seemed quite shocked at the idea. "I shall
take the tube. That will take me to Trafalgar
Square, and I shall walk down Whitehall."
"Well, good luck," said Luke.
Miss Fullerton shook him warmly by the
hand. "So kind," she murmured again. "You
know, just at first I thought you didn't believe
me."
Luke had the grace to blush. "Well," he
said. "So many murders! Rather hard to do
a lot of murders and get away with it, eh?"
Miss Fullerton shook her head. She said
earnestly, "No, no, my dear boy, that's where
you're wrong. It's very easy to kill, so long
as no one suspects you. And, you see, the
person in question is just the last person
anyone would suspect."
"Well, anyway, good luck," said Luke.
Miss Fullerton was swallowed up in the
crowd. He himself went off in search of his
luggage, thinking as he did so: "Just a little
bit batty? No, I don't think so. A vivid
imagination, that's all. Hope they let her
down lightly. Rather an old dear."
Two
jimmy lorrimer was one of Luke's oldest
friends. As a matter of course, Luke stayed
with Jimmy as soon as he got to London. It
was with Jimmy that he sailed forth on the
evening of his arrival in search of amusement.
It was Jimmy's coffee that he drank
with an aching head the morning after, and
it was Jimmy's voice that went unanswered
while he read, twice over, a small, insignificant
paragraph in the morning paper. "Sorry, Jimmy," he said, coming to himself with a
start.
"What were you absorbed in--the political
situation?"
Luke grinned. "No fear. No, it's rather
queer. Old pussy I traveled up with in the
train yesterday got run over."
"Probably trusted to a Belisha Beacon,"
said Jimmy. "How do you know it's her?"
"Of course, it mayn't be. But it's the same
name--Fullerton. She was knocked down
and killed by a car as she was crossing
Whitehall. The car didn't stop."
"Whoever was driving that car will pay for
it. Bring in manslaughter as likely as not. I
tell you I'm scared stiff of driving a car
nowadays."
"What have you got at present in the way
of a car?"
"Ford V-8. I tell you, my boy--"
The conversation became severely mechanical.
It was over a week later that Luke, carelessly
scanning the front page of the Times, gave a
sudden startled exclamation: "Well, I'm
damned!"
Jimmy Lorrimer looked up. "What's the
matter?"
Luke raised his head and looked at his
friend. His expression was so peculiar that
Jimmy was quite taken aback. "What's up, Luke? You look as though you'd seen a
ghost."
For a minute or two, the other did not
reply. He dropped the paper, strode to the
window and back again. Jimmy watched him
with increasing surprise. Luke dropped into
a chair and leaned forward. "Jimmy, old
son, do you remember my mentioning an
old lady I traveled up to town with the day I
arrived in England?"
"The one you said reminded you of your
Aunt Mildred? And then she got run over by
a car?"
"That's the one. Listen, Jimmy. The old
girl came out with a long rigmarole of how
she was going up to Scotland Yard to tell
them about a lot of murders. There was a
murderer loose in her village, that's what it
amounted to, and he'd been doing some
pretty rapid execution."
"You didn't tell me she was batty," said
Jimmy.
"I didn't think she was off her head. She
was quite circumstantial; mentioned one or
two victims by name, and then explained
that what had really rattled her was the fact
that she knew who the next victim was going
to be."
"Yes?" said Jimmy encouragingly.
"The point is that the man's name was
Humbleby—Doctor Humbleby. My old lady
said Doctor Humbleby would be the next,
and she was distressed because he was 'such
a good man.' "
"Well?" said Jimmy.
"Well, look at this." Luke passed over the
paper) his finger pressed against an entry in
the column of deaths. Humbleby—On June
12, suddenly, at his residence Sandgate, Wychwood
under Ashe, John Ward Humbleby,
M.D., beloved husband of Jessie Rose
Humbleby. Funeral Friday. No flowers, by
request.
"You see. Jimmy? That's the name and
the place, and he's a doctor. What do you
make of it?"
Jimmy took a moment or two to answer.
His voice was serious when he said, at last,
rather uncertainly, "I suppose it's just a
damned odd coincidence."
Luke wheeled round suddenly. "Suppose
that every word that dear bleating old sheep
said was true! Suppose that that fantastic
story was just the plain literal truth!"
"Oh, come now, old boy! That would be
a bit thick. Things like that don't happen."
"How do you know? They may happen a
good deal oftener than you suppose."
"There speaks the police wallah! Can't you
forget you're a policeman, now that you've
retired into private life?"
