Holland paused this time quite unmistakably; but his face did not suggest guilt or duplicity; he looked more like an honest man who knows more than he is at liberty to tell, and is not quite sure how much he can tell without a breach of trust. That, at least, is how Rudge read his expression for the moment or two while the embarrassment lasted. Then: “Inspector,” said Holland, with a more serious note in his voice, “you mustn’t ask me to be responsible for a woman’s fancies. I know you think it was very shocking to go and get married like that; very quietly owing to mourning in the bride’s family, funeral bake-meats scarcely cold, and so on. But, well, I think the truth is Elma is far more nervous than her self-command lets you see. I think she was altogether rattled by what happened here that night, and she felt she was in danger here; who could tell she would not be the next victim of this mysterious vendetta, or whatever it was? She wanted to get away from the place, and she wanted to have a man close to her, now that her uncle was gone, who would have a natural right to be her protector. There’s that about me, you see; I may not be worthy of Elma, but I’ve got the right format for a chucker-out. And I suppose that’s how she looked at it.”
“Yes, I see that. Now, may I ask you this?—did Admiral Penistone himself, when you last saw him, give you any idea of what had made him change his mind? Did he explain at all?”
“If you’d known him, you’d know that he wasn’t a man for explaining things. He was short and sharp in conversation—hated to waste a word. And that night, why, he hardly said more than ‘Good evening,’ and ‘Come this way, I’ve something to show you,’ and ‘There, will that make you any happier?’ Otherwise he just puffed at his pipe; that was his idea of conversation.”
“Ah, he was a great smoker, was he? Always the same pipe, I’ll be bound; your true smoker never uses more than one.”
“He wasn’t, then. Why, you can see for yourself how they’re scattered over the mantelpiece. If one wouldn’t draw, he’d take to another.”
“I wonder—do you think it possible that he had anything on his mind, and that was why he said so little? Of course, I’m anxious to find out whether the unfortunate gentleman knew at all what was coming to him. Did he look worried or tired, for example, when you saw him?”
“Not that I noticed. No, not that I noticed. Of course, when I saw him in the study the only lamp burning was that reading lamp just beside you, which has a thick, green shade over it, as you see; you don’t see much of a man’s face when he is standing up and the light is all being thrown on his desk. But if you ask me whether his tone of voice suggested excitement or worry, I’d say, No.”
“Well, Mr. Holland, I think I’ve asked you all that I wanted. Oh, except this—he wasn’t wearing an overcoat, was he, by any chance?”
“In his study? On a hot summer night? You might as well ask whether he was wearing chain armour.”
“I know it sounds unlikely, sir. But there it is—he was in a great-coat when he was found. And of course … by the way, Mr. Holland, when you thought you saw the Admiral outside your window, would he be wearing a great-coat then?”
“Now, what a fool one is about noticing things! I see him as in a great-coat now; but then, I know about the body … I feel as if he hadn’t had a great-coat on; but then, I may be arguing with myself; I may be saying to myself that I must have noticed it if it had been worn, on a hot night like that. If only my memory worked by eye! No, Inspector, you may put me in jug, but I should be misleading you if I tried to give you a plain answer to a plain question.”
“Well, thank you for what you have told me, sir. Now, about Mrs. Holland …”
“If you ask me, I expect Mrs. Holland will want her dinner. It doesn’t seem to occur to you that you’re rather spoiling our honeymoon. Look here, we’ve booked rooms at the Lord Marshall. Elma said she couldn’t sleep in this house just yet. I don’t dare to think what Mrs. Davis’s dinner must be like when it gets cold. Can’t you leave it till to-morrow and put my wife on the rack then?”
“Well, sir, it’s like this. I’ve got to see the coroner to-morrow morning, and I’ve got to give him as full an account of the case as I can; and you and Mrs. Holland, look at it whatever way you will, are going to be important witnesses. But if you think Mrs. Holland would sooner see me first thing to-morrow, why, there’s a policeman on duty in the Square, and if I may pass the word to him, I’ll feel certain I know where to find you. Perhaps if I was to climb up behind, you wouldn’t mind giving me a lift as far as Whynmouth?”
“For fear we might be tempted to take a wrong turning? Well, Inspector, I suppose we’ve deserved that. All right, come on; we’ll play fair this time.”
