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 true 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 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 sano," 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?"
Slowly she raised her face from her hands. Her face troubled him. She looked as though she were returning from some far-off world, as though she had difficulty in adjusting herself to the world of now and here.
Luke said, rather inadequately, "I say, you're - you're all right, aren't you?"
It was a minute or two before she answered - as though she still had not quite come back from that far-off world that had held her. Luke felt that his words had to travel a long way before they reached her.
Then she said, "Of course I'm all right. Why shouldn't I be?" And now her voice was sharp and almost hostile.
Luke grinned. "I'm hanged if I know. I got the wind-up about you suddenly."
"Why?"
"Mainly, I think, because of the melodramatic atmosphere in which I'm living at present. It makes me see things out of all proportion. If I lose sight of you for an hour or two, I naturally assume that the next thing will be to find your gory corpse in a ditch. It would be, in a play or a book."
"Heroines are never killed," said Bridget.
"No, but - " Luke stopped just in time.
"What were you going to say?"
"Nothing."
Thank goodness, he had just stopped himself in time. One couldn't very well say to an attractive young woman, "But you're not the heroine."
Bridget went on, "They are abducted, imprisoned, left to die of sewer gas or be drowned in cellars; they are always in danger, but they don't ever die."
"Nor even fade away," said Luke. He went on, "So this is the Witches' Meadow?"
"Yes."
He looked down at her. "You only need a broomstick," he said kindly.
"Thank you. Mr. Ellsworthy said much the same."
"I met him just now," said Luke.
"Did you talk to him at all?"
"Yes. I think he tried to annoy me."
"Did he succeed?"
"His methods were rather childish." He paused, and then went on abruptly, "He's an odd sort of fellow. One minute you think he's just a mess, and then suddenly one wonders if there isn't a bit more to it than that."
Bridget looked up at him. "You've felt that too?"
"You agree, then?"
"Yes." Luke waited. Bridget said, "There's something - odd about him. I've been wondering, you know. I lay awake last night racking my brains. About the whole business. It seemed to me that if there was a - a killer about, I ought to know who it was. I mean, living down here, and all that. I thought and thought, and it came to this - if there is a killer, he must definitely be mad."
Thinking of what Doctor Thomas had said, Luke asked: "You don't think that a murderer can be as sane as you or I?"
"Not this kind of a murderer. As I see it, this murderer must be crazy. And that, you see, brought me straight to Ellsworthy. Of all the people down here, he's the only one who is definitely queer. He is queer, you can't get away from it!"
Luke said doubtfully, "There are a good many of his sort - dilettantes, poseurs - usually quite harmless."
"Yes. But I think there might be a little more than that. He's got such nasty hands."
"You noticed that? Funny, I did too!"
"They're not just white, they're green."
"They do give one that effect. All the same, you can't convict a man of being a murderer because of the color of his flesh."
"Oh, quite. What we want is evidence."
"Evidence," growled Luke. "Just the one thing that's absolutely lacking. The man's been too careful. A careful murderer! A careful lunatic!"
"I've been trying to help," said Bridget.
"With Ellsworthy, you mean?"
"Yes. I thought I could probably tackle him better than you could. I've made a beginning."
"Tell me."
"Well, it seems that he has a kind of little coterie - a band of nasty friends. They come down here from time to time and celebrate."
"Do you mean what are called nameless orgies?"
"I don't know about nameless but certainly orgies. Actually, it all sounds very silly and childish."
"I suppose they worship the devil and do obscene dances."
"Something of the kind. Apparently they get a kick out of it."
"I can contribute something to this," said Luke. "Tommy Pierce took part in one of their ceremonies. He was an acolyte. He had a red cassock."
"So he knew about it?"
"Yes. And that might explain his death."
"You mean he talked about it?"
"Yes - or he may have tried a spot of quiet blackmail."
Bridget said thoughtfully, "I know it's all fantastic, but it doesn't seem quite so fantastic when applied to Ellsworthy as it does to anyone else."
"No, I agree. The thing becomes just conceivable instead of being ludicrously unreal."
"We've got a connection with two of the victims," said Bridget. "Tommy Pierce and Amy Gibbs."
"Where do the publican and Humbleby come in?"
"At the moment, they don't."