"Once a policeman, always a policeman, I
suppose," said Luke. "Now look here,
Jimmy. The case stands like this. I was told
a story—an improbable but not an impossi-
-Sta,.
ble story. One piece of evidence--the death
of Doctor Humbleby--supports that story.
And there's one other significant fact. Miss
Fullerton was going to Scotland Yard with
this improbable story of hers. But she didn't
get there. She was run over and killed by a
car that didn't stop."
Jimmy objected, "You don't know that
she didn't get there. She might have been
killed after her visit, not before."
"She might have been, yes; but I don't
think she was."
"That's pure supposition. It boils down to
this: You believe in this--this melodrama."
Luke shook his head sharply. "No. I don't
say that. All I say is, there's a case for investigation."
"In other words, you are going to Scotland
Yard?"
"No, it hasn't come to that yet--not
nearly. As you say, this man Humbleby's
death may be merely a coincidence."
"Then what, may I ask, is the idea?"
"The idea is to go down to this place and
look into the matter."
"So that's the idea, is it?"
"Don't you agree that that is the only
sensible way to set about it?"
Jimmy stared at him, then he said, "Are
you serious about this business, Luke?"
"Absolutely."
"Suppose the whole thing's a mare's nest?"
"That would be the best thing that could
happen."
"Yes, of course." Jimmy frowned. "But you don't think it is, do you?"
"My dear fellow, I'm keeping an open
mind."
Jimmy was silent for a minute or two.
Then he said, "Got any plan? I mean, you'll
have to have some reason for suddenly arriving
in this place."
"Yes, I suppose I shall."
"No 'suppose' about it. Do you realize
what a small English country town is like?
Anyone new sticks out a mile!"
"I shall have to adopt a disguise," said
Luke, with a sudden grin. "What do you
suggest? Artist? Hardly; I can't draw, let
alone paint."
Jimmy said, "Wait a sec. Give me that
paper again." Taking it, he gave it a cursory
glance and announced triumphantly, "I
thought so! Luke, old boy, to put it in a
nutshell, I'll fix you O.K. Everything's as
easy as winking."
Luke wheeled round. "What?"
Jimmy was continuing with modest pride, "I thought something struck a chord!
Wychwood under Ashe. Of course! The very
place!"
"Have you, by any chance, a pal who
knows the coroner there?"
"Not this time. Better than that, my boy.
Nature, as you know, has endowed me plentifully
with aunts and cousins; my father
having been one of a family of thirteen. Now
listen to this: I have a cousin in Wychwood
under Ashe."
"Jimmy, you're a blinking marvel."
"It is pretty good, isn't it?" said Jimmy
modestly.
"Tell me about him."
"It's a her. Her name's Bridget Conway.
For the last two years she's been secretary to
Lord Easterfield."
"The man who owns those nasty little
weekly papers?"
"That's right. Rather a nasty little man
too. Pompous! He was born in Wychwood
under Ashe, and being the kind of snob who
rams his birth and breeding down your throat
and glories in being self-made, he has returned
to his home village, bought up the only big house in the neighborhood--it belonged
to Bridget's family originally, by the
way--and is busy making the place into a
model estate."
"And your cousin is his secretary?"
"She was," said Jimmy darkly. "Now she's
gone one better! She's engaged to him!"
"Oh," said Luke, rather taken aback.
"He's a catch, of course," said Jimmy.
"Rolling in money. Bridget took rather a
toss over some fellow. It pretty well knocked
the romance out of her. I dare say this will
pan out very well. She'll probably be kind
but firm with him and he'll eat out of her
hand."
"And where do I come in?"
Jimmy replied promptly, "You go down
there to stay. You'd better be another cousin.
Bridget's got so many that one more or less
won't matter. I'll fix that up with her all
right. She and I have always been pals. Now, for your reason for going there--witchcraft, my boy."
"Witchcraft?"
"Folklore, local superstitions--all that sort
of thing. Wychwood under Ashe has got
rather a reputation that way. One of the last
places where they had a witches' Sabbath;
witches were still burnt there in the last century, all sorts of traditions. You're writing a
book, see? Correlating the customs of the
Mayang Straits and old English folklore--
points of resemblance, and so on. You know
the sort of stuff. Go round with a notebook and interview the oldest inhabitant about local
superstitions and customs. They're quite
used to that sort of thing down there, and if
you're staying at Ashe Manor, it vouches for
you."
"What about Lord Easterfield?"
"He'll be all right. He's quite uneducated
and completely credulous--actually believes
things he reads in his own papers. Anyway, Bridget will fix him. Bridget's all right. I'll
answer for her."
