“Well, what is it?” he asked. “Fire away.”
Rudge took out his note-book and made a show of preparing to take down vital information. He had often found this effective with recalcitrant witnesses.
“Your full name, sir, please?”
“Arthur Holland.”
“Age?”
“Thirty-three.”
“Address?”
“Lord Marshall Hotel, Whynmouth.”
Rudge looked up.
“That’s not your permanent address, sir?”
“I hope not.”
“Then may I have it, sir, please?”
“I haven’t got one.”
The Inspector’s eyebrows lifted, and he opened his mouth as if to argue the point but, changing his mind, licked his pencil and wrote down, audibly:
“No permanent address.”
After a moment’s thought he continued:
“Occupation?”
“I’m a trader.”
Rudge looked slightly puzzled.
“Commercial traveller, sir?”
“Good God, no! I trade in raw materials—rubber, jute, ivory—that sort of thing.”
“In London, sir?”
Holland writhed with impatience.
“They don’t grow in London, man. I’m in England now, fixing up markets.”
“Ah!” The Inspector felt as if he were getting nearer the bone. “Then will you tell me, sir, in what part of the world you get your raw material for the London market?”
“I didn’t say the London market. I said I was in London to fix up markets—London’s only a centre, the markets may be in any part of the world.”
The policeman’s irritatingly stupid questions were drawing more information out of Arthur Holland than he had intended to give.
“Quite, sir; but you haven’t answered my question. In what part of the world do you yourself get the material for which you are trying to find a market?”
“Oh, wherever I think the going’s good at the moment,” replied Holland airily. “Burma, Kenya, S.A., India—I move about.”
Holland hesitated.
“It won’t be very difficult for me to find out, sir,” said Rudge quietly. “Better for you to tell me.”
The reply came slowly—almost unwillingly:
“China.”
“I see, sir. And no particular or permanent address in China?”
“No.”
Inspector Rudge whisked over a page and started afresh.
“Now about last night, sir. Were you at the Lord Marshall last night?”
“Yes, I was.”
“You arrived at … ?”
“I got to Whynmouth just before nine.”
“Ah; by the express?”
“Yes.”
“From London?”
“Yes.”
“And you spent the evening … where?”
“In Whynmouth.”
“You didn’t come out here to see your young lady?”
“I knew she was dining out. I stayed in Whynmouth.”
“Very patient of you, sir. You remained in the hotel?”
“I had a stroll by the sea after dinner. I went to bed early.”
“Perhaps there would be someone who would be able to confirm what you say about your movements, sir?”
The Inspector’s voice was casual—too casual. Holland’s eyes narrowed.
“Are you suspecting me of killing the Admiral?” he asked harshly.
“Oh, dear, no; oh, dear, no. Why, I didn’t even know of your existence till an hour or so ago. Funny, isn’t it? No; that’s just routine. We like to know—and if possible to confirm—the whereabouts of everyone in any way connected with the deceased at the time of the crime. I just thought it possible you might know of someone who could confirm your statement.”
“How can anyone prove whether I was in bed or not? I happen to make a practice of sleeping alone. Funny, isn’t it?” quoted Holland with a sneer.
“Ah, then you know the crime was committed after you went to bed?”
Holland stared.
“How the devil should I? I’ve only just heard of it.”
“Quite, sir; quite. Like me only just hearing of you. Now about Miss Fitzgerald. Have you any idea where she’s gone?”
“Not the slightest.”
“But when you were dashing off to find her just now, you must have had some idea of where to look.”
“She might have gone to London.”
“And you might be able to find her in London?”
“I might.”
“Then perhaps it would be as well if you did, and asked her to return here without delay.”
Holland nodded.
“I’ll tell her, but she’s likely to please herself about that.”
“It’ll be wise if she pleases herself by coming back, sir. You’ll keep in touch with us, in any case, won’t you, sir?”
Holland halted, with his hand on the door.
