AgathaChristie-EasyToKill

by Easy To Kill (lit)

  "What about the young fellow at the antique

  shop?" said Luke.

  The Major snorted. "He doesn't play golf."

  "Has he been in Wychwood long?"

  "About two years. Nasty sort of fellow.

  Hate those long-haired, purring chaps. Funnily

  enough, Lydia liked him. You can't trust

  women's judgment about men. They cotton

  to some amazing bounders. She even insisted

  on taking some patent quack nostrum of his.

  Stuff in a purple glass jar with signs of the

  Zodiac all over it! Supposed to be certain

  herbs picked at the full of the moon. Lot of

  tom-foolery, but women swallow that stuff--

  swallow it literally, too--ha-ha!"

  Luke said, feeling that he was changing

  the subject rather abruptly, but correctly

  judging that Major Horton would not be

  aware of the fact, "What sort of a fellow is

  Abbot, the local solicitor? Pretty sound on

  the law? I've got to have some legal advice

  about something and I thought I might go to

  him."

  "They say he's pretty shrewd," acknowledged

  Major Horton. "I don't know. Matter

  of fact, I've had a row with him. Not seen

  him since he came out here to make Lydia's

  will for her just before she died. In my opinion, the man's a cad. But of course," he

  added, "that doesn't affect his ability as a

  lawyer."

  "No, of course not," said Luke. "He seems

  a quarrelsome sort of man, though. Seems to

  have fallen out with a good many people, from what I hear."

  "Trouble with him is that he's so confoundedly

  touchy," said Major Horton. "Seems to think he's God Almighty and that

  anyone who disagrees with him is committing

  lese-majeste. Heard of his row with

  Humbleby?"

  "They had a row, did they?"

  "First-class row. Mind you, that doesn't

  surprise me. Humbleby was an opinionated

  ass. Still, there it is."

  "His death was very sad."

  "Humbleby's? Yes, I suppose it was. Lack

  of ordinary care. Blood poisoning's a damned

  dangerous thing. Always put iodine on a cut, I do! Simple precaution. Humbleby, who's a

  doctor, doesn't do anything of the sort. It

  just shows." Luke was not quite sure what it

  showed, but he let that pass. Glancing at his

  watch, he got up. Major Horton said, "Getting on for lunchtime? So it is. Well, glad to have had a chat with you. Does me

  good to see a man who's been about a bit.

  We must have a yam some other time. Where

  was your show? Mayang Straits? Never been

  there. Hear you're writing a book. Superstitions

  and all that."

  "Yes, I--"

  But Major Horton swept on, "I can tell

  you several very interesting things. When I

  was in India, my boy--"

  Luke escaped some ten minutes later, after

  enduring the usual histories of fakirs, rope and mango tricks, dear to the retired

  Anglo-Indian. As he stepped out into the

  open air and heard the Major's voice bellowing

  to Nero behind him, he marveled at the

  miracle of married life. Major Horton seemed

  genuinely to regret a wife who, by all accounts, not excluding his own, must have

  been nearly allied to a man-eating tiger. Or

  was it, Luke asked himself the question suddenly--was

  it an exceedingly clever bluff?

  Twelve

  the afternoon of the tennis party was, fortunately, fine. Lord Easterfield was in his most

  genial mood, acting the part of the host with

  a good deal of enjoyment. He referred frequently

  to his humble origin. The players

  were eight in all--Lord Easterfield, Bridget, Luke, Rose Humbleby, Mr. Abbot, Doctor

  Thomas, Major Horton and Hetty Jones, a

  giggling young woman who was the daughter

  of the bank manager.

  In the second set of the afternoon, Luke

  found himself partnering Bridget against

  Lord Easterfield and Rose Humbleby. Rose

  was a good player with a strong forehand

  drive, and played in county matches. She

  atoned for Lord Easterfield's failures, and

  Bridget and Luke, who were neither of them

  particularly strong, made quite an even match

  of it. They were three games all, and then

  Luke found a streak of erratic brilliance and

  he and Bridget forged ahead to 5-3. It was

  then he observed that Lord Easterfield was

  losing his temper. He argued over a line ball, declared a serve to be a fault, in spite of

  Rose's disclaimer, and displayed all the attributes

  of a peevish child. It was set point, but Bridget sent an easy shot into the net

  and immediately after served a double fault.

  Deuce. The next ball was returned down the

  middle line, and as he prepared to take it, he

  and his partner collided. Then Bridget served

  another double fault and the game was lost.

  Bridget apologized, "Sorry; I've gone to

  pieces."

  It seemed true enough. Bridget's shots

  were wild and she seemed to be unable to do

  anything right. The set ended with Lord

  Easterfield and his partner victorious with

  the score of 8-6. There was a momentary

  discussion as to the composition of the next

  set. In the end. Rose played again, with Mr.

  Abbot as her partner, against Doctor Thomas

  and Miss Jones.

