking a diagonal scratch on the back of her hand.

"Shall I put some iodine on?"

"Oh, no, it's quite all right. Don't let's fuss."

Miss Waynflete seemed a little disappointed. Feeling that she had been ungracious, Bridget said hastily, "I wonder how long Luke will be?"

"Now don't worry, my dear. I'm sure Mr. Fitzwilliam is well able to take care of himself."

"Oh, Luke's tough all right!"

At that moment the telephone rang.

Bridget hurried to it. Luke's voice spoke, "Hullo? That you, Bridget? I'm at the Bells and Motley. Can you wait for your traps till after lunch? Because Battle has arrived here — you know who I mean."

"The superintendent man from Scotland Yard?"

"Yes. And he wants to have a talk with me right away."

"That's all right by me. Bring my things round after lunch and tell me what he says about it all."

"Right. So long, my sweet."

Bridget replaced the receiver and retailed the conversation to Miss Waynflete. Then she yawned. A feeling of fatigue had succeeded her excitement. Miss Waynflete noticed it. "You're tired, my dear! You'd better lie down. No, perhaps that would be a bad thing just before lunch. I was just going to take some old clothes to a woman in a cottage not very far away — quite a pretty walk over the fields. Perhaps you'd care to come with me? We'll just have time before lunch."

Bridget agreed willingly. They went out the back way. Miss Waynflete wore a straw hat and, to Bridget's amusement, had put on gloves. "We might be going to Bond Street ," she thought to herself.

Miss Waynflete chatted pleasantly of various small village matters as they walked. They went across two fields, crossed a rough lane and then took a path leading through a ragged copse. The day was hot and Bridget found the shade of the trees pleasant. Miss Waynflete suggested that they should sit down and rest a minute. "It's really rather oppressively warm today, don't you think? I fancy there must be thunder about."

Bridget acquiesced somewhat sleepily. She lay back against the bank, her eyes half closed, some lines of poetry wandering through her brain:

O why do you walk through the fields in gloves,

O fat white woman whom nobody loves?

But that wasn't quite right! Miss Waynflete wasn't fat. She amended the words to fit the case:

O why do you walk through the fields in gloves,

O lean gray woman whom nobody loves?

Miss Waynflete broke in upon her thoughts. "You're very sleepy, dear, aren't you?"

The words were said in a gentle everyday tone, but something in them jerked Bridget's eyes suddenly open.

Miss Waynflete was leaning forward toward her. Her eyes were eager, her tongue passed gently over her lips. She repeated her question: "You're very sleepy, aren't you?"

This time there was no mistaking the definite significance of the tone. A flash passed through Bridget's brain — a lightning flash of comprehension, succeeded by one of contempt at her own density. She had suspected the truth, but it had been no more than a dim suspicion. She had meant, working quietly and secretly, to make sure. But not for one moment had she realized that anything was to be attempted against herself. She had, she thought, concealed her suspicions entirely.

Nor would she have dreamed that anything would be contemplated so soon.

Fool — seven times fool! And she thought suddenly: "The tea — there was something in the tea. She doesn't know I never drank it. Now's my chance. I must pretend. What stuff was it, I wonder? Poison? Or just sleeping stuff? She expects me to be sleepy — that's evident."

She let her eyelids droop again. In what she hoped was a natural drowsy voice, she said: "I do — frightfully. How funny! I don't know when I've felt so sleepy."

Miss Waynflete nodded softly. Bridget watched the older woman narrowly through her almost-closed eyes. She thought: "I'm a match for her anyway. My muscles are pretty tough; she's a skinny frail old pussy. But I've got to make her talk — that's it, make her talk."

Miss Waynflete was smiling. It was not a nice smile. It was sly and not very human.

Bridget thought: "She's like a goat. How like a goat she is! A goat's always been an evil symbol. I see why now. I was right — I was right in that fantastic idea of mine. Hell has no fury like a woman scorned. That was the start of it; it's all there."

She murmured, and this time her voice held a definite note of apprehension: "I don't know what's the matter with me, I feel so queer — so very queer."

Miss Waynflete gave a swift glance round her. The spot was entirely desolate. It was too far from the village for a shout to be heard. There were no houses or cottages near. She began to fumble with the parcel she carried — the parcel that was supposed to contain old clothes. Apparently, it did. The paper came apart, revealing a soft woolly garment. And still those gloved hands fumbled and fumbled.

O why do you walk through the fields in gloves?

Yes, why? Why gloves? Of course! Of course! The whole thing so beautifully planned!

The wrapping fell aside. Carefully, Miss Waynflete extracted the knife, holding it very carefully, so as not to obliterate the fingerprints which were already on it — where the short podgy fingers of Lord Easterfield had held it earlier that day in the drawing room at Ashe Manor. The Moorish knife with the sharp blade.

Bridget felt slightly sick. She must play for time — yes, and she must make the woman talk — this lean gray woman whom nobody loved. It ought not to be difficult — not really.

Because she must want to talk, oh, so badly — and the only person she could ever talk to was someone like Bridget — someone who was going to be silenced forever. Bridget said, in a faint thick voice, "What's that knife?"

And then Miss Waynflete laughed. It was a horrible laugh, soft and musical and ladylike and quite inhuman. She said, "It's for you, Bridget. For you! I've hated you, you know, for a very long time."

Bridget said, "Because I was going to marry Gordon Easterfield?"

Miss Waynflete nodded. "You're clever. You're quite clever! This, you see, will be the crowning proof against him. You'll be found here, with your throat cut — and his knife, and his fingerprints on the knife! Clever, the way I asked to see it this morning! And then I slipped it into my bag, wrapped in a handkerchief, whilst you were upstairs. So easy! But the whole thing has been easy. I would hardly have believed it."

Bridget said — still in the thick muffled voice of a person heavily drugged, "That's because you're so devilishly clever."

Miss Waynflete laughed her lady-like little laugh again. She said, with a horrible kind of pride, "Yes, I always had brains, even as a girl. But they wouldn't let me do anything. I had to stay at home, doing nothing. And then Gordon — just a common bootmaker's son, but he had ambition. I knew — I knew he would rise in the world. And then he jilted me — jilted me! All because of that ridiculous business with the bird." Her hands made a queer gesture, as though she were twisting something. Again a wave of sickness passed over Bridget.