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,’