  Lord Easterfield sat down, wiping his forehead

  and smiling complacently, his good humor

  quite restored. He began to talk to Major

  Horton on the subject of a series of articles

  on "Fitness for Britain" which one of his

  papers was starting. Luke said to Bridget, "Show me the kitchen garden."

  "Why the kitchen garden?"

  "I have a feeling for cabbages."

  "Won't green peas do?"

  "Green peas would be admirable."

  They walked away from the tennis court

  and came to the walled kitchen garden. It

  was empty of gardeners this Saturday afternoon

  and looked lazy and peaceful in the

  sunshine. "Here are your peas," said Bridget.

  Luke paid no attention to the object of the

  visit. He said, "Why did you give them the

  set?"

  Bridget's eyebrows went up a fraction.

  "I'm sorry. I went to bits. My tennis is

  erratic."

  "Not so erratic as that! Those double faults

  of yours wouldn't deceive a child! And those

  wild shots--each of them half a mile out!"

  Bridget said calmly, "That's because I'm

  such a rotten tennis player. If I were a bit

  better I could, perhaps, have made it a bit

  more plausible! But as it is, if I try to make a

  ball go just out, it's always just on the line

  and all the good work still to do."

  "Oh, you admit it then."

  "Obvious, my dear Watson."

  "And the reason?"

  "Equally obvious, I should have thought.

  Gordon doesn't like losing."

  "And what about me? Supposing I like to

  win?"

  "I'm afraid, my dear Luke, that that isn't

&nb
sp; equally important."

  "Would you like to make your meaning

  just a little clearer still?"

  "Certainly, if you like. One mustn't quarrel

  with one's bread and butter. Gordon is

  my bread and butter. You are not."

  Luke drew a deep breath. Then he exploded.

  "What do you mean by marrying

  that absurd little man? Why are you doing

  it?"

  "Because as his secretary I get six pounds

  a week, and as his wife I shall get a hundred

  thousand settled on me, a jewel case full of

  pearls and diamonds, a handsome allowance, and various perquisites of the married state."

  "But for somewhat different duties!"

  Bridget said coldly, "Must we have this

  melodramatic attitude towards every single

  thing in life? If you are contemplating a pretty

  picture of Gordon as an uxorious lover, you

  can wash it right out. Gordon, as you should

  have realized, is a small boy who has not

  quite grown up. What he needs is a mother, not a wife. Unfortunately, his mother died

  when he was four years old. What he wants

  is someone at hand to whom he can brag, someone who will reassure him about himself

  and who is prepared to listen indefinitely

  to Lord Easterfield on the subject of

  himself."

  "You've got a bitter tongue, haven't you?"

  Bridget retorted sharply, "I don't tell myself

  fairy stories, if that's what you mean!

  I'm a young woman with a certain amount of

  intelligence, very moderate looks, and no

  money. I intend to earn an honest living. My

  job as Gordon's wife will be practically indistinguishable

  from my job as Gordon's secretary.

  After a year, I doubt if he'll remember

  to kiss me good night. The only difference is

  in the salary." They looked at each other.

  Both of them were pale with anger. Bridget

  said jeeringly, "Go on. You're rather oldfashioned,

  aren't you, Mr. Fitzwilliam?

  Hadn't you better trot out the old cliches--

  say that I'm selling myself for money--that's

  always a good one, I think!"

  Luke said, "You're a cold-blooded little

  devil!"

  "That's better than being a hot-blooded

  little fool!"

  "Is it?"

  "Yes. I know."

  Luke sneered. "What do you know?"

  "I know what it is to care about a man!

  Did you ever meet Johnnie Cornish? I was

  engaged to him for three years. He was adorable.

  I cared like hell about him--cared so

  much that it hurt! Well, he threw me over

  and married a nice plump widow with a

  North Country accent and three chins, and

  an income of thirty thousand a year! That

  sort of thing rather cures one of romance, don't you think?"

  Luke turned away with a sudden groan.

  He said, "It might."

  "It did."

  There was a pause. The silence lay heavy

  between them. Bridget broke it at last. She

  said, but with a slight uncertainty in her

  tone, "I hope you realize that you had no

  earthly right to speak to me as you did.

  You're staying in Gordon's house and it's

  damned bad taste."

  Luke had recovered his composure. "Isn't

  that rather a cliche too?" he inquired politely.

  Bridget flushed. "It's true, anyway."

  "It isn't. I had every right."

  "Nonsense!"

  Luke looked at her. His face had a queer

  pallor, like a man who is suffering physical

  pain. He said, "I have a right. I've the right

  of caring for you--what did you say just

  now?--of caring so much that it hurts!"

