Murder Is Easy (15 page)

“No—no, Luke—”

“I tell you it is. Do you know what I felt on the back of his
head—in with the stickiness and mess—
grains of sand.
There's no sand about here. I tell you, Bridget, somebody stood here and slugged him as he came through the gate back to his cottage. Then laid him down and rolled that pineapple thing down on top of him.”

Bridget said faintly:

“Luke—there's blood—on your hands….”

Luke said grimly:

“There was blood on someone else's hands. Do you know what I was thinking this afternoon—that if there were to be one more crime we'd surely know. And we
do
know!
Ellsworthy!
He was out tonight and he came in with blood on his hands capering and prancing and mad—drunk with the homicidal maniac's expression….”

Looking down, Bridget shivered and said in a low voice: “Poor Rivers….”

Luke said pityingly:

“Yes, poor fellow. It's damnable bad luck. But this will be the last, Bridget! Now we
know,
we'll get him!”

He saw her sway and in two steps he had caught her in his arms.

She said in a small childlike voice:

“Luke, I'm frightened….”

He said, “It's all over, darling. It's all over….”

She murmured:

“Be kind to me—please. I've been hurt so much.”

He said: “We've hurt each other. We won't do that anymore.”

D
r. Thomas stared across his consulting room desk at Luke.

“Remarkable,” he said. “Remarkable! You are really
serious,
Mr. Fitzwilliam?”

“Absolutely. I am convinced that Ellsworthy is a dangerous maniac.”

“I have not paid special attention to the man. I should say, though, that he is possibly an abnormal type.”

“I'd go a good deal further than that,” said Luke grimly.

“You seriously believe that this man Rivers was murdered?”

“I do. You noticed the grains of sand in the wound?”

Dr. Thomas nodded.

“I looked out for them after your statement. I am bound to say that you were correct.”

“That makes it clear, does it not, that the accident was faked and that the man was killed by a blow from a sandbag—or at any rate was stunned by one.”

“Not necessarily.”

“What do you mean?”

Dr. Thomas leaned back and joined his fingertips together.

“Supposing that this man Rivers had been lying out in a sand-pit during the day—there are several about in this part of the world. That might account for grains of sand in the hair.”

“Man, I tell you he was murdered!”

“You may tell me so,” said Dr. Thomas drily, “but that doesn't make it a fact.”

Luke controlled his exasperation.

“I suppose you don't believe a word of what I'm telling you.”

Dr. Thomas smiled, a kindly superior smile.

“You must admit, Mr. Fitzwilliam, that it's rather a wild story. You assert that this man Ellsworthy has killed a servant girl, a small boy, a drunken publican, my own partner and finally this man Rivers.”

“You don't believe it?”

Dr. Thomas shrugged his shoulders.

“I have some knowledge of Humbleby's case. It seems to me quite out of the question that Ellsworthy could have caused his death, and I really cannot see that you have any evidence at all that he did so.”

“I don't know how he managed it,” confessed Luke, “but it all hangs together with Miss Pinkerton's story.”

“There again you assert that Ellsworthy followed her up to London and ran her down in a car. Again you haven't a shadow of proof that happened! It's all—well—romancing!”

Luke said sharply:

“Now that I know where I am it will be my business to get proofs. I'm going up to London tomorrow to see an old pal of
mine. I saw in the paper two days ago that he'd been made Assistant Commissioner of Police. He knows me and he'll listen to what I have to say. One thing I'm sure of, he'll order a thorough investigation of the whole business.”

Dr. Thomas stroked his chin thoughtfully.

“Well—no doubt that should be very satisfactory. If it turns out that you're mistaken—”

Luke interrupted him.

“You definitely don't believe a word of all this?”

“In wholesale murder?” Dr. Thomas raised his eyebrows. “Quite frankly, Mr. Fitzwilliam, I don't. The thing is too fantastic.”

“Fantastic, perhaps. But it hangs together. You've got to admit it hangs together. Once you accept Miss Pinkerton's story as true.”