"Not the publican. But I can imagine a motive for Humbleby's removal. He was a doctor and he may have tumbled to Ellsworthy's abnormal state."
"Yes, that's possible."
Then Bridget laughed. "I did my stuff pretty well this morning. My psychic possibilities are grand, it seems, and when I told how one of my great-great-grandmothers had a near escape of being burnt for witchcraft, my stock went soaring up. I rather think that I shall be invited to take part in the orgies at the next meeting of the Satanic Games, whenever that may be."
Luke said, "Bridget, for God's sake, be careful." She looked at him, surprised. He got up. "I met Humbleby's daughter just now. We were talking about Miss Fullerton. And the Humbleby girl said that Miss Fullerton had been worried about you."
Bridget, in the act of rising, stopped as though frozen into immobility. "What's that? Miss Fullerton worried - about me."
"That's what Rose Humbleby said."
"Rose Humbleby said that?"
"Yes."
"What more did she say?"
"Nothing more."
"Are you sure?"
"Quite sure."
There was a pause, then Bridget said, "I see."
"Miss Fullerton was worried about Humbleby, and he died. Now I hear she was worried about you -"
Bridget laughed. She stood up and shook her head, so that her long black hair flew out round her head. "Don't worry," she said. "The devil looks after his own."
Chapter 11
He leaned back in his chair on the other side of the bank manager's table. "Well, that seems very satisfactory," he said. "I'm afraid I've been taking up a lot of your time."
Mr. Jones waved a deprecating hand. His tall, dark, plump face wore a happy expression.
"No, indeed, Mr. Fitzwilliam. This is a quiet spot, you know. We are always glad to see a stranger."
"It's a fascinating part of the world," said he. "Full of superstitions."
Mr. Jones sighed and said it took a long time for education to eradicate superstition.
Luke remarked that he thought education was too highly rated nowadays, and Mr. Jones was slightly shocked by the statement.
"Lord Easterfield," he said, "has been a handsome benefactor here. He realizes the disadvantages under which he himself suffered as a child, and does everything to favour the youth nowadays."
"These initial disadvantages did't stop him making a great fortune," said Luke.
"No, he's got capacity... a great capacity."
"Or luck," said Luke.
Jones seemed somewhat shocked.
"Luck is what counts," Luke went on. "Look at a murderer, for example. Why is a murderer successful and escapes? Is it for his hability? O just pure luck?"
Jones admitted that it was probably luck and Luke went on:
"Look at someone like this Carter, the pub owner. This man was probably drunk six nights a week, and then one night tumbles from the bridge into the river. Luck again."
"Good luck for some."
"Pardon me?"
"For his wife and daughter."
"Oh, yes. Of course."
A clerk knocked and came in, bringing some papers. Luke signed twice and got his cheque-book. He got up.
"Well, I am glad that everything is in order. I had a lot of luck this year at the races. How about you?"
Jones said smiling that he wasn't a gambling man. He added that Mrs. Jones had a very particular point of view about this subject.
"So I suppose that you didn't watch the Great Cup?"
"Actually, no."
"Someone from here went?"
"Major Horton went. He is quite a clever bet. And Mr. Abbot normally doesn't work on this day. But he didn't spot the winner."
"I don't think many did," said Luke and took leave.
He lighted a cigarrette as he left the bank. Leaving the least probable person theory aside, he didn't see a reason for keeping Mr. Jones on his suspect list. The bank manager hadn't had any reaction to the questions Luke put to him. It seemed completely impossible to think of him as a murderer. Furthermore, he hadn't been away on the day of the Great Cup. Accidentally, Luke's visit hadn't been lost; he got two informations. Both Major Horton and Mr. Abbot, the lawyer, had been away from Wychwood on the day of the Great Cup. Any of them could therefore have been in London when Mrs. Fullerton had been run over by a car.
Even though he didn't suspect Dr. Thomas at the moment, he would be more satisfied if he knew for sure that he had been in Wychwood, performing his duties, on that day. He noted down mentally the necessity of verifying this point. There was also Ellworthy. Had he been in Wychwood on that day? If he had, the assumption that he was the murderer would become much weaker. Nut there was, of course, the possibility of Mrs. Fullerton's death being an accident. But he rejected this theory. Her death had been too fortunate.