Luke drew a deep breath. "Jimmy, old
scout, it looks as though the thing was going
to be easy. You're a wonder. If you can
really fix me up with your cousin--"
"That will be absolutely O.K. Leave it to
me."
"I'm no end grateful to you."
Jimmy said, "All I ask is, if you're hunting
down a homicidal murderer, let me be in
at the death." He added sharply, "What is
it?"
Luke said slowly, "Just something I remembered
my old lady saying to me. I'd
said to her that it was a bit thick to do a lot
of murders and get away with it, and she
answered that I was wrong—that it was very
easy to kill." He stopped, and then said
slowly, "I wonder if that's true. Jimmy? I
wonder if it is—"
"What?"
"—easy to kill."
Three
over the hill and down into the little country
town of Wychwood under Ashe. It lay innocently
and peacefully in the sunlight; mainly
composed of a long straggling street that ran
along under the overhanging brow of Ashe
Ridge. It seemed singularly remote, strangely
untouched. Luke thought: Pm probably mad.
The whole thing's fantastic.
He drove gently down the twisting road, and so entered the main street. Wychwood, as has been said, consisted mainly of its one
principal street. There were shops, small
Georgian houses, prim and aristocratic, with whitened steps and polished knockers;
there were picturesque cottages with flower
gardens. There was an inn, the Bells and
Motley, standing a little back from the street.
There was a village green and a duck pond, and presiding over them a dignified Geor-
gian house which Luke thought at first must
be his destination, Ashe Manor. But on coming
nearer he saw that there was a large
painted board announcing that it was the
Museum and Library. Farther on there was
an anachronism, a large white modem building, austere and irrelevant to the cheerful
haphazardness of the rest of the place. It
was, Luke gathered, a local Institute and
Lads' Club. It was at this point that he
stopped and asked the way to his destination.
He was told that Ashe Manor was about
half a mile farther on; he would see the gates
on his right. Luke continued his course. He
found the gates easily; they were of new and
elaborate wrought iron. He drove in, caught
a gleam of red brick through the trees, and
turned a corner of the drive to be stupefied
by the appalling and incongruous castellated
mass that greeted his eyes.
While he was contemplating the nightmare, the sun went in. He became suddenly
conscious of the overlying menace of Ashe
Ridge. There was a sudden sharp gust of
wind, blowing back the leaves of the trees, and at that moment a girl came round the corner of the castella
ted mansion. Her black
hair was blown up off her head by the slid-
den gust, and Luke was reminded of a picture
he had once seen--Nevinson's Witch.
The long, pale, delicate face, the black hair
flying up to the stars. He could see this girl
on a broomstick flying up to the moon. She
came straight toward him. "You must be
Luke Fitzwilliam. I'm Bridget Conway."
He took the hand she held out. He could
see her now as she was--not in a sudden
moment of fantasy. Tall, slender, a long delicate
face with slightly hollow cheekbones, ironic black brows, black eyes and hair. She
was like a delicate etching, he thought--
poignant and beautiful. He said, "How d'you
do? I must apologize for wishing myself on
you like this. Jimmy would have it that you
wouldn't mind."
"Oh, we don't. We're delighted." She
smiled, a sudden curving smile that brought
the corners of her mouth half-way up her
cheeks. "Jimmy and I always stand in together.
And if you're writing a book on folklore, this is a splendid place. All sorts of
legends and picturesque spots."
"Splendid," said .Luke.
They went together toward the house.
Luke stole another glance at it. He discerned
now traces of a sober Queen Anne dwelling
overlaid and smothered by the florid magnif-
icence. He remembered that Jimmy had
mentioned the house as having originally belonged
to Bridget's family. That, he thought, grimly, was in its unadorned days. Inside, Bridget Conway led the way to a room with
book shelves and comfortable chairs where a
tea table stood near the window with two
people sitting by it. She said, "Gordon, this
is Luke, a sort of cousin of mine."
1 Lord Easterfield was a small man with a
semibald head. His face was round and ingenuous, with a pouting mouth and boiled
gooseberry eyes. He was dressed in carelesslooking
country clothes. They were unkind
to his figure, which ran mostly to stomach.
He greeted Luke with affability, "Glad to
see you--very glad. Just come back from the
East, I hear. Interesting place. Writing a
book, so Bridget tells me. They say too many
books are written nowadays. I say 'no,5 always
room for a good one."
Bridget said, "My aunt, Mrs. Anstruther,"
and Luke shook hands with a middle-aged
woman with a rather foolish mouth.