Dr. Thomas was shaking his head. A slight smile came to his lips. “If you knew some of these old maids as well as I do,” he murmured.

Luke rose, trying to control his annoyance.

“At any rate, you're well named,” he said. “A doubting Thomas, if there ever was one!”

Thomas replied good-humouredly:

“Give me a few proofs, my dear fellow. That's all I ask. Not just a long melodramatic rigmarole based on what an old lady fancied she saw.”

“What old ladies fancy they see is very often right. My Aunt Mildred was positively uncanny! Have you got any aunts yourself, Thomas?”

“Well—er—no.”

“A mistake!” said Luke. “Every man should have aunts. They
illustrate the triumph of guesswork over logic. It is reserved for aunts to
know
that Mr. A. is a rogue because he looks like a dishonest butler they once had. Other people say reasonably enough that a respectable man like Mr. A. couldn't be a crook. The old ladies are right every time.”

Dr. Thomas smiled his superior smile again.

Luke said, his exasperation mounting once more:

“Don't you realize that I'm a policeman myself? I'm not the complete amateur.”

Dr. Thomas smiled and murmured:

“In the Mayang Straits!”

“Crime is crime even in the Mayang Straits.”

“Of course—of course.”

Luke left Dr. Thomas's surgery in a state of suppressed irritation.

He joined Bridget, who said:

“Well, how did you get on?”

“He didn't believe me,” said Luke. “Which, when you come to think of it, is hardly surprising. It's a wild story with no proofs. Dr. Thomas is emphatically
not
the sort of man who believes six impossible things before breakfast!”

“Will anybody believe you?”

“Probably not, but when I get hold of old Billy Bones tomorrow, the wheels will start turning. They'll check up on our long-haired friend, Ellsworthy, and in the end they're bound to get somewhere.”

Bridget said thoughtfully:

“We're coming out into the open very much, aren't we?”

“We've got to. We can't—we simply can't afford anymore murders.”

Bridget shivered.

“For God's sake be careful, Luke.”

“I'm being careful all right. Don't walk near gates with pineapples on them, avoid the lonely wood at nightfall, watch out for your food and drink. I know all the ropes.”

“It's horrible feeling you're a marked man.”

“So long as you're not a marked woman, my sweet.”

“Perhaps I am.”

“I don't think so. But I don't intend to take risks! I'm watching over you like an old-fashioned guardian angel.”

“Is it any good saying anything to the police here?”

Luke considered.

“No, I don't think it is—better go straight to Scotland Yard.”

Bridget murmured:

“That's what Miss Pinkerton thought.”

“Yes, but
I
shall be watching out for trouble.”

Bridget said:

“I know what I'm going to do tomorrow. I shall march Gordon down to that brute's shop and make him buy things.”

“Thereby ensuring that our Mr. Ellsworthy is not lying in ambush for me on the steps of Whitehall?”

“That's the idea.”

Luke said with some slight embarrassment: “About Whitfield—”

Bridget said quickly:

“Let's leave it till you come back tomorrow. Then we'll have it out.”

“Will he be very cut up, do you think?”

“Well—” Bridget considered the question. “He'll be annoyed.”

“Annoyed? Ye gods! Isn't that putting it a bit mildly?”

“No. Because you see Gordon doesn't
like
being annoyed! It upsets him!”

Luke said soberly, “I feel rather uncomfortable about it all.”

That feeling was uppermost in his mind when he prepared that evening to listen for the twentieth time to Lord Whitfield on the subject of Lord Whitfield. It was, he admitted, a cad's trick to stay in a man's house and steal his fiancée. He still felt, however, that a potbellied, pompous, strutting little nincompoop like Lord Whitfield ought never to have aspired to Bridget at all!

But his conscience so far chastened him that he listened with an extra dose of fervent attention and in consequence made a thoroughly favourable impression on his host.

Lord Whitfield was in high good humour this evening. The death of his erstwhile chauffeur seemed to have exhilarated rather than depressed him.

