Abbot's house, he did, being in liquor at the
time, and shouting out the foulest language
at the top of his voice. Poor Mrs. Carter, she
had a deal to put up with, and, it must be
owned. Carter's death was a merciful release
as far as she was concerned."
"He left a daughter, too, didn't he?"
"Ah," said Mrs. Pierce, "I'm never one to
gossip." This was unexpected, but promising.
Luke pricked up his ears and waited. "I
don't say there was anything in it but talk.
Lucy Carter's a fine-looking young woman
in her way, and if it hadn't been for the
difference in station, I dare say no notice
would have been taken. But talk there has
been, and you can't deny it; especially after
Carter went right up to his house, shouting
and swearing."
Luke gathered the implications of this
somewhat confused speech. "Mr. Abbot
looks as though he'd appreciate a goodlooking
girl," he said.
"It's often the way with gentlemen," said
Mrs. Pierce. "They don't mean anything by
it--just a word or two in passing--but the
gentry's the gentry and it gets noticed in
consequence. Ifs only to be expected in a
quiet place like this."
"It's a very charming place," said Luke.
"So unspoilt."
"That's what artists always say 5 but I think
we're a bit behind the times, myself. Why, there's been no building here to speak of.
Over at Ashevale, for instance, they've got a
lovely lot of new houses, some of them with
green roofs and stained glass in the
windows."
Luke shuddered slightly. "You've got a
grand new Institute here," he said.
"They say it's a very fine building," said
Mrs. Pierce, without great enthusiasm. "Of
course, his lordship's done a lot for the place.
He means well; we all know that."
"But you don't think his efforts are quite
successful?" said Luke, amused.
"Well, of course, sir, he isn't really gentry--not
like Miss Waynflete, for instance, and Miss Conway. Why, Lord Easterfield's
father kept a boot shop only a few doors
from here. My mother remembers Gordon
Ragg serving in the shop--remembers it as
well as anything. Of course, he's his lordship
now and he's a rich man, but it's never the
same, is it, sir?"
"Evidently not," said Luke.
"You'll excuse me mentioning it, sir," said
Mrs. Pierce. "And of course I know you're
staying at the Manor and writing a book.
But you're a cousin of Miss Bridget's, I know, and that's quite a different thing. Very
pleased we shall be to have her back as
mistress ofAshe Manor."
"Rather," said Luke. "I'm sure you will."
He paid for his cigarettes and paper with
sudden abruptness. He thought to himself:
"The personal element. One must keep that
out of it. Hell, I'm here to track down a
criminal. What does it matter who that blackhaired
witch marries or doesn't marry? She
doesn't come into this."
He walked slowly along the street. With
an effort, he thrust Bridget into the back of
his mind. "Now then," he said to himself.
"Abbot. The case against Abbot. I've linked
him up with three of the victims. He had a
row with Humbleby, a row with Carter and
a row with Tommy Pierce, and all three
died. What about the girl, Amy Gibbs? What
was the private letter that infernal boy saw?
Did he know who it was from? Or didn't
he? He mayn't have said so to his mother.
But suppose he did. Suppose Abbot thought
it necessary to shut his mouth. It could be
That's all one can say about it. It could be. Not good enough."
Luke quickened his pace, looking about
him with sudden exasperation. "This damned
village--it's getting on my nerves. So smiling
and peaceful, so innocent, and all the time
this crazy streak of murder running through
it. Or am I the crazy one? Was Lavinia
Fullerton crazy? After all, the whole thing
could be coincidence--yes, Humbleby's
death and all." He glanced back down the
length of the High Street, and he was assailed
by a strong feeling of unreality. He
said to himself, "These things don't happen."
Then he lifted his eyes to the long frowning
line of Ashe Ridge, and at once the unreality
passed. Ashe Ridge was real; it knew strange
things--witchcraft and cruelty and forgotten
blood lusts and evil rites.
He startled. Two figures were walking
along the side of the ridge. He recognized
them easily--Bridget and Ellsworthy. The
young man was gesticulating with those curious unpleasant hands of his. His head was
bent to Bridget's. They looked like two figures
out of a dream. One felt that their feet
made no sound as they sprang catlike from
tuft to tuft. He saw her black hair stream
out behind her, blown by the wind. Again
that queer magic of hers held him. "Bewitched, that's what I am--betwitched," he
said to himself.
He stood quite still; a queer numbed feeling
spreading over him. He thought to himself
ruefully, "Who's to break the spell?
There's no one."