Rudge sat in darkness at the back of the car, instinctively spying on the two figures whose outlines were blurred against the illuminated patch of road. The impressions he had already formed of the couple were on the whole confirmed; there was little talk between them, and when there was any the initiative seemed to come from Holland; you saw, in the attentive droop of his shoulder sideways, the model of the deferential lover, whereas Elma looked straight in front of her and hardly moved when she answered. But then, she was tired, no doubt; she had much to think of; perhaps she even felt sorrow for the old man whose fortunes she had shared for so many years, now lying under that dust-sheet in the mortuary.
Rudge made an excuse to follow them into the hotel; he was privately concerned to make sure about the locking of that door into the back-yard. The Lord Marshall is an old-fashioned hotel, and there is no private entrance for visitors; they have to pass along a narrow passage, with a slight recess in the middle of it which gives you a back view of the gentlemen who are refreshing themselves at the public bar. One of these made a half-turn as they entered, and Rudge had two simultaneous impressions—that he recognised the man, and that the man did not want to be recognised. At least, he shrank back as they approached, and his face was hidden in the darkness of the space under the stairway. Returning from a mercifully brief interview with Mrs. Davis, Rudge found him again and verified his guess. It was Cropped-head, the Gazette reporter. By a promise of seeing him next day, Rudge managed to stave off his eager questionings about the progress of the case. Then he had a word with the policeman in the Square, and went back to the seclusion of his own rooms.
Inspector Rudge, we must regretfully admit, was a quite ordinary man. He did not solace himself with the violin, or the cocaine-bottle; he did not tie knots in string, or collect scarabs, or distinguish himself in any way by sidelines. The rooms to which he returned were quite ordinary rooms, from which he had not even troubled to remove the landlady’s decorations; the whisky he took out of the cupboard was so well known that the mention of its name would be an unnecessary advertisement; the same may be said of the tobacco with which he filled his pipe. If the full truth must be confessed, Inspector Rudge was so far human that he took off his boots and replaced them with a pair of dressing-slippers. Then he got down to the night’s work; and that consisted in selecting from the mass of material he had accumulated during the day the points that seemed most likely to repay investigation. These points he jotted down, in the form of questions; he added no written comment, except an occasional memorandum; but as each question was reduced to verbal shape he looked up at the ceiling and let his mind play around the possibilities which it suggested. The questions are here reproduced, with a summary of the cogitations to which each one led. When he counted them up, his orthodox mind was delighted to find them exactly thirty-nine in number.
1. Why did Penistone come to Lingham, and why did Sir Wilfrid mind? Altogether, there was too much of the China Station about this business. On the face of it, there was nothing particularly improbable in the fact that two men well acquainted with China should be living at such close range. But Mrs. Davis, representing the local gossip, had seen some significance in it; and, quite unexpectedly, she had volunteered the information that Sir Wilfrid did not seem over-pleased at the neighbourhood. Was it conceivable that there had be
en a connection between them in the past? A guilty connection? If so, on which side did the guilt lie? On Sir Wilfrid’s surely. Rudge’s mind, do what he would, was apt to travel in official grooves; and the notion of blackmail forced itself on him. The more so, because Sir Wilfrid appeared to be in straitened circumstances. Mem.—Apply to the bank in the hope of getting the Admiral’s passbook; hardly possible to have the handling of Sir Wilfrid’s.
2. Why did Jennie think that Penistone and Elma seemed more like husband and wife than uncle and niece? Probably mere gossip. Jennie had, after all, seen the couple but a short time; the fact that they managed the household—presumably—in financial partnership would give them, to the girl’s mind, the air of equals. Once again Rudge’s fancy toyed with the idea of an impersonation; yet it seemed quite impossible that any such impersonation should long persist; Dakers would see through it if nobody else did.
