The Floating Admiral (Detection Club)

by Christie, Agatha; Detection Club, by Members of the

  Rudge postponed consideration of the affair, and walked to the Anglers’ Arms, which was near the station. And there he got some news which, he thought, entirely justified his suspicions.

  It seemed that about seven o’clock on the evening in question, a telegram had been received from Waterloo, to the effect that the sender, Mrs. Marsh, was going to Drychester by the next train and required a room to be reserved for the night. Also, she wished the hotel to be left open, as owing to having to pay a call on arrival, she could not reach it till midnight or later. The room had been duly prepared and the porter had waited up till nearly two, but the lady had not turned up, nor had anything been since heard of her.

  This certainly did back up the tale that the lady had intended to return from Lingham Vicarage to Drychester. So far the thing looked bona fide enough. It would, however, be easy to get the details at the Vicarage. In the meantime Rudge must not lose sight of his present quest: what was Mount doing at Drychester?

  He produced his photograph and asked if the hotel manager had ever seen the original. And then came the information which brought all his suspicions of Mount back with a rush and made him congratulate himself on having followed up this line of the case.

  Mount, it appeared, had called at the hotel on the day following that on which the telegram had been received, and Rudge saw that he must have gone there immediately on arrival in Drychester. He had stated that he was conducting a delicate enquiry on behalf of a member of his church. It concerned an unhappy marriage; he hoped the manager would not ask for details. His parishioner’s wife had intended to meet her husband on the previous night with reference to a possible reconciliation, returning afterwards to the Anglers’ Arms and there spending the night. But she had not turned up and his friend was very distressed about her. He, the friend, wishing to keep his family skeleton hidden, had not himself come to the hotel to make enquiries, but had deputed him, the Vicar, to do so in his stead. Could the manager give him any information about the lady? The Vicar could not say under what name she might have registered.

  Though the manager did not personally know Mount, he had seen him at functions at the cathedral, and was satisfied of his bona fides. He therefore gave him all the information at his disposal. Mr. Mount had thanked him and had at once left.

  Rudge imagined that this interview had probably constituted Mount’s whole business in Drychester, but to make assurance as sure as possible, he went to the cathedral and in the guise of a former parishioner, asked the head verger if he had ever heard of his old rector, the Rev. Philip Mount, who he believed was now in charge of a parish somewhere near. From this beginning it was easy to steer the conversation in the way it should go, and Rudge was soon convinced that the Vicar had not been at the cathedral on the day in question.

  Rudge caught the last train to town that night. Next morning he was early at Scotland Yard, where he explained that he wanted to make some enquiries at the Charing Cross Hotel and possibly elsewhere. He was asked if he required help, and on his saying that he did not, he was told to go ahead and ring up if he was stuck.

  Assured of a free hand, Rudge went on to the hotel. There with the aid of his photograph he had no difficulty in establishing the fact that Mount had arrived at a few minutes before nine on the evening he rang up, evidently from the train arriving at Waterloo at 8.35. So far as was known he had not gone out that night. Next morning he had paid his bill after breakfast and left.

  So far it had been plain sailing for Rudge. Enquiries at the reception office and from waiters and chambermaids had quickly brought him his information. But now he was up against something stiffer. In vain he questioned porters and messenger boys. The head porter remembered seeing the Vicar, but he couldn’t remember how he had left. He or one of his staff might have got a taxi for him, but they got so many taxis they couldn’t be sure.

  Rudge was extremely persistent, but success did not crown his efforts. Mount had gone, but no one knew how.

  Rudge went out into the square in front of the station. In all probability Mount had walked to where he had wanted to go, or, if not, had taken a ’bus or gone down to the Underground. If so, Rudge did not see how he could possibly get on his track, and he would be forced to return to Whynmouth and fall back on the chance of getting a statement. Such a statement Mount might, of course, refuse to make, and Rudge didn’t see how he could force it from him. No, if he, Rudge, could find out what Mount had done in town, it would be infinitely better.

  He wondered whether Mount might not after all have taken a taxi. The porters might have forgotten the circumstance, or Mount might have come out into the square and hailed one himself. Rudge decided to make enquiries of those drivers who used ranks near the hotel.

  He began at once, and a long job he found it. To man after man he showed his photograph and asked if he had taken the Vicar up. And man after man shook his head and said he had never seen the gentleman.

  But Rudge persevered. These enquiries were his only hope, and he would be quite sure they led nowhere before abandoning them. And then at last his perseverance reaped its just reward. A driver came in from a job and took his place at the tail of the line. Rudge went up to him with his photograph.

  The driver was by way of being discreet. He had seen Mount, but he didn’t know what business of Rudge’s that was. A little judicious backsheesh, however, overcame his scruples, and he told what he knew. Mount, it appeared, had hailed him from the station square and told him to drive to Judd Street, to a private hotel. He didn’t just remember the number, but he could find the place again.

  “Then find it,” said Rudge, getting in.

  Presently they drew up at Friedlander’s Private Hotel and in a couple of minutes Rudge was interviewing the manageress. Yes, the clergyman of the photograph had called on the morning in question. He had asked to see Mrs. Arkwright, a lady who had been staying with them for some three weeks. But Mrs. Arkwright had gone away unexpectedly the evening before and had not yet returned, so the clergyman was disappointed. He had left his name and address: Rev. Philip Mount, Lingham Vicarage, Whynmouth, Dorset, and asked that Mrs. Arkwright be requested to ring him up when she returned. He had then gone away.

  Rudge turned the conversation on to Mrs. Arkwright. The manageress was reticent, but still he managed to pick up a good deal. Mrs. Arkwright was middle-aged, small, active and vivacious. She was decidedly good-looking and always dressed well. Though evidently not rich, she seemed comfortably off. The manageress was not certain that she might not be French. They had a French girl staying at the hotel, and Mrs. Arkwright spoke French to her as fluently as she spoke English to the others.

  Rudge felt he was getting on. That this Mrs. Arkwright had unexpectedly travelled from London to Drychester on the evening before the crime now seemed clear. Having during the journey mysteriously become Mrs. Marsh, she had driven to