“Does that mean that I’m to be under observation or whatever you call it?”
“I shan’t put a man on to watch you, sir, but I’d like you to keep in touch.”
With a grunt Miss Fitzgerald’s “young man” swung open the door and strode out of the room. There was a smile on Inspector Rudge’s face as he pressed the bell.
“I’d like to see Miss Fitzgerald’s maid—Merton, I think you said her name was—please, Emery.”
A minute later Merton was sitting on the edge of a chair, nervously eyeing the formidable Police Inspector. She was a fresh-looking English girl of about twenty-six, attractive without being actually pretty, and evidently intelligent. Inspector Rudge decided at once to put her at her ease—one of his favourite alternatives of examination.
“‘Merton’ they call you?” he said with a friendly smile. “Sounds a bit formal to me. I expect you’ve got another name, eh?”
“Jennie’s my Christian name, sir.”
“Ah, that’s better. Well, Jennie, this is a sad affair and I don’t want to upset you more than I can help, but I must just ask you a few questions about your employers. You see, I don’t know anything of them; not been here long, have they?”
“No, sir; only about a month.”
“Were you with them before they came here?”
“Oh, no; I come from Whynmouth myself. I’ve only been here three weeks.”
“Ah, so Miss Fitzgerald didn’t bring a maid with her when she came?”
“Oh, yes, she did—a French one—Mademoiselle Blanc she called herself, but Miss Fitzgerald called her Célie. She didn’t stay long—told the other girls the place was like a mortuary—‘dead-house’ she called it—I don’t know whether she meant Rundel Croft or Whynmouth, but I suppose she thought it was dull. Anyway she packed up and went off without waiting for her month, nor yet her wages, so the girls say. Miss Fitzgerald had to go to Marlow’s Agency for another maid in a hurry and as they hadn’t got one but they knew I’d been in a maid’s situation but I’m living with mother now—she’s not well—they asked me, and I consented to oblige.”
The last sentence, though rather involved, had the merit of explaining the situation. Inspector Rudge nodded.
“I see; so you don’t really know Miss Fitzgerald very well.”
“Not so very, but I’m not blind.”
“I’m sure not. What did you see?”
“Just that they didn’t look much like an uncle and niece to me.”
“Oh, they didn’t? Why not?”
“The way she spoke to him—sharp and sarcastic—more like a wife, I should say. Not that I mean there was anything wrong.”
“But he was old enough to be her uncle—or her father, wasn’t he?”
“Oh, yes—if you think that matters.”
“Did they seem fond of each other?”
“Not so as you’d notice it.”
“Rather the reverse in fact?”
“Well, of course, I really couldn’t say. It’s not my pla
ce to be with them—only with her.”
Jennie evidently felt that she had said too much already.
“Well, about her then. You knew that she was engaged to this Mr. Holland, of course?”
“So she told me.”
“Did she seem to be in love with him?”
“I’m sure I couldn’t say.”
“You didn’t see them together much?”
“Not so much. But I never saw them kissing or holding hands.”
“Ah!” Here evidently was significance—a criterion.
“Now tell me, Jennie, did Miss Fitzgerald care about her appearance?”
Jennie stared.
“Funny your asking that, sir. It always puzzled me. Sometimes she didn’t and sometimes she did. She’d be downright plain some days—like she was this morning—and then she’d take and do herself up till she looked real handsome.”
“And when did she do that? When her young man was coming?”
“I never could make out when she did or why she did—but it wasn’t for him. Last night she was lovely—took over an hour to dress, when she usually flung her things off and on in five minutes. That white dress she wore was her favourite—it was chiffon with an overcoat of cream lace; she always wore a coloured flower—artificial—with it.”
“Ah! I’d like to have a look at that dress sometime,” said Rudge. “I’ve heard it mentioned more than once.”
