Agatha Christie - Murder is Easy

"Shall we go in and see?"

"Do you mind? I like pottering about antique shops. Sometimes one picks up a good bargain."

"I doubt if you will here," said Bridget dryly. "Ellsworthy knows the value of his stuff pretty accurately, I should say."

The door was open. In the hall were chairs and settees and dressers with china and pewter in them. Two rooms full of goods opened at either side. Luke went into the room on the left and picked up the slipware dish. At the same moment a dim figure came forward from the back of the room, where he had been sitting at a Queen Anne walnut desk.

"Ah, dear Miss Conway, what a pleasure to see you."

"Good morning, Mr. Ellsworthy."

Mr. Ellsworthy was a thin young man dressed in russet brown. He had a long pale face and long black hair. Luke was introduced, and Mr. Ellsworthy immediately transferred his attention to him.

"Genuine old English slipware. Lovely, isn't it? I have some good pieces, but I hate to sell them. It's always been my dream to live in the country and have a little shop. Marvelous place, Wychwood; it has atmosphere, if you know what I mean."

"The artistic temperament," murmured Bridget.

Ellsworthy turned on her with a flash of long white hands. "Not that terrible phrase, Miss Conway. I'm a tradesman, that's all; just a tradesman."

"But you're really an artist, aren't you?" said Luke. "I mean, you do water colors, don't you? Miss Waynflete told us that you had made several sketches of a girl — Amy Gibbs."

"Oh, Amy," said Mr. Ellsworthy. He took a step backward and set a beer mug rocking. He steadied it carefully. He said, "Did I? Oh, yes, I suppose I did." His poise seemed somewhat shaken.

"She was a pretty girl," said Bridget.

Ellsworthy had recovered his aplomb.

"Do you think so?" he asked. "Very interesting thought… If you're interested in slipware," he went on, to Luke, I have a couple slipware birds."

Luke displayed a faint interest in the birds and then asked the price of a duck. Ellsworth named a figure.

"Thanks," said Luke. "But I don't think I'll deprive you of it, after all."

"I am always relieved, you know," said Ellsworthy, "when I don't make a sale. Foolish, isn't it? Look here; I'll let you have the stuff for a guinea less — you care for it, I can see that; it makes all the difference. And after all, this is a shop."

"No thanks," said Luke.

Mr. Ellsworthy accompanied them out to the door.

"Queer fellow, Ellsworthy," he remarked, when they were out of earshot.

"I believe he dabbles in black magic. Not Black Masses, but that sort of things. The reputation of this place helps."

Luke said, rather awkwardly, "Good Lord, I think he's the kind of chap I need. I really ought to have talked to him on the subject."

"Do you think so?" said Bridget. "He knows a lot about it."

Luke said, "I'll have to look him up some other day."

Bridget didn't answer. They were out of the town now. She turned aside to follow a footpath, and they came to the river. There they passed a small man with a stiff mustache and protuberant eyes. He had three bulldogs with him to whom he was shouting hoarsely in turn: "Nero, come here! Nellie, leave it, I tell you! Augustus! Augustus! I say –"

He broke off to raise his hat, stared at Luke with what was evidently a devouring curiosity, and passed on resuming his hoarse expostulations.

"Major Horton and his bulldogs?" asked Luke.

"Quite right."

"Haven't we seen practically everyone of note in Wychwood this morning?"

"Practically."

"I feel rather intrusive," said Luke. "I suppose a stranger in an English village is bound to stick out a mile," he added ruefully, remembering Jimmy Lorrimer's remarks.

"Major Horton never hides his curiosity very well," said Bridget. "He did stare rather."

"He's the sort of man you could tell was a major anywhere," said Luke rather viciously.

Bridget said abruptly, "Shall we sit on the bank a bit? We've got lots of time."

They sat on a fallen tree that made a convenient seat. Bridget went on, "Yes, Major Horton is very military; has an orderly-room manner. You'd hardly believe he was the most henpecked man in existence a year ago."

"What, that fellow?"

"Yes. He had the most disagreeable woman for a wife that I've ever known. She had the money, too, and never scrupled to underline the fact in public."

"Poor brute — Horton, I mean."

"He behaved very nicely to her — always the officer and gentleman. Personally, I wonder he didn't take a hatchet to her."

"She wasn't popular, I gather."

"Everybody disliked her. She snubbed Gordon and patronized me, and made herself generally unpleasant wherever she went."

"But I gather a merciful Providence removed her?"

"Yes, about a year ago. Acute gastritis. She gave her husband. Doctor Thomas, and two nurses absolute hell, but she died all right. The bulldogs brightened up at once."

"Intelligent brutes."

There was a silence. Bridget was idly picking at the long grass. Luke frowned at the opposite bank unseeingly. Once again the dreamlike quality of his mission obsessed him. How much was fact, how much imagination? Wasn't it bad for one to go about studying every fresh person you met as a potential murderer? Something degrading about that point of view. "Damn it all," thought Luke. "I've been a policeman too long."

He was brought out of his abstraction with a shock. Bridget's cold clear voice was speaking.

"Mr. Fitzwilliam," she said, "just exactly why have you come down here?"

Luke had been just in the act of applying a match to a cigarette. The unexpectedness of her remark momentarily paralyzed his hand. He remained quite motionless for a second or two; the match burned down and scorched his finger.

"Damn!" said Luke, as he dropped the match and shook his hand vigorously. "I beg your pardon. You gave me rather a nasty jolt." He smiled ruefully.

"Did I?"

"Yes." He sighed. "Oh, well, I suppose anyone of real intelligence was bound to see through me. That story of my writing a book on folklore didn't take you in for a moment, I suppose?"

"Not after I'd once seen you."

"Not sufficient brains to write a book? Don't spare my feelings. I'd rather know."

"You might write a book, but not that kind of book — old superstitions, delving into the past — not that sort of thing! You're not the kind of man to whom the past means much — perhaps not even the future — only just the present."

"H'm. I see." He made a wry face. "Damn it all, you've made me nervous ever since I got here! You looked so confoundedly intelligent."

"I'm sorry," said Bridget dryly. "What did you expect?"

"Well, I really hadn't thought about it."

But she went on calmly, "A fluffy little person with just enough brains to realize her opportunities and marry her boss?"

Luke made a confused noise. She turned a cool, amused glance on him. "I quite understand. It's all right. I'm not annoyed."

Luke chose effrontery. "Well, perhaps, it was something faintly approaching that. But I didn't think much about it."

She said slowly, "No, you wouldn't. You don't cross your fences till you get to them." She paused a minute, then said: "Why are you down here, Mr. Fitzwilliam?"

They had returned full circle to the original question. Luke had been aware that it must be so. In the last few seconds he had been trying to make up his mind! He looked up now and met her eyes — shrewd, inquiring eyes that met his with a calm steady gaze. There was a gravity in them which he had not quite expected to find there.

"It would be better, I think," he said meditatively, "not to tell you any more lies."

"Much better."

"But the truth's awkward. Look here, have you yourself formed any opinions? I mean has anything occurred to you about my being here?"