3. Why was Elma so familiar with the French maid? And why did the French maid leave so suddenly? The two questions could be treated as one; if there was any significance in the former it would probably provide an explanation for the other. The allegation that Célie had found the place dull was surely a mere excuse; a Frenchwoman who had stood years of Cornish exile would necessarily take more than a week to grow tired of Lingham; Whynmouth, after all, boasted a picture-palace. It might, of course, be some romance or tragedy below stairs which happened to have come to a head at the moment. But it seemed more natural to assume that the move was the cause of the flight—yes, you might almost call it a flight, since there was money owing. Of course, if Célie were not a mere servant, it might be that money was no object to her. But why leave just after a move? Surely it would have been more plausible to give notice when the move took effect. And that meant—that ought to mean that Célie, on coming to Lingham, had found something there which was unexpectedly disconcerting to her; or that circumstances arose at Lingham which would not have arisen in Cornwall. Too short a time for romance. Had Célie been in Lingham before? Mem.—Trace, if possible, Célie’s present whereabouts and past references.
4. Why, again on Jennie’s testimony, was so little love lost between Elma and Holland, on her side at any rate? Once more, it might be mere gossip. Who was it who was credited with a “miserably low standard of intoxication”? Perhaps Jennie had an unusually high standard of walking-out. Jennie peered at you; and a couple of shy lovers might have been at pains to disengage their hands at the warning of her heavy-footed entrance. But if there was anything to it, it suggested that the marriage, on one side at least, was a mariage de convenance. On which side? Hers, according to the evidence; and, to be sure, she had had an earlier disappointment; her youth was slipping from her. It might be, too, that she was anxious to deal with her capital, instead of having the interest doled out to her by trustees. But where was the need here? She lived simply; she dressed dowdily. Holland, of course, might be an adventurer; but, if so, he was a clever feigner of love.
5. What did Elma do with her money? This question arose naturally out of the last. How simple life would be for the police, if we all audited our accounts, like the public charities! Rundel Croft was not a house of pretensions; its grounds were negligible. Even if Elma paid more than a half-share—and the Admiral must have had some money—it was hard to believe that £1,200 a year could be needed for upkeep. Yet the capital was hers; there was no obvious need of saving. Once again the word blackmail suggested itself; but this time it seemed to be the wrong way about. If Sir Wilfrid were the blackmailer, why did his victims settle so close? And why did he manifest annoyance? Mem.—Once more, consult the Admiral’s pass-book.
6. What part did Walter play in the background of these lives? If he was dead, then his influence only persisted in so far as he was keeping Elma out of half of her inheritance; and this, in view of her already comfortable circumstances, seemed a factor that could be neglected. But if he were alive—what would be his influence then? Was he popular with his family, or had the story of his disgrace obliterated all affection? It was odd, when you came to think of it, that a household so connected with a soldier who disappeared in the War should have no photograph of him exposed in study or drawing-room. And yet—there was the scandal of the cheque; awkward, perhaps, to have visitors saying “Who’s that?” If he were alive, what was he doing; what would he be doing? It seemed unlikely that a man of his antecedents would let a fortune pass him by without a struggle. Yet, granted he were alive and were attempting to reinstate himself, what could he stand to gain by committing a crime of this sort, or inducing others to commit it? “Point is, disappearance of valuable uncle,” Rudge found himself quoting. The corpse of one trustee does not make a legacy.
7. Why did Ware think the Admiral had altered since he last saw him? People do change their looks, of course, and a man labouring under a long grievance may be excused for losing something of his old cheerfulness and vitality. But the photographs at Rundel Croft, evidently dating back to the period of Ware’s reminiscences, bore a quite unmistakable resemblance to the man found drowned. Again the wild suggestion of an impersonation flooded across the Inspector’s mind; again common sense told him that a long-sustained impersonation is a practical impossibility. Was it conceivable that Ware did recognise the corpse he fished out; then, for some reason, pretended not to; then, by way of explaining his lapse of memory, invented this story of altered looks? But again, why should Ware pretend ignorance? Why not have said, “I’ve seen the man before somewhere, but I can’t remember the circumstances”? Mem:—Ask Dakers about this.
8. Does Mrs. Davis’s allusion to a runaway wife at the Vicarage lead anywhere? It seemed a long shot; but so far, apart from Elma, there was no woman in the case except the woman in the car, untraced, and this phantom from Lingham’s past, who might surely be expected to give the place a wide berth. It has been suggested that Rudge’s mind ran obstinately in grooves of police experience; and cherchez la femme is almost the first item in the policeman’s decalogue. But how to make enquiries about Mrs. Mount’s history since her elopement? The Vicar could supply the name of his guilty rival, but it would be brutality to ask him; and even so the traces of a ten-years-old disappearance would almost certainly have been obliterated by now. No, Rudge decided, he was becoming fantastic. Mrs. Mount had never lived at Lingham; presumably her husband had never heard the names of Denny or Penistone at the time of her desertion. There was not even a loose thread to be picked up here.