  She drew back a step. She said, "You--"

  "Yes, funny, isn't it? The sort of thing

  that ought to give you a hearty laugh! I came

  down here to do a job of work and you came

  round the corner of that house and--how

  can I say it?--put a spell on me! That's what

  it feels like. You mentioned fairy stories just

  now. I'm caught up in a fairy story! You've

  bewitched me. I've a feeling that if you

  pointed your finger at me and said, 'Turn

  into a frog,' I'd go hopping away with my

  eyes popping out of my head." He took a

  step nearer to her. "I love you like hell, Bridget Conway. And, loving you like hell, you can't expect me to enjoy seeing you get

  married to a pot-bellied, pompous little peer

  who loses his temper when he doesn't win at

  tennis."

  "What do you suggest I should do?"

  "I suggest that you should marry me instead.

  But doubtless that suggestion will give

  rise to a lot of merry laughter."

  "The laughter is positively uproarious."

  "Exactly. Well, now we know where we

  are. Shall we return to the tennis court?

  Perhaps this time you will find me a partner

  who can play to win."

  "Really," said Bridget sweetly. "I believe

  you mind losing just as much as Gordon

  does."

  Luke caught her suddenly by the shoulders.

  "You've got a devilish tongue, haven't

  you, Bridget?"

  "I'm afraid you don't like me very much, Luke, however great your passion for me."

  "I don't think I like you at all."

  Bridget said, watching him, "You meant

  to get married and settle down when you

  came home, didn't you?

  "Yes."

  "But not to someone like me?"

  "I never thought of anyone in the least

  like you."

  "No, you wouldn't. I know your type. I

  know it exactly."

  "You are so clever, dear Bridget."

  "A really nice girl, thoroughly English, fond of the country and good with dogs.

  You probably visualized her in a tweed skirt, stirring a log fire with the tip of her shoe."

  "The picture sounds most attractive."

  "I'm sure it does. Shall we return to the

  tennis court? You can play with Rose

  Humbleby. She's so good that you're practically

  certain to win."

  "Being old-fashioned, I must allow you to

  have the last word."

  Again there was a pause. Then Luke took

  his hands slowly from her shoulders. They

  both stood uncertain, as though something

  still unsaid lingered between them.

  Then Bridget turned abruptly and led the

  way back. The next set was just ending.

  Rose protested against playing again. "I've

  played two sets running."

  Bridget, however, insisted. "I'm feeling

  tired. I don't want to play. You and Mr.

  Fitzwilliam take on Miss Jones and Major

  Horton."

  But Rose continued to protest, and in the

  end a men's four was arranged. Afterward

  came tea.

  Lord Easterfield conversed with Doctor

  Thomas, describing at length and with great

  self-importance a visit he had recently paid

  to the Wellerman Kreitz Research Laboratories.

  "I wanted to understand the trend of

  the latest scientific discoveries for myself,"

  he explained earnestly. "I'm responsible forr />
  what my papers print. I feel that very keenly.

  This is a scientific age. Science must be made

  easily assimilable by the masses."

  "A little science might possibly be a dangerous

  thing," said Doctor Thomas, with a

  slight shrug of his shoulders.

  "Science in the home--that's what we have

  to aim at," said Lord Easterfield. "Scienceminded--"

  "Test-tube

  conscious," said Bridget

  gravely.

  "I was impressed," said Lord Easterfield.

  "Wellerman took me round himself, of

  course. I begged him to leave me to an underling, but he insisted."

  "Naturally," said Luke.

  Lord Easterfield looked gratified. "And

  he explained everything most clearly--the

  cultures, the serum, the whole principle of

  the thing. He agreed to contribute the first

  article in the series himself."

  Mrs. Anstruther murmured, "They use

  guinea pigs, I believe. So cruel--though, of

  course, not so bad as dogs, or even cats."

  "Fellows who use dogs ought to be shot,"

  said Major Horton hoarsely.

  "I really believe, Horton," said Mr. Abbot, "that you value canine life above human

  life."

  "Every time!" said the Major. "Dogs can't

  turn round on you like human beings can.

  Never get a nasty word from a dog."

  "Only a nasty tooth stuck into your leg,"

  said Mr. Abbot. "What about that, eh, Horton?"

  "Dogs are a good judge of character," said

  Major Horton.

  "One of your brutes nearly pinned me by

  the leg last week. What do you say to that,

  Horton?"

  "Same as I said just now!"

  Bridget interposed tactfully, "What about

  some more tennis?"

  A couple more sets were played. Then, as

  Rose Humbleby said good-by, Luke appeared

  beside her. "I'll see you home," he

  said. "And carry the tennis racket. You

  haven't got a car, have you?"

  "No, but it's no distance."

  "I'd like a walk." He said no more, merely

  taking her racket and shoes from her. They

  walked down the drive without speaking.

  Then Rose mentioned one or two trivial matters.

  Luke answered rather shortly, but the

  girl did not seem to notice.

  As they turned into the gate of her house,

  Luke's face cleared. "I'm feeling better now,"

  he said.

  "Were you feeling badly before?"

  "Nice of you to pretend you didn't notice