“Well now, that’s another funny thing,” said Jennie, who was now fully at her ease—as Rudge had intended. “She’s taken it with her! She only told me to pack sleeping things and a change of underclothes and stockings, but she must have packed that herself after I’d done.”
“But didn’t you take it away—to brush, or whatever you do to it—when you called her this morning?” asked the Inspector, fumbling with half-guessed mysteries.
“Well now, there you are again! I didn’t call her before you came—she likes to sleep late. But when I went to tell her you were here I went to pick up her dress and shoes and things to take away, but she snapped at me fierce and told me to go away, she wanted to get up. Of course, I went, but when she’d come down to see you, I went back to get them—and they were gone!”
“Gone! All the clothes she wore last night?”
“The dress and shoes and stockings were.”
“Didn’t you look for them?”
“Of course I did. They weren’t anywhere.”
“So that’s why you think she took them with her?”
“Well, she must have. Where else could they be?”
Inspector Rudge looked thoughtfully at the girl, then nodded his head and drew out the notebook which had not previously appeared at this interview.
“I see, Jennie; thank you. I won’t keep you longer now. Don’t tell anyone else about that dress and things, but have a good hunt and, if you find them, let me know.”
When the girl had gone, Inspector Rudge sat back in his chair and pondered what he had just heard. The maid’s judgment as to the relations existing between Elma Fitzgerald and her uncle, and again between her and her fiancé, might be at fault; the question of Miss Fitzgerald’s spasmodic attention to her appearance was at present beyond him; but surely the disappearance of the dress and shoes which she had been wearing at the time of the tragedy—or at any rate on the evening of the tragedy—was significant? Could she be in some way connected with her uncle’s death? She had appeared neither surprised nor distressed when she heard of it, but if she had been guilty—or even cognisant of it—would she not have feigned both? However, it was too early yet to indulge in surmise—let alone theories; there were many facts to be collected first.
To begin with, the newspaper. How had it come into the dead man’s pocket? Rudge happened to know that the late London edition of the Evening Gazette did not reach Whynmouth till 8.50—the express by which, incidentally, Arthur Holland had arrived. No doubt a copy would be delivered at Rundel Croft, but that could not be till about 9 p.m. and the Admiral had left the house at 7.15 for his dinner at the Vicarage. Unless he had got a copy from the Vicarage, that seemed to imply that Penistone had returned to Rundel Croft after leaving the Vicarage at 10 p.m.—but then why was the paper in his overcoat pocket? Had he gone back to fetch it in order to read it out of doors—surely that was inconceivable? Or had he, on his way back to Rundel Croft, met someone who gave him the paper—not the delivery boy, it was too late for that. Someone, perhaps, who had brought the paper out with him—had brought it, perhaps, from London—Arthur Holland, for instance? Holland, who had spent the evening by the seashore and then gone early to bed—by himself. But here again was surmise—facts were what he wanted. Rudge rang the bell.
“Emery, did your master take in the late London Evening Gazette?”
“Yes, sir. Tolwhistle’s boy brings it out of an evening—gets here about nine.”
“Did it get here last night?”
“Yes, sir,” said Emery, a faint look of surprise on his stodgy face.
“Where did you put it?”
“In the hall, sir.”
“Is it still there?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“Go and have a look, and if it’s not there, find out whether it’s been tidied away.”
Looking more surprised than ever, Emery slouched out of the door. Rudge thought it would probably be ten minutes at least before the tortoise-like butler returned, so he reached for the telephone which stood upon the writing-table and put a call through to Tolwhistle’s, the Whynmouth stationer. The number was engaged, and while he waited Rudge let his mind drift back to the missing dress. He remembered that when he sent Emery off to ask Miss Fitzgerald to come and see him it was ten minutes before the butler returned and then it was with the information that Miss Fitzgerald would be down in a quarter of an hour. There was, in fact, an interval of twenty-five minutes between his despatching his message and the arrival of Miss Fitzgerald. Did her appearance—slovenly in the extreme—justify or explain such a long delay? Was it possible that the mysterious “niece” had spent part of the time in hiding the clothes she had … ?