Rudge drew a line across this page. So far, his questions were all questions which might have been asked, though there would have been no reason for the police to ask them, yesterday afternoon, when the river ran peacefully between the Vicarage and Rundel Croft, the two boys sporting in it with no shadow of a tragedy to overawe their high spirits; when the Admiral’s brisk walk and sharp voice proclaimed him very much alive, and no pale corpse rested in the Whynmouth mortuary. Now he must get on to the crime itself; its circumstances and the traces it had left. He hitched his chair up a little closer to the table, took a meditative pull out of his glass, emptied out and refilled his pipe, then returned methodically to his self-imposed catechism.
9. Why did Elma dress up that night to meet the Vicar? Here again you were dealing with impressions, the impressions of a rather fanciful servant-girl. But one must not despise the testimony of the expert; and a lady’s maid, in the little world of her own limited interests, is an observant critic. Any deviation from the normal, however slight, is worth watching as a possible hint that crime did not come altogether like a bolt from the blue; that somebody was up to something beforehand. But in this case who was up to what? If Elma thought she was going to meet Holland that night, odd that it should have been her uncle, not she, who was in a hurry to get back to Rundel Croft. And if a meeting was projected, it was evidently a secret one; no need, then, to draw attention to it by tricking herself out for the occasion. On the other hand, Mr. Mount seemed hardly the man to appreciate a lady’s costume; hardly the man whom the most enterp
rising of adventuresses would have set out to vamp. Old English sports, No. 82, Vamping the Vicar. Was it conceivable that Elma was up to some game which involved leaving Rundel Croft later that night; that she meant to change her clothes for the purpose, and was at pains to put on elaborate evening dress so as to make the later change a more effective disguise? Mem.—Ask Jennie if any other wardrobe items showed signs of disturbance or hasty folding this morning.
10. Why did she hide the dress afterwards? At least, that was going a little too fast. But she had certainly made a point of packing the dress, and of packing it herself. The conclusion, though not irresistible, was certainly probable, that there was something about that dress which she did not want even a confidential eye to discover. But that meant, unless she was going to tell a quite different story under to-morrow’s cross-examination, that Elma had something to conceal, and was giving a false account of her movements. If, after leaving the boat-house, she went straight to bed, it was impossible that any tell-tale evidence—a split or a stain—should have made its appearance since her good night to the Admiral. The trouble was that since Elma had moved to the Lord Marshall, Jennie was no longer in a position to report. Mem.—If there is a chambermaid at the inn who doesn’t talk, ask her to find out whether that dress ever came back from London.
11. Was it Penistone who went down to Whynmouth that night? The evidence came from two sources; both were uncertain, one quite possibly mendacious. Rudge had satisfied himself that the lighting outside the Lord Marshall was particularly inadequate. The direct statement made to the Boots, who could hardly be lying, showed that the man who called at the door was either the Admiral or an impostor who was impersonating him. If Holland’s account were true, it confirmed the notion that some deliberate attempt had been made at disguise; Holland did not overhear the visitor’s conversation, and yet thought there was a look of the Admiral about him. But then, was Holland telling the truth? Assume that it was the Admiral; why did he suddenly want to take that late (and bad) train up to London? In the alternative, why did he want to create the impression that he had intended doing so? Either supposition implied that there was some mysterious dealing on the Admiral’s own part, which no other evidence, except perhaps his impatience to get away from the Vicarage, suggested. Assume that it was not the Admiral; then what was the point of this elaborate frame-up? To implicate Holland in the crime? But there was no foretelling that Holland would not remain fast asleep at the Lord Marshall; nothing but his own evidence served to connect him with the mysterious caller. To deceive the public about the spot at which the murder was committed? Yes, there was something in that; it might help out an alibi. But would not the bogus Admiral have been at pains to leave other evidence of his visit, besides that of a sleepy and stupid hotel servant?
The Floating Admiral (Detection Club) Page 14
