Читать книгу The Floating Admiral - Агата Кристи, Agatha Christie, Detection Club The - Страница 9

By G. D. H. and M. Cole

BREAKING THE NEWS

“MURDERED! Good God!” the Vicar said—and it was well known, the Inspector reflected, that the Vicar of Lingham had a ridiculously exaggerated respect for the Third Commandment. He had stepped back a pace at the shock of the news, and some of the colour was fading from his cheeks. “But—murdered. … How—what do you mean, Inspector?”

“I mean,” said Rudge, “that Admiral Penistone was stabbed to the heart some time before midnight last night—and his body placed in your boat.”

“But what—why … ? How could he have been?”

“And your hat,” the Inspector remorselessly amplified, “was lying in the boat beside him. So you see,” he added, “that the first thing I had to do was to make enquiries at your house.”

The Vicar turned on his heel abruptly. “Come into my study,” he said. “We can talk better there—I don’t suppose you want my sons, at present?” The Inspector shook his head, and followed him into a quiet, brown room with wide sash windows, the very model of what a clerical study, owned by a none too tidy cleric, should be. As he led the way in, the Vicar stumbled over something, and with a little gasp caught hold of the table for support. “You—you must excuse me,” he muttered, as he motioned the Inspector to a chair and sank into one himself. “This is—a very great shock. Now, will you tell me what I can do for you?”

Rudge scanned him a minute before replying. Undoubtedly he had received a very great shock. He was pale; his hands were none too steady; and his breath was coming and going quickly. Whether the cause was merely the sudden impact of violent death on a sheltered clerical life, or whether there was some graver reason, the Inspector did not know enough to decide. At any rate, there was no sense in causing further alarm at the moment. So when he spoke it was in a gentle reassuring tone.

“What I want to find out immediately, Mr. Mount, is exactly what happened last night, as far as you know it. Admiral Penistone, you say, came over to dine with his niece—what is the lady’s name, by the way?”

“Fitzgerald—Miss Elma Fitzgerald. She is his sister’s daughter, I understand.”

“About what age?”

“Oh—I should say a year or two over thirty.”

“Thank you. They arrived—when?”

“Just before seven-thirty. In their boat.”

“And left?”

“Slightly after ten. I can’t fix it to the minute, I’m afraid; but they were just taking their leave when the church clock struck, and Admiral Penistone said, ‘Hurry up, I want to get back before midnight’—or something of that sort; and within a very few minutes they were gone.”

“And you saw them off?”

“Yes. I went down to the landing-stage with them, and Peter—that’s my eldest son—helped them to start. It’s sometimes a little awkward getting off, if the current is running strongly.”

“Did you actually see them land?”

“Yes. It wasn’t dark. I watched them take the boat into the Admiral’s boat-house, and then, a little later, I saw them come out of the boat-house, and go up to the house.”

“I should have thought those trees at the back of the boat-house would have screened them from you,” said the Inspector, who had made good use of his eyes. “Or do you mean they were crossing the lawn?”

The Vicar looked at him with respect. “No, they were in the trees,” he said. “But Miss Fitzgerald had on a white dress, and I saw it showing through them.”

“But Admiral Penistone hadn’t a white dress?”

“No. … I suppose,” the Vicar reflected, “that now you mention it I couldn’t say I saw the Admiral leave the boat-house—but seeing his niece I naturally concluded he was with her.”

“Very naturally,” Rudge concurred soothingly. “And you yourself stayed out smoking until—?”

“Twenty past ten.”

“And then?”

“I locked the house up and went to bed.”

“And you heard nothing more of your neighbour?”

“Nothing,” said the Vicar. “Nothing at all,” he repeated more loudly.

“What about your sons? Or your servants? Would they have heard anything?”

“I don’t think so. They had all gone to bed when I came in.”

“Thank you. Now, Mr. Mount, can you tell me this? Did Admiral Penistone seem in his usual spirits during the evening?”

The question appeared to distress the Vicar. “I—I don’t think I can really answer that,” he said. “You see, I haven’t known the Admiral at all long. He has only recently come to the neighbourhood. … I really hardly know him.”

“But still,” Rudge persisted, “you might have noticed if he seemed distressed, or worried in any way. Did he?” And, seeing the Vicar still hesitated, he pressed his point. “If you did notice anything, Mr. Mount, I really think you should tell me. It’s of the highest importance that we should find out everything we can about the poor gentleman’s state of mind at the time—and I assure you I know how to be discreet.”

