Chapter 6
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?'
She nodded slowly and thoughtfully.
'What was your idea? Will you tell me? I fancy it may help somehow.'
Bridget said quietly, 'I had an idea that you came down here in connection with the death of that girl, Amy Gibbs.'
'That's it, then! That's what I saw — what I felt — whenever her name cropped up! I knew there was something. So you thought I came down about that?'
'Didn't you?'
'In a way, yes.'
He was silent, frowning. The girl beside him sat equally silent, not moving. She said nothing to disturb his train of thought. He made up his mind. 'I've come down here on a wild-goose chase — on a fantastical and probably quite absurd and melodramatic supposition. Amy Gibbs is part of that whole business. I'm interested to find out exactly how she died.'
'Yes, I thought so.'
'But dash it all, why did you think so? What is there about her death that — well, aroused your interest?'
Bridget said, 'I've thought all along that there was something wrong about it. That's why I took you to see Miss Waynflete.'
'Why?'
'Because she thinks so too.'
'Oh.' Luke thought back rapidly. He understood now the underlying suggestions of that intelligent spinster's manner. 'She thinks as you do — that there's something odd about it?' Bridget nodded. 'Why, exactly?'
'Hat paint, to begin with.'
'What do you mean — hat paint?'
'Well, about twenty years ago people did paint hats — one season you had a pink straw, next season, a bottle of hat paint and it became dark blue, then, perhaps, another bottle and a black hat! But not nowadays. Hats are cheap — tawdry stuff, to be thrown away when out of fashion.'
'Even girls of the class of Amy Gibbs?'
'I'd be more likely to paint a hat than she would. Thrift's gone out. And there's another thing. It was red hat paint.'
'Well?'
'And Amy Gibbs had red hair — carrots!'
'You mean it doesn't go together?'
Bridget nodded. 'You wouldn't wear a scarlet hat with carroty hair. It's the sort of thing a man wouldn't realize, but –'
Luke interrupted her with heavy significance.
'No, a man wouldn't realize that. It fits in — it all fits in.'
Bridget said, 'Jimmy has got some odd friends at Scotland Yard. You're not –'
Luke said quickly, 'I'm not an official detective, and I'm not a well known private investigator with rooms in Baker Street , and so on. I'm exactly what Jimmy told you I was — a retired policeman from the East. I'm homing in on this business because of an odd thing that happened in the train to London .'
He gave a brief synopsis of his conversation with Miss Fullerton and the subsequent events that had brought about his presence in Wychwood.
'So, you see,' he ended, 'it's fantastic! I'm looking for a certain man — a secret killer — a man here in Wychwood, probably well known and respected. If Miss Fullerton's right and you're right and Miss What's-Er-Name is right, that man killed Amy Gibbs.'
Bridget said, 'I see.'
'It could have been done from outside, I suppose?'
'Yes, I think so,' said Bridget slowly. 'Reed, the constable, climbed up to her window by means of an outhouse. The window was open. It was a bit of a scramble, but a reasonably active man would find no real difficulty.'
'And having done that, he did what?'
'Substituted a bottle of hat paint for the cough unctus.'
'Hoping she'd do exactly what she did do — wake up, drink it off, and that everyone would say she'd made a mistake or committed suicide?'
'Yes.'
'There was no suspicion of what they call in books 'foul play', at the inquest?'
'No.'
'Men again, I suppose. The hat-paint point wasn't raised?'
'No.'
'But it occurred to you?'
'Yes.'
'And to Miss Waynflete? Have you discussed it together?'
Bridget smiled faintly. 'Oh, no; not in the sense you mean. I mean we haven't said anything right out. I don't