Ten
A soft sound behind him made him turn
sharply. A girl was standing there, a remarkably
pretty girl, with brown hair curling
round her ears and rather timid-looking dark
blue eyes. She flushed a little with embarrassment
before she spoke. "Mr. Fitzwilliam, isn't it?" she said.
"Yes. I--"
"I'm Rose Humbleby. Bridget told me
that--that you knew some people who knew
my father."
Luke had the grace to flush slightly under
his tan. "It was a long time ago," he said
rather lamely. "They--er--knew him as a
young man--before he was married."
"Oh, I see." Rose Humbleby looked a
little crestfallen. But she went on, "You're
writing a book, aren't you?"
"Yes. I'm making notes for one, that is.
About local superstitions. All that sort of
thing."
"I see. It sounds frightfully interesting."
Luke smiled at her. He thought, "Our
Doctor Thomas is in luck."
"There are people," he said, "who can
make the most exciting subject unbearably
boring. Fm afraid I'm one of them."
Rose Humbleby smiled back. Then she
said, "Do you believe in--in superstitions
and all that?"
"That's a difficult question. It doesn't follow, you know. One can be interested in
things one doesn't believe in."
"Yes, I suppose so." The girl sounded
doubtful.
"Are you superstitious?"
"N-no, I don't think so. But I do think
things come in--in waves."
"Waves?"
"Waves of bad luck and good luck. I mean, I f
eel as though lately all Wychwood was
under a spell of--of misfortune. Father dying, and Miss Fullerton being run over, and
that little boy who fell out of the window.
I--I began to feel as though I hated this
place--as though I must get away."
Her breath came rather faster. Luke looked
at her thoughtfully. "So you feel like that?"
"Oh, I know it's silly. I suppose really it
was poor Daddy dying so unexpectedly--it
was so horribly sudden." She shivered. "And
then Miss Fullerton. She said--" The girl
paused.
"What did she say? She was a delightful
old lady, I thought--very like a rather special
aunt of mine."
"Oh, did you know her?" Rose's face lit
up. "I was very fond of her and she was
devoted to Daddy. But I've sometimes wondered
if she was what the Scotch call 'fey.' "
"Why?"
"Because--it's so odd--she seemed quite
afraid that something was going to happen to
Daddy. She almost warned me. Especially
about accidents. And then that day, just before
she went up to town, she was so odd in
her manner--absolutely in a dither. I really
do think, Mr. Fitzwilliam, that she was one
of those people who have second sight. I
think she knew that something was going to
happen to her. And she must have known
that something was going to happen to Daddy
too. It's--it's rather frightening, that sort of
thing!" She moved a step nearer to him.
"There are times when one can foresee the
future," said Luke. "It isn't always supernatural, though."
"No, I suppose it's quite natural, really--
just a faculty that most people lack. All the
same it worries me."
"You mustn't worry," said Luke gently.
"Remember, it's all behind you now. It's no
good going back over the past. It's the future
one has to live for."
"I know. But there's more, you see." Rose
hesitated. "There was something--to do with
your cousin."
"My cousin? Bridget?"
"Yes. Miss Fullerton was worried about
her in the same way. She was always asking
me questions. I think she was afraid for her
too."
Luke turned, sharply scanning the hillside.
He had an unreasoning sense of fear for
Bridget. Fancy--all fancy! Ellsworthy was
only a harmless dilettante who played at
shopkeeping. As though reading his
thoughts. Rose said, "Do you like Mr.
Ellsworthy?"
"Emphatically no."
"Geoffrey--Doctor Thomas, you know--
doesn't like him either."
"And you?"
"Oh, no, I think he's dreadful." She drew
a little nearer. "There's a lot of talk about
him. I was told that he had some queer
ceremony in the Witches' Meadow--a lot of
his friends came down from London--frightfully
queer-looking people. And Tommy
Pierce was a kind of acolyte."
"Tommy Pierce?" said Luke sharply.
"Yes. He had a surplice and a red
cassock."
"When was this?"
"Oh, some time ago. I think it was in
March."
"Tommy Pierce seems to have been mixed
up in everything that ever took place in this
village."
Rose said, "He was frightfully inquisitive.
He always had to know whatever was going
on."
"He probably knew a bit too much in the
end," said Luke grimly.
Rose accepted the words at their face value.
"He was rather an odious little boy. He liked
cutting up wasps and he teased dogs."
"The kind of boy whose decease is hardly
to be regretted."
"No, I suppose not. It was terrible for his
mother, though."
"I gather she has six blessings left to console
her. She's got a good tongue, that
woman."
"She does talk a lot, doesn't she?"