“Well,” said the Vicar, fidgeting a little. “Well … it’s nothing, probably. But I should say—yes—that the Admiral was perhaps a little worried. He was not as—as amiable as usual. And he was generally a very pleasant man—not at all snappish.”

“He was snappish with Miss Fitzgerald, perhaps?” the Inspector suggested quickly; and the Vicar blinked.

“Oh, no … hardly … I shouldn’t say that at all.”

“But he acted as though there was something on his mind. … I suppose you’ve no idea what it was?”

“I think—I don’t know—it may have been his niece’s marriage. He said something about it. Nothing much.”

“Oh, she’s getting married, is she? Who to?”

“Somebody called Holland, Arthur Holland. From London, I think. I don’t know him.”

“And Admiral Penistone didn’t approve?”

“I don’t mean that. I mean, I don’t know. He didn’t say. Only he seemed as though something might have gone a little wrong. Perhaps it was to do with her settlements; she has a good deal of money, as I understand, and the Admiral is—was her trustee. But I really don’t know anything about it.”

“I see. Had you, yourself, known Admiral Penistone long?”

“Only since he came here, about a month ago. I called on him, you know; and we got acquainted.”

“And you saw each other fairly often?”

“Oh, two or three times in the week, perhaps. Not more.”

“Ever hear him speak of any enemies—anyone who’d have a reason for killing him?”

“Oh, no, no!” The Vicar looked shocked, but hastened to add, “Of course, I really know nothing of his life before he came here.”

“Had he many friends? In the neighbourhood? Or outside? Where did he live before?”

“Somewhere in the West, I believe. I don’t remember his ever telling me the district. I don’t think he knew many people about here well. Sir Wilfrid Denny, over at West End, saw most of him, I fancy. I believe he had old friends down to meet him, sometimes.”

“Ever meet any of them yourself?”

“Oh, no,” said the Vicar.

“I see. Well, I think I’d better be getting over to his place now,” the Inspector said. “I’m very much obliged to you, Mr. Mount. I’ll want to have a word with your sons and your servants some time, just in case any of them noticed anything that might help us. But that can wait. By the way,” he turned at the door to add, “can you tell me what sort of a young lady Miss Fitzgerald is? Liable to—to be very upset, I mean?”

The Vicar smiled a little, almost in spite of himself. “I shouldn’t think so,” he said. “I don’t think Miss Fitzgerald is at all the fainting type.”

“Very devoted to her uncle, eh?”

“I couldn’t say, particularly. About as much as most nieces are to their uncles, I imagine. Perhaps she is rather a reserved young woman—has interests of her own. But this is just gossip—you can see for yourself what you think, Inspector.”

“That’s true enough. Well, I’ll be going,” the Inspector said, and noted the expression of relief which overspread the Vicar’s face. “I know we aren’t popular visitors,” he thought to himself, “at the best of times. But need he show quite so plainly how glad he is to get rid of me? I wonder if there could be any other reason—if he knows anything more than he’s said. But—the Vicar of Lingham, and a most respectable Vicar, from all I’ve ever heard of him! I must say it doesn’t sound likely.” And, so thinking, he made his way back to the car, and drove rapidly the three miles or so which he had to cover to reach the house a hundred yards away.

It was close on eight o’clock by the time he reached his destination; but Rundel Croft obviously did not keep early hours. One or two of the windows facing him still had their blinds down; and the hall, when he was admitted to it, was obviously undergoing its matutinal clean-up. A rather down-at-heels butler, of the type which seems to have become a butler because its wife is a good cook and itself has no special ability of any kind, opened the door to him and blinked uneasily in his face. Rudge asked for Miss Fitzgerald, and was told that she was not yet about. Apparently she always breakfasted in bed. Rudge then asked for Admiral Penistone.

“He’s in his room, still,” the butler said, looking faintly hostile, as though he did not approve of early morning visitors.

“No, he isn’t,” Rudge said sharply. “He’s had an accident.” The butler goggled at him. “Look here—what’s your name?”

“Emery.”

“Look here, Emery, I’m Inspector Rudge from Whynmouth, and I must see Miss Fitzgerald at once. Admiral Penistone has met with a very serious accident—in fact, he’s dead. Will you find Miss Fitzgerald’s maid, if she has one, and tell her that I want to speak to Miss Fitzgerald as soon as she can possibly come down. And come back here when you’ve done it. I want a word with you.”

With no more than an inarticulate noise the butler shuffled off, and it was ten minutes or so before he returned, with the news that Miss Fitzgerald would be down in a quarter of an hour. The Inspector took him aside into a square, rather beautiful morning-room, and began questioning him about his master’s movements of the night before. But he got very little help from his interview. It seemed to him that the man must be either phenomenally stupid or else dazed with shock at his master’s death; and yet the latter did not seem to be the case. Beyond a muttering or two of “Dear, dear!” and the like, he hardly appeared to have taken in the news; and the Inspector felt some surprise that a retired naval officer should keep so incompetent-looking a servant. Yet the house appeared well cleaned, if it did rouse itself somewhat late in the day.

Admiral Penistone, the Inspector learned, had last been seen by his staff at about a quarter past seven on the previous evening, when he and his niece had gone down to the boat-house to row themselves over to the Vicarage. (He never allowed anyone to disturb him in the morning until he rang, which accounted for his absence being unknown.) As he was going to the boat-house, he had told Emery that he need not wait up, but was to lock the front of the house and go to bed, leaving the french window of the drawing-room, which led to the lawn and the river, unbolted. “I was to lock it,” Emery said, “but Admiral Penistone always had his own key.”

“Stop a moment. Was this window bolted when you came down this morning, or not?”

“No,” Emery said; but added that that didn’t mean anything. Half the time the Admiral didn’t bolt it. It was locked, and nobody was likely to come burgling from the riverside.

Then he hadn’t seen the Admiral again? No. Or Miss Fitzgerald? Yes, so to speak. He meant that, as he and his wife were going up to bed, a bit after ten, might have been quarter-past, they’d seen Miss Fitzgerald coming up the path from the boat-house. At least, they’d seen her dress; they couldn’t see her properly in the dark. The Admiral wasn’t with her then; but they supposed he was behind, locking up the boat-house. No, he didn’t know if the boat-house was locked now; he supposed it was, but it wasn’t his work to go down to the boat-house. No, he couldn’t say they’d actually seen Miss Fitzgerald come in; she might have, or she might have stopped on the lawn. He and his wife weren’t particularly noticing; they were going to bed.

And that was all Emery had to say. Questioned about his late master’s mood of the previous evening, he seemed to have no idea, and simply stared with a moon-faced imbecility. He “supposed he was much as usual.” The Admiral was occasionally “short” with his servants (the Inspector reflected that it would take a saint not to be short with Emery at least a dozen times a day); but beyond that his butler had nothing to say. Masters, apparently, were phenomena that were occasionally short, like pastry; but one accepted the fact, and did not conjecture about the cause. At least, not if one were as limp and uninterested as Emery appeared. No, his wife and he had only been a month with the Admiral; they had applied for the post from an advertisement; they were last with a lady and gentleman in Hove, for a year and a half. At this point, somewhat to Rudge’s relief, a much more intelligent-looking maidservant appeared, and announced that Miss Fitzgerald was awaiting him in the dining-room.

“She’s ugly!” was the Inspector’s immediate reaction on first beholding the niece of the late Admiral Penistone. And then: “No, I’m not so sure that she would be, in some lights. But she’d take a good bit of making-up, I shouldn’t wonder. And, jiminy! isn’t she sulky-looking!”

Miss Elma Fitzgerald was very pale. But it was not the pallor of fear for a possible accident to her uncle, but that peculiar to a very thick, opaque skin. She was big and heavily-made, with long limbs and broad shoulders, and would have been better suited, obviously, by long trailing draperies than by the tweed skirt and jumper which she had rather carelessly put on. She had largish, strongly-marked, but roughly-designed features, with a wide jaw and full chin, and dark brows nearly meeting in her white face. Her hair was dark and coarse, done in flat plaits around her ears, and under her eyes, which were so little open that the Inspector could not at first glance determine their colour, were lines and dark pouches. She was, to him, distinctly unattractive; and “a year or two over thirty” was, he thought, a generous description. Yet she was certainly a woman of personality, and in a kinder light and with artificial aids to lighten her skin and hide the disfiguring lines, she might even have been attractive.

“Yes?” she said in a voice that contrived to have a rasp and a drawl simultaneously. “What do you want?” At any rate, the Inspector thought, she was not going to waste his time.

“I am sorry to have to tell you, Miss Fitzgerald,” said he, “that Admiral Penistone has met with a serious accident.”

“Is he dead?” The tone was so matter-of-fact that the Inspector jumped slightly.

“I am afraid he is. But did you—were you expecting—?”

“Oh, no.” Still she had not raised her eyes. “But that’s the way the police always break things to one, don’t they? What happened?”

“I’m sorry to say,” said the Inspector, “that the Admiral was murdered.”

“Murdered?” At that the eyes did open wide for a moment. They were grey, very dark grey. They would have been fine eyes, Rudge noted, if the lashes had been longer. “But—why?”

As that was exactly what the Inspector wanted to know himself, he was momentarily brought to a stop.

“His body was found,” he said, “at half-past four this morning, drifting in a boat up-stream and stabbed to the heart.” Miss Fitzgerald merely bowed her head in acquiescence, and seemed waiting for him to continue. “Damn her!” the Inspector thought. “Hasn’t she got any natural feelings? You’d think I’d told her there was a cat on the lawn!” Aloud he said: “I’m afraid this must come as a good deal of a shock to you, madam.”

“You need not consider my feelings, Inspector,” said Elma Fitzgerald, with a glance which said, more plainly than words: “And it is a gross impertinence on your part to make any enquiries into them!” “I suppose you have some idea why—this happened? Or who did it?”

“I am afraid I don’t see it very clearly yet,” the Inspector said. “I wondered—if you could …”

“I can’t,” said Miss Fitzgerald with decision. “I haven’t any idea”—she spoke slowly—“why anyone—anyone at all—should want to kill my uncle. I suppose—” But the sentence stopped there. Whatever it was she supposed, the Inspector, wait as he might, was not to be privy to it. “What do you want me to tell you?” she continued at length. (“I wish you’d be quick and go about your business,” her voice conveyed.)

“Just this, madam,” the Inspector said. “When did you last see Admiral Penistone?”

“Last night. When we came back from dining at the Vicarage.”

“What time would that be?” The Inspector believed in getting his information confirmed from as many sources as possible.

“Oh … a little after ten, I think. It struck ten just before we left.”

“And you rowed across, and came up to the house with the Admiral?”

“No, he didn’t come up to the house when I did. He was locking the boat-house, and he said he thought he’d like a cigar before he went to bed. So I said good night to him, and came straight up to the house.”

“Was there anyone about when you came in?” “No; but Emery and his wife had only just gone to bed, I think. I saw the lights going on and off as I came up. They must have been shutting up the house.” “And then—what did you do?”

“I came straight up, and went to bed myself.”

“You didn’t hear Admiral Penistone come in?”

“No. But I wasn’t listening particularly. He often stays up quite late, walking about,” said Miss Fitzgerald.

“I gather,” said the Inspector, “that Admiral Penistone, last night, appeared rather worried and distressed?”

“I don’t think so. … No. Why should he have been?”

“You hadn’t had a—a disagreement with him at all?”

“You mean,” said Miss Fitzgerald with disconcerting penetration, “about my marriage. That—is—pure—gossip.” There was a considerable amount of contempt in her tone. “My uncle was not in the least opposed to my marriage. He was a little worried, I believe, about the best way of arranging the money side of it—but that was only a question which would settle itself, in time. That was all.” But there must be a little more to it, the Inspector swiftly reflected, or she wouldn’t have tumbled so quick to what I was talking about.

“Then you can’t suggest at all what was worrying him?”

“I don’t think for a moment there was anything,” said Miss Fitzgerald; and made a slight movement that at least suggested a gesture of dismissal.

“I see. Well …” The Inspector would have liked to continue the interview, but did not see, at the moment, exactly what other information he could well demand. And it was perhaps hardly in the best of taste to sit there pestering a lady in her first grief—if she was grieved. There was a sudden twitch of a strong, rather large hand, that suggested more emotion than appeared on the surface, at any rate. “Just one more thing, Miss Fitzgerald, and then I need not trouble you further. Can you give me the name of Admiral Penistone’s lawyers?”

“Dakers and Dakers. They live somewhere in Lincoln’s Inn, I think.”

“Thank you. And if I could see Admiral Penistone’s papers now—and the servants—”

“I think all his papers are in the study. Emery will show you.” Miss Fitzgerald leaned across and touched the bell. “Inspector,” she said, a little suddenly, “will you tell me—what happens? Will they be bringing him—here?” It was the first trace of real emotion her voice had shown, and Rudge hastened to assure her that the body would be taken to the mortuary, and that every effort would be made to spare her as much as possible.

“Thank you,” she said, returning to indifference again; and at that moment Emery shuffled in. “Emery, take the Inspector to the Admiral’s study, and let him see anything he wants to. And you’d better none of you go out of the house. The Inspector may want to speak to you.” She leaned back in her chair, and made no movement, as Rudge, looking, he hoped, not as puzzled as he felt, followed Emery out of the room.

The Admiral’s study was a large and pleasant room on the first floor, looking out upon the lawn and the river. It was in fairly good order, though it had obviously not been cleaned this morning, and there were a few papers, dating probably from the previous evening, lying untidily upon the desk. Rudge took in the appearance of the room with a practised eye, and reflected that it ought not to take long to make it yield up any secrets it possessed. Then he dismissed the hovering Emery. “And you’re not to let anybody into the house for the present, please, without asking me about it,” were his final instructions. Emery, with a muttered “Very good,” shuffled off again.

The desk and a small filing cabinet which stood beside it were the only likely receptacles for papers in the room. The filing cabinet, when opened, disclosed nothing but newspaper cuttings neatly sorted. The desk was locked, but Rudge had prudently possessed himself of the dead man’s keys, and he very soon had it open. The first thing which he found was a pistol, perfectly clean and fully loaded, lying all by itself in a little drawer. He formed his mouth into the shape of a soundless whistle, and proceeded to unearth writing-paper and envelopes, a drawer full of pipes, another with a few letters of recent date, another with bank-books, stub-ends of cheque-books, income-tax forms and other financial paraphernalia, and a fifth which contained only a large legal envelope inscribed Elma Fitzgerald. In view of what the Vicar had said, the Inspector conjectured that the contents of this envelope might possibly have some bearing upon his case, and he settled himself down to study them as a preliminary. The first item was the “Last Will and Testament of John Martin Fitzgerald,” bulky and wordy beyond even the normal run of such documents; and the Inspector, whose mastery of legal jargon was not as thorough as he could have wished, found some trouble in disentangling its provisions. He had succeeded in making out that John Martin Fitzgerald was the Admiral’s brother-in-law, and that his will devised his property, whatever that might be, in equal proportions to his son Walter Everett Fitzgerald, “if he should be found to be alive at the date of my death,” and his daughter Elma Fitzgerald; and had noted that if the son turned out to be dead (“I suppose he must have disappeared or something. It’s a funny way to put it anyhow.”) Elma Fitzgerald would get all the property on her marriage—when his attention was arrested by what sounded like an altercation below-stairs. For a moment or two he listened, and judged that, in spite of his orders, some visitor must be trying to force an entrance into the house. And as he strongly mistrusted Emery’s power to oppose even a determined fly, he went down into the hall to see what it was all about, and found, as he had anticipated, a pink and perplexed butler feebly flapping at an enraged visitor who had already penetrated as far as the foot of the stairs.

“—the Inspector said—” he was bleating.

“To hell with the Inspector!” the intruder retorted; and, glancing up, found himself looking straight into the eyes of the said Inspector—a contingency which disconcerted him not at all.

Nor need it have done so. Whoever he was, the intruder was easily capable of dealing with a dozen inspectors. He must have been six foot three at the very least, with the build and gait of an athlete, and an athlete, moreover, who specialised in events requiring exceptional strength. Above a pair of magnificently broad shoulders was set a handsome head with sunburned face and neck, a square chin, and short aquiline nose, brown hair cropped so close that it could hardly indulge its natural curls, and big, fiery, hazel eyes, which glared up at Rudge with all the righteous indignation of a supporter of Law and Justice resenting the interference of Law with his own avocations.

“I told Mr. Holland,” Emery bleated, “that you’d said nobody was to be let in without orders.”

“And I told him,” Mr. Holland remarked, “that I was coming in.”

“You’re Mr. Holland?” the Inspector said. “Mr. Arthur Holland?” Holland nodded. “And you want to see—?”

“I’ve come to see Miss Fitzgerald,” Arthur Holland said. “And let me tell you I’m in a hurry, whoever you are. Here, Emery, go and tell Miss Fitzgerald I’m here, and be quick about it, will you?”

“Half a moment, sir,” the Inspector said, while a maidservant came out of one of the rooms opening into the hall, and began to whisper to the butler. “If you’ll excuse me, I want a word or two with you myself, first. Did this man tell you that Admiral Penistone has—?”

“Been killed? Yes,” the young man said. “Is that any reason why I shouldn’t see Miss Fitzgerald? She’ll need someone—”

“Beg pardon, sir.” Emery approached deferentially. “But Miss Fitzgerald’s away.”

“Away!” The exclamation burst from both men simultaneously.

“Yes, sir. She’s just had her bag packed, and driven off in her car, Merton says.” He indicated the maidservant in the hall. “Not ten minutes ago, sir.”

“Whew!” With an internal whistle the Inspector brooded on this new development.