Murder is Easy by Agatha Christie Page A

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,