“Told you that fellow would come to a bad end,” he crowed, holding up a glass of port to the light and squinting through it. “Didn't I tell you so yesterday evening?”

“You did, indeed, sir.”

“And you see I was right! It's amazing how often I'm right!”

“That must be splendid for you,” said Luke.

“I've had a wonderful life—yes, a wonderful life! My path's been smoothed clear before me. I've always had great faith and trust in Providence. That's the secret, Fitzwilliam, that's the secret.”

“Yes?”

“I'm a religious man. I believe in good and evil and eternal justice. There
is
such a thing as divine justice, Fitzwilliam, not a doubt of it!”

“I believe in justice, too,” said Luke.

Lord Whitfield, as usual, was not interested in the beliefs of other people.

“Do right by your Creator and your Creator will do right by you! I've always been an upright man. I've subscribed to charity, and I've made my money honestly. I'm not beholden to any man! I stand alone. You remember in the Bible how the patriarchs became prosperous, herds and flocks were added to them, and their enemies were smitten down!”

Luke stifled a yawn and said:

“Quite—quite.”

“It's remarkable—absolutely remarkable,” said Lord Whitfield. “The way that a righteous man's enemies are struck down! Look at yesterday. That fellow abuses me—even goes so far as to try to raise his hand against me. And what happens? Where is he today?”

He paused rhetorically and then answered himself in an impressive voice:

“Dead! Struck down by divine wrath!”

Opening his eyes a little, Luke said:

“Rather an excessive punishment, perhaps, for a few hasty words uttered after a glass too much.”

Lord Whitfield shook his head.

“It's always like that! Retribution comes swiftly and terribly. And there's good authentic authority for it. Remember the children that mocked Elisha—how the bears came out and devoured them. That's the way things happen, Fitzwilliam.”

“I always thought that was rather unnecessarily vindictive.”

“No, no. You're looking at it the wrong way. Elisha was a great and holy man. No one could be suffered to mock at him and live! I understand that because of my own case!”

Luke looked puzzled.

Lord Whitfield lowered his voice.

“I could hardly believe it at first.
But it happened every time!
My enemies and detractors were cast down and exterminated.”

“Exterminated?”

Lord Whitfield nodded gently and sipped his port.

“Time after time. One case quite like Elisha—a little boy. I came upon him in the gardens here—he was employed by me then. Do you know what he was doing? He was giving an imitation of Me—of ME!
Mocking
me! Strutting up and down with an audience to watch him. Making fun of me on my own ground!
D'you know what happened to him?
Not ten days later he fell out of an upper window and was killed!

“Then there was that ruffian Carter—a drunkard and a man of evil tongue. He came here and abused me. What happened to him? A week later he was dead—drowned in the mud. There had been a servant girl, too. She lifted her voice and called me names. Her punishment soon came. She drank poison by mistake! I could tell you heaps more. Humbleby dared to oppose me over the Water scheme.
He
died of blood poisoning. Oh, it's been going on for years—Mrs. Horton, for instance, was abominably rude to me and it wasn't long before
she
passed away.”

He paused and leaning forward passed the port decanter round to Luke.

“Yes,” he said. “They all died. Amazing, isn't it?”

Luke stared at him. A monstrous, an incredible suspicion leapt into his mind! With new eyes, he stared at the small fat man who sat at the head of the table, who was gently nodding his head and whose light protuberant eyes met Luke's with a smiling insouciance.

A rush of disconnected memories flashed rapidly through Luke's brain. Major Horton saying “Lord Whitfield was very kind. Sent down grapes and peaches from his hothouse.” It was Lord Whitfield who so graciously allowed Tommy Pierce to be employed on window cleaning at the library. Lord Whitfield holding forth on his visit to the Wellerman Kreutz Institute with its serums and germ cultures just a short time before Dr. Humbleby's death. Everything pointing plainly in one direction and he, fool that he had been, never even suspecting….

Lord Whitfield was still smiling. A quiet happy smile. He nodded his head gently at Luke.

“They all die,”
said Lord Whitfield.