"After buying a few cigarettes from her, I
feel I know the full history of everyone in
the place."
Rose said ruefully, "That's the worst of a
place like this. Everybody knows everything
about everybody else."
"Oh, no," said Luke.
She looked at him inquiringly.
Luke said, with significance, "No one human
being knows the full truth about another
human being. Not even one's nearest
and dearest."
"Not even--" She stopped. "Oh, I suppose
you're right, but I wish you wouldn't
say frightening things like that, Mr.
Fitzwilliam."
"Does it frighten you?"
Slowly, she nodded her head. Then she
turned abruptly. "I must be going now. If--
if you have nothing better to do--I mean if
you could--do come and see us. Mother
would--would like to see you because of
your knowing friends of Daddy's so long
ago." She walked slowly away down the road.
Her head was bent a little, as though some
weight of care or perplexity bowed it down.
Luke stood looking after her. A sudden
wave of solicitude swept over him. He felt a
longing to shield and protect this girl. From
what? Asking himself the question, he shook
his head with a momentary impatience at
himself. It was tme that Rose Humbleby
had recently lost her father, but she had a
mother, and she was engaged to be married, to a decidedly attractive young man who was
fully adequate to anything in the protection
line. Then why should he, Luke Fitzwilliam, be assailed by this protection complex?
"All the same," he said to himself, as he
strolled on toward the looming mass of Ashe
Ridge, "I like that girl. She's much too good
for Thomas--a cool, superior devil like that."
A memory of the doctor's last smile on the
doorstep recurred to him. Decidedly smug, it had been! Complacent!
The sound of footsteps a little way ahead
roused Luke from his slightly irritable meditations.
He looked up to see young Mr.
Ellsworthy coming down the path from the
hillside. His eyes were on the ground and he
was smiling to himself. His expression struck
Luke disagreeably. Ellsworthy was not so
much walking as prancing--like a man who
keeps time to some devilish little jig running
in his brain. His smile was a strange secret
contortion of the lips; it had a gleeful slyness
that was definitely unpleasant. Luke had
stopped and Ellsworthy was nearly abreast of
him when he at last looked up. His eyes, malicious and dancing, met the other man's
for just a minute before recognition came.
Then--or so it seemed to Luke--a complete
change came over the man. Where, a minute
before, there had been the suggestion of a
dancing satyr, there was now a somewhat
priggish young man. "Oh, Mr. Fitzwilliam, good morning."
"Good morning," said Luke. "Have you
&n
bsp; been admiring the beauties of Nature?"
Mr. Ellsworthy's long pale hands flew up
in a reproving gesture. "Oh, no, no. I abhor
Nature. But I do enjoy life, Mr. Fitzwilliam."
"So do I," said Luke.
"Mens sana in corpore sanoy" said Mr.
Ellsworthy. His tone was delicately ironic.
"I'm sure that's so true of you."
"There are worse things," said Luke.
"My dear fellow! Sanity is the one unbelievable
bore. One must be mad, slightly
twisted--then one sees life from a new and
entrancing angle."
"The leper's squint," suggested Luke.
"Oh, very good, very good; quite witty!
But there's something in it, you know. An
interesting angle of vision. But I mustn't
detain you. You're having exercise. One must have exercise--the public-school spirit!"
"As you say," said Luke, and, with a curt
nod, walked on. He thought, "I'm getting
too darned imaginative. The fellow's just an
ass, that's all." But some indefinable uneasiness
drove his feet on faster. That queer, sly, triumphant smile that Ellsworthy had had on
his face--was that just imagination on his, Luke's part? And his subsequent impression
that it had been wiped off, as though by a
sponge, the moment the other man caught
sight of Luke coming toward him--what of
that? And with quickening uneasiness he
thought, "Bridget? Is she all right? They
came up here together and he came back
alone."
He hurried on. The sun had come out
while he was talking to Rose Humbleby.
Now it had gone in again. The sky was dull
and menacing, and wind came in sudden
erratic little puffs. It was as though he had
stepped out of normal everyday life into that
queer half world of enchantment, the consciousness
of which had enveloped him ever
since he came to Wychwood. He turned a
corner and came out on the flat ledge of
green grass that had been pointed out to him
from below, and which went, he knew, by
the name of Witches' Meadow. It was here, so tradition had it, that the witches had held
revelry on Walpurgis Night and Halloween.
And then a quick wave of relief swept over
him. Bridget was here. She sat with her back
against a rock on the hillside. She was sitting
bent over, her head in her hands. He walked
quickly over to her. Lovely spring turf, strangely green and fresh. He said, "Bridget?"
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