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‘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, etc. 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 Whitfield?’
‘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 is going to be easy. You’re a wonder. If you can really fix me up with your cousin—’
‘That will be absolutely OK. 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 …’
CHAPTER 3 (#ulink_cc8ed9c9-44ca-5104-939e-ed9b053bc43a)
Witch Without Broomstick (#ulink_cc8ed9c9-44ca-5104-939e-ed9b053bc43a)
The sun was shining when Luke came over the hill and down into the little country town of Wychwood-under-Ashe. He had bought a second-hand Standard Swallow, and he stopped for a moment on the brow of the hill and switched off the engine.
The summer day was warm and sunny. Below him was the village, singularly unspoilt by recent developments. 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, ‘I’m probably mad. The whole thing’s fantastic.’
Had he really come here solemnly to hunt down a killer—simply on the strength of some garrulous ramblings on the part of an old lady, and a chance obituary notice?
He shook his head.
‘Surely these things don’t happen,’ he murmured. ‘Or—do they? Luke, my boy, it’s up to you to find out if you’re the world’s most credulous prize ass, or if your policeman’s nose has led you hot on the scent.’
He switched on the engine, threw in the gear and drove gently down the twisting road and so entered the main street.
Wychwood, as has been said, consists 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 Georgian 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 modern 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 castellated mansion.
Her black hair was blown up off her head by the sudden 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 towards 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 cheek-bones—ironic black brows—black eyes and hair. She was like a delicate etching, he thought—poignant and beautiful.
He had had an acknowledged picture at the back of his mind during his voyage home to England—a picture of an English girl flushed and sunburnt—stroking a horse’s neck, stooping to weed a herbaceous border, sitting holding out her hands to the blaze of a wood fire. It had been a warm gracious vision …
Now—he didn’t know if he liked Bridget Conway or not—but he knew that that secret picture wavered and broke up—became meaningless and foolish …
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 long 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 towards the house. Luke stole another glance at it. He discerned now traces of a sober Queen Anne dwelling overlaid and smothered by the florid magnificence. 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. Stealing a glance at the line of her profile, at the long beautiful hands, he wondered.
She was about twenty-eight or -nine, he supposed. And she had brains. And she was one of those people about whom you knew absolutely nothing unless they chose that you should …
Inside, the house was comfortable and in good taste—the good taste of a first-class decorator. Bridget Conway led the way to a room with bookshelves 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 a cousin of mine.’
Lord Whitfield was a small man with a semi-bald head. His face was round and ingenuous, with a pouting mouth and boiled gooseberry eyes. He was dressed in careless-looking 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—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.
Mrs Anstruther, as Luke soon learned, was devoted body and soul to gardening. She never talked of anything else, and her mind was constantly occupied by considerations of whether some rare plant was likely to do well in the place she intended to put it.
After acknowledging the introduction, she said now:
‘You know, Gordon, the ideal spot for a rockery would be just beyond the rose garden, and then you could have the most marvellous water garden where the stream comes through that dip.’
Lord Whitfield stretched himself back in his chair.
‘You fix all that with Bridget,’ he said easily. ‘Rock plants are niggly little things, I think—but that doesn’t matter.’
Bridget said:
‘Rock plants aren’t sufficiently in the grand manner for you, Gordon.’
She poured out some tea for Luke and Lord Whitfield said placidly:
‘That’s right. They’re not what I call good value for money. Little bits of flowers you can hardly see … I like a nice show in a conservatory, or some good beds of scarlet geraniums.’
Mrs Anstruther, who possessed par excellence the gift of continuing with her own subject undisturbed by that of anyone else, said:
‘I believe those new rock roses would do perfectly in this climate,’ and proceeded to immerse herself in catalogues.
Throwing his squat little figure back in his chair, Lord Whitfield sipped his tea and studied Luke appraisingly.
‘So you write books,’ he murmured.
Feeling slightly nervous, Luke was about to enter on explanations when he perceived that Lord Whitfield was not really seeking for information.
‘I’ve often thought,’ said his lordship complacently, ‘that I’d like to write a book myself.’
‘Yes?’ said Luke.
‘I could, mark you,’ said Lord Whitfield. ‘And a very interesting book it would be. I’ve come across a lot of interesting people. Trouble is, I haven’t got the time. I’m a very busy man.’
‘Of course. You must be.’
