Agatha Christie - Murder is Easy

The small drawing room was exquisitely neat and smelled faintly of burnt lavender. Miss Waynflete offered her guests chairs, and then said apologetically, "I'm afraid I don't smoke myself, so I have no cigarettes, but do please smoke if you like."

Luke refused, but Bridget promptly lighted a cigarette.

Sitting bolt upright in a chair with carved arms. Miss Waynflete studied her guest for a moment or two, and then, dropping her eyes as though satisfied, she said: "You want to know about that poor girl, Amy? The whole thing was very sad and caused me a great deal of distress. Such a tragic mistake."

"Wasn't there some question of — suicide?" asked Luke.

Miss Waynflete shook her head. "No, no, that I cannot believe for a moment. Amy was not at all that type."

"What type was she?" asked Luke bluntly. "I'd like to hear your account of her."

Miss Waynflete said, "Well, of course, she wasn't at all a good servant. But nowadays, really, one is thankful to get anybody. She was very slipshod over her work and always wanting to go out. Well, of course, she was young and girls are like that nowadays. They don't seem to realize that their time is their employer's."

Luke looked properly sympathetic and Miss Waynflete proceeded to develop her theme. "She was fond of admiration," went on Miss Waynflete, "and was inclined to think a lot of herself. Mr. Ellsworthy — he keeps the new antique shop, but he is actually a gentleman — he dabbles a little in water colors and he had done one or two sketches of the girl's head — and I think you know, that that rather gave her ideas. She was rather inclined to quarrel with the young man she was engaged to — Jim Harvey. He's a mechanic at the garage and very fond of her."

Miss Waynflete paused and then went on, "I shall never forget that dreadful night. Amy had been out of sorts; a nasty cough and one thing and another — those silly, cheap silk stockings they will wear, and shoes with paper soles, practically, of course, they catch chills — and she'd been to the doctor that afternoon."

Luke asked quickly, "Doctor Humbleby or Doctor Thomas?"

"Doctor Thomas. And he gave her a bottle of cough mixture that she brought back with her. Something quite harmless — a stock mixture, I believe. She went to bed early, and it must have been about one in the morning when the noise began — an awful kind of choking scream. I got up and went to her door, but it was locked on the inside. I called to her, but couldn't get any answer. Cook was with me, and we were both terribly upset. And then we went to the front door and, luckily, there was Reed — our constable — just passing on his beat, and we called to him. He went round the back of the house and managed to climb up on the outhouse roof, and as her window was open, he got in quite easily that way and unlocked the door. Poor girl, it was terrible. They couldn't do anything for her, and she died in hospital a few hours later."

"And it was — what? — hat paint?"

"Yes. Oxalic-acid poisoning is what they called it. The bottle was about the same size as the cough-unctus one. The latter was on her washstand and the hat paint was by her bed. She must have picked up the wrong bottle and put it by her in the dark, ready to take if she felt badly. That was the theory at the inquest."

Miss Waynflete stopped. Her intelligent goat's eyes looked at him, and he was aware that some particular significance lay behind them. He had the feeling that she was leaving some part of the story untold, and a stronger feeling that, for some reason, she wanted him to be aware of the fact.

There was a silence — a long and rather difficult silence. Luke felt like an actor who does not know his cue. He said, rather weakly, "And you don't think it was suicide?"

Miss Waynflete said promptly, "Certainly not. If the girl had decided to make away with herself, she would have bought something, probably. This was an old bottle of stuff that she must have had for years. And anyway, as I've told you, she wasn't that kind of girl."

"So you think — what?" said Luke bluntly.

Miss Waynflete said, "I think it was very unfortunate." She closed her lips and looked at him earnestly.

Just when Luke was feeling that he must try desperately to say something anticipated, a diversion occurred. There was a scratching at the door and a plaintive mew. Miss Waynflete sprang up and went to open the door, whereupon a magnificent orange Persian walked in. He paused, looked disapprovingly at the visitor, and sprang up on the arm of Miss Waynflete's chair. Miss Waynflete addressed him in a cooing voice.

"Why, Wonky Pooh! Where's my Wonky Pooh been all the morning?"

The name struck a chord of memory.

Where had he heard something about a Persian cat called Wonky Pooh? He said, "That's a very handsome cat. Have you had him long?"

Miss Waynflete shook her head. "Oh, no, he belonged to an old friend of mine. Miss Fullerton. She was run over by one of these horrid motorcars, and, of course, I couldn't have let Wonky Pooh go to strangers. Lavinia would have been most upset. She simply worshipped him — and he is very beautiful, isn't he?"

Luke admired the cat gravely. Miss Waynflete said, "Be careful of his ears. They've been rather painful lately."

Luke stroked the animal warily. Bridget rose to her feet. She said, "We must be going."

Miss Waynflete shook hands with Luke.

"Perhaps," she said, "I shall see you again before long."

Luke said cheerfully, "I hope so, I'm sure."

He thought she looked puzzled and a little disappointed. Her gaze shifted to Bridget — a rapid look with a hint of interrogation in it. Luke felt that there was some understanding between the two women from which he was excluded. It annoyed him, but he promised himself to get to the bottom of it before long. Miss Waynflete came out with them. Luke stood a minute on the top of the steps, looking with approval on the untouched primness of the village green and the duck pond. "Marvelously unspoilt, this place," he said.

Miss Waynflete's face lit up. "Yes, indeed," she said eagerly. "Really, it is still just as I remember it as a child. We lived in the Hall, you know. But when it came to my brother, he did not care to live in it — indeed, could not afford to do so — and it was put up for sale. A builder had made an offer and was, I believe, going to 'develop the land' — I think that was the phrase. Fortunately, Lord Easterfield stepped in and acquired the property and saved it. He turned the house into a library and museum, really it is practically untouched. I act as librarian twice a week there — unpaid, of course — and I can't tell you what a pleasure it is to be in the old place and know that it will not be vandalized. And really it is a perfect setting; you must visit our little museum one day, Mr. Fitzwilliam. There are some quite interesting local exhibits."

"I certainly shall make a point of doing so, Miss Waynflete."

"Lord Easterfield has been a great benefactor to Wychwood," said Miss Waynflete. "It grieves me that there are people who are sadly ungrateful."

Her lips pressed themselves together. Luke discreetly asked no questions. He said good-bye again.

When they were outside the gate, Bridget said, "Do you want to pursue further researches, or shall we go home by way of the river? It's a pleasant walk."

Luke answered promptly. He had no mind for further investigations, with Bridget Conway standing by listening. He said, "Go around by the river by all means."

They walked along the High Street. One of the last houses had a sign decorated in old gold lettering with the word ANTIQUES on it. Luke paused and peered through one of the windows into the cool depths. "Rather a nice slipware dish there," he remarked. "Do for an aunt of mine. Wonder how much they want for it?"