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‘Exactly. So these things do happen!’
‘Yes, but they don’t happen often.’
‘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, supposing that before Abercrombie had got so foolhardy as fairly to push his murders under the nose of the police, some dear loquacious old spinster had just simply guessed what he was up to and had trotted off to tell someone in authority all about it. Do you suppose they’d have listened to her?’
Jimmy grinned.
‘No fear!’
‘Exactly. They’d have said she’d got bats in the belfry. Just as you said! Or they’d have said, “Too much imagination. Not enough to do.” As I said! And both of us, Jimmy, would have been wrong.’
Lorrimer took a moment or two to consider, then he said:
‘What’s the position exactly—as it appears to you?’
Luke said slowly:
‘The case stands like this. I was told a story—an improbable, but not an impossible story. One piece of evidence, the death of Dr Humbleby, supports that story. And there’s one other significant fact. Miss Pinkerton 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.’
‘You could be a modern artist,’ suggested Jimmy. ‘Then that wouldn’t matter.’
But Luke was intent on the matter in hand.
‘An author? Do authors go to strange country inns to write? They might, I suppose. A fisherman, perhaps—but I’ll have to find out if there’s a handy river. An invalid ordered country air? I don’t look the part, and anyway everyone goes to a nursing home nowadays. I might be looking for a house in the neighbourhood. But that’s not very good. Hang it all, Jimmy, there must be some plausible reason for a hearty stranger to descend upon an English village?’
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 OK. 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 Whitfield.’
‘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 neighbourhood (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, 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,