‘You wouldn’t believe what I’ve got on my shoulders,’ said Lord Whitfield. ‘I take a personal interest in each one of my publications. I consider that I’m responsible for moulding the public mind. Next week millions of people will be thinking and feeling just exactly what I’ve intended to make them feel and think. That’s a very solemn thought. That means responsibility. Well, I don’t mind responsibility. I’m not afraid of it. I can do with responsibility.’
Lord Whitfield swelled out his chest, attempted to draw in his stomach, and glared amiably at Luke.
Bridget Conway said lightly:
‘You’re a great man, Gordon. Have some more tea.’
Lord Whitfield replied simply:
‘I am a great man. No, I won’t have any more tea.’
Then, descending from his own Olympian heights to the level of more ordinary mortals, he inquired kindly of his guest:
‘Know anybody round this part of the world?’
Luke shook his head. Then, on an impulse, and feeling that the sooner he began to get down to his job the better, he added:
‘At least, there’s a man here that I promised to look up—friend of friends of mine. Man called Humbleby. He’s a doctor.’
‘Oh!’ Lord Whitfield struggled upright in his chair. ‘Dr Humbleby? Pity.’
‘What’s a pity?’
‘Died about a week ago,’ said Lord Whitfield.
‘Oh, dear,’ said Luke. ‘I’m sorry about that.’
‘Don’t think you’d have cared for him,’ said Lord Whitfield. ‘Opinionated, pestilential, muddle-headed old fool.’
‘Which means,’ put in Bridget, ‘that he disagreed with Gordon.’
‘Question of our water supply,’ said Lord Whitfield. ‘I may tell you, Mr Fitzwilliam, that I’m a public-spirited man. I’ve got the welfare of this town at heart. I was born here. Yes, born in this very town—’
With chagrin Luke perceived that they had left the topic of Dr Humbleby and had reverted to the topic of Lord Whitfield.
‘I’m not ashamed of it and I don’t care who knows it,’ went on that gentleman. ‘I had none of your natural advantages. My father kept a boot-shop—yes, a plain boot-shop. And I served in that shop when I was a young lad. I raised myself by my own efforts, Fitzwilliam—I determined to get out of the rut—and I got out of the rut! Perseverance, hard work and the help of God—that’s what did it! That’s what made me what I am today.’
Exhaustive details of Lord Whitfield’s career were produced for Luke’s benefit and the former wound up triumphantly:
‘And here I am and the whole world’s welcome to know how I’ve got here! I’m not ashamed of my beginnings—no, sir—I’ve come back here where I was born. Do you know what stands where my father’s shop used to be? A fine building built and endowed by me—Institute, Boys’ Clubs, everything tip-top and up to date. Employed the best architect in the country! I must say he’s made a bare plain job of it—looks like a workhouse or a prison to me—but they say it’s all right, so I suppose it must be.’
‘Cheer up,’ said Bridget. ‘You had your own way over this house!’
Lord Whitfield chuckled appreciatively.
‘Yes, they tried to put it over on me here! Carry out the original spirit of the building. No, I said, I’m going to live in the place, and I want something to show for my money! When one architect wouldn’t do what I wanted I sacked him and got another. The fellow I got in the end understood my ideas pretty well.’
‘He pandered to your worst flights of imagination,’ said Bridget.
‘She’d have liked the place left as it was,’ said Lord Whitfield. He patted her arm. ‘No use living in the past, my dear. Those old Georges didn’t know much. I didn’t want a plain red-brick house. I always had a fancy for a castle—and now I’ve got one!’ He added, ‘I know my taste isn’t very classy, so I gave a good firm carte blanche to do the inside, and I must say they haven’t done too badly—though some of it is a bit drab.’
‘Well,’ said Luke, a little at a loss for words, ‘it’s a great thing to know what you want.’
‘And I usually get it too,’ said the other, chuckling.
‘You nearly didn’t get your way about the water scheme,’ Bridget reminded him.
‘Oh, that!’ said Lord Whitfield. ‘Humbleby was a fool. These elderly men are inclined to be pig-headed. They won’t listen to reason.’
‘Dr Humbleby was rather an outspoken man, wasn’t he?’ Luke ventured. ‘He made a good many enemies that way, I should imagine.’
‘N-no, I don’t know that I should say that,’ demurred Lord Whitfield, rubbing his nose. ‘Eh, Bridget?’
‘He was very popular with everyone, I always thought,’ said Bridget. ‘I only saw him when he came about my ankle that time, but I thought he was a dear.’
