Agatha Christie - Murder is Easy

Luke was favorably impressed by the appearance of Superintendent Battle. He was a solid comfortable-looking man with a broad red face and a large handsome mustache. He did not exactly express brilliance at a first glance, but a second glance was apt to make an observant person thoughtful, for Superintendent Battle's eye was unusually shrewd.

Luke did not make the mistake of underestimating him. He had met men of Battle 's type before. He knew that they could be trusted, and that they invariably got results. He could not have wished for a better man to be put in charge of the case. When they were alone together, Luke said, "You're rather a big noise to be sent down on a case like this."

Superintendent Battle smiled. "It may turn out to be a serious business, Mr. Fitzwilliam. When a man like Lord Easterfield is concerned, we don't want to have any mistakes."

"I appreciate that. Are you alone?"

"Oh, no. Got a detective sergeant with me. He's at the other pub, the Seven Stars, and his job is to keep an eye on his lordship."

"I see."

Battle asked, "In your opinion, Mr. Fitzwilliam, there's no doubt whatever? You're pretty sure of your man?"

"On the facts, I don't see that any alternative theory is possible. Do you want me to give you the facts?"

"I've had them, thank you, from Sir William."

"Well, what do you think? I suppose it seems to you wildly unlikely that a man in Lord Easterfield's position should be a homicidal criminal?"

"Very few things seem unlikely to me," said Superintendent Battle. "Nothing's impossible in crime. That's what I've always said. If you were to tell me that a dear old maiden lady, or an archbishop, or a schoolgirl, was a dangerous criminal, I wouldn't say no. I'd look into the matter."

"If you've heard the main facts of the case from Sir William, I'll just tell you what happened this morning," said Luke.

He ran over briefly the main lines of his scene with Lord Easterfield. Superintendent Battle listened with a good deal of interest.

He said, "You say he was fingering a knife. Did he make a special point of that knife, Mr. Fitzwilliam? Was he threatening with it?"

"Not openly. He tested the edge in rather a nasty way — a kind of esthetic pleasure about that that I didn't care about. Miss Waynflete felt the same, I believe."

"That's the lady you spoke about — the one who's known Lord Easterfield all her life, and was once engaged to marry him?"

"That's right."

Superintendent Battle said, "I think you can make your mind easy about the young lady, Mr. Fitzwilliam. I'll have someone put on to keep a sharp watch on her. With that, and with Jackson tailing his lordship, there ought to be no danger of anything happening."

"You relieve my mind a good deal," said Luke.

The superintendent nodded sympathetically.

"It's a nasty position for you, Mr. Fitzwilliam. Worrying about Miss Conway. Mind you, I don't expect this will be an easy case. Lord Easterfield must be a pretty shrewd man. He will probably lie low for a good long while. That is, unless he's got to the last stage."

"What do you call the last stage?"

"A kind of swollen egoism where a criminal thinks he simply can't be found out. He's too clever and everybody else is too stupid. Then, of course, we get him."

Luke nodded. He rose. "Well," he said, "I wish you luck. Let me help in any way I can."

"Certainly."

"There's nothing that you can suggest?"

Battle turned the question over in his mind. "I don't think so. Not at the moment. I just want to get the general hang of things in the place. Perhaps I could have another word with you in the evening?"

"Rather."

"I shall know better where we are then."

Luke felt vaguely comforted and soothed.

Many people had had that feeling after an interview with Superintendent Battle. He glanced at his watch. Should he go round and see Bridget before lunch? Better not, he thought. Miss Waynflete might feel that she had to ask him to stay for the meal and it might disorganize her housekeeping. Middle-aged ladies, Luke knew from experience with aunts, were liable to be fussed over problems of housekeeping. He wondered if Miss Waynflete was an aunt? Probably.

He had strolled out to the door of the inn. A figure in black hurrying down the street stopped suddenly when she saw him. "Mr. Fitzwilliam."

"Mrs. Humbleby." He came forward and shook hands.

She said, "I thought you had left."

"No, only changed my quarters. I'm staying here now."

"And Bridget? I heard she had left Ashe Manor."

"Yes, she has."

Mrs. Humbleby sighed. "I am so glad — so very glad she has gone right away from Wychwood."

"Oh, she's still here. As a matter of fact, she's staying with Miss Waynflete."

Mrs. Humbleby moved back a step. Her face, Luke noted with surprise, looked extraordinarily distressed. "Staying with Honoria Waynflete? Oh, but why?"

"Miss Waynflete very kindly asked her to stay for a few days."

Mrs. Humbleby gave a little shiver. She came close to Luke and laid a hand on his arm.

"Mr. Fitzwilliam, I know I have no right to say anything — anything at all. I have had a lot of sorrow and grief lately and, perhaps, it makes me fanciful. These feelings of mine may be only sick fancies."

Luke said gently, "What feelings?"

"This conviction I have of — of evil!" She looked timidly at Luke. Seeing that he merely bowed his head gravely and did not appear to question her statement, she went on, "So much wickedness — that is the thought that is always with me — wickedness here in Wychwood. And that woman is at the bottom of it all. I am sure of it."

Luke was mystified. "What woman?"

Mrs. Humbleby said, "Honoria Waynflete is, I am sure, a very wicked woman! Oh, I see you don't believe me! No one believed Lavinia Fullerton either. But we both felt it. She, I think, knew more than I did. Remember, Mr. Fitzwilliam, if a woman is not happy, she is capable of terrible things."

Luke said gently, "That may be, yes."

Mrs. Humbleby said quickly, "You don't believe me? Well, why should you? But I can't forget the day when John came home with his hand bound up from her house, though he pooh-poohed it and said it was only a scratch." She turned. "Good-bye. Please forget what I have just said. I — I don't feel quite myself these days."

Luke watched her go. He wondered why Mrs. Humbleby called Honoria Waynflete a wicked woman. Had Doctor Humbleby and Honoria Waynflete been friends, and was the doctor's wife jealous? What had she said? "No one believed Lavinia Fullerton either." Then Lavinia Fullerton must have confided some of her suspicions to Mrs. Humbleby.

With a rush, the memory of the railway carriage came back, and the worried face of a nice old lady. He heard again an earnest voice saying: "The look on a person's face." And the way her own face had changed, as though she were seeing something very clearly in her mind. Just for a moment, he thought, her face had been quite different; the lips drawn back from the teeth and a queer almost gloating look in her eyes.

He suddenly thought: "But I've seen someone look just like that — that same expression. Quite lately. When? This morning. Of course. Miss Waynflete when she was looking at Bridget in the drawing room at the Manor." And quite suddenly another memory assailed him. One of many years ago. His Aunt Mildred saying: "She looked, you know, my dear, quite half-witted." And just for a minute her own sane, comfortable face had borne an imbecile, mindless expression.

Lavinia Fullerton had been speaking of the look she had seen on a man's — no, a person's — face. Was it possible that, just for a second, her vivid imagination had reproduced the look that she saw — the look of a murderer looking at his next victim?