The telephone bell trilled.
“Tolwhistle’s? I want to speak to Mr. Tolwhistle, please. That you, Mr. Tolwhistle? Inspector Rudge here. I want some information; quite confidential. Sounds trivial, but isn’t. Do you supply the Reverend Mount, Vicar of Lingham, with newspapers? You do. Does he have a late London Evening Gazette? Left it off at the end of last year? Said what? Oh, spoilt the morning’s—yes, I see. Any chance of anyone else supplying him? No, you’d have heard of it, of course. Thank you, Mr. Tolwhistle. Keep my questions to yourself. I’ll explain them some day.”
That settled the question of whether the Admiral had got the paper from the Vicarage; there remained the two alternatives of his having come back to the house, fetched his own paper, and gone out again, or having met someone outside who had for some reason given him the paper.
Impatient at the long absence of Emery, Rudge went to look for him. There was no sign of the butler, but Police Constable Hempstead was standing in the hall.
“I came to report that the body has been taken to the undertaker’s, sir. I formally handed it over and obtained a receipt.”
The Inspector blinked. Here was efficiency carried to full stretch.
“Right,” he said. “This house isn’t in your district, I think you said?”
“No, sir, but the corpse was found in it.”
“And you think it your duty to see that its presence is accounted for?”
“That’s for you to say, sir.”
Rudge grinned. He knew that this keen-eyed young constable was itching to be “in” the investigation.
“All right,” he said. “Here’s a job for you; go down to the boat-house and find out from Sergeant Appleton whether he’s found anything significant. No. I’ll come with you. If there’s anything, I shall want to see it for myself and we mustn’t keep our detective-sergeant there all day.”
And so, forgetting all about the newspaper, Inspector Rudge accompanied P.C. Hempstead across the park to the boat-house. As he went, he asked his subordinate whether anything particular had struck him about the case.
“One or two things, sir. In the first place, the body’s clothes were almost dry—the back quite dry. But there was a heavy dew last night. If he had been lying about in grass, or even in the boat, since midnight (Doctor Grice fixed the time of death, you remember, sir, as before midnight) wouldn’t the clothes have been wet?”
Inspector Rudge eyed his companion with interest.
“From which you infer … ?” he asked.
“That the Admiral was killed indoors and kept indoors—or at any rate under cover—for some time after he was killed.”
The Inspector was silent for so long that Hempstead began to fear that he had exceeded his duty. Just as they reached the boat-house, however, Rudge said:
“That’s a neat point; we’ll talk about it later. Ah, Appleton, sorry to keep you waiting. Found anything?”
Detective-Sergeant Appleton was a square, solemn-looking man, valuable as a detective rather for his persistence in following up small clues than for any brilliance in deducing theories from them.
“Only two suggestive points, sir. This boat’s very clean and rather wet inside—looks as if it might have been swabbed out recently. That’s one; the other is that its bow’s facing inwards. The Vicar’s sons tell me that the Admiral always used to go in stern first, so as to be facing the right way when the boat went out again.”
“Ah, Navy trick, eh? That’s worth noting. Nothing else? No blood, signs of struggle, footmarks, finger-prints?”
“No to the first two, sir. There are one or two good footmarks I’ve covered over with boards and there look to be plenty of finger-prints all over the boat and sculls.”
“We’ll have to examine them later. Any theories, Appleton?”
“None, sir.”
Inspector Rudge sat down on the bank and motioned to his subordinates to join him.
“Light up,” he said, pulling a pipe out of his pocket. “Think better smoking, and we must think now. The Vicar’s hat, in the first place; why was it in the boat?”
“Put there by the guilty party to throw suspicion on the Vicar,” hazarded Sergeant Appleton.
“Improve on that, Hempstead?”
The Floating Admiral (Detection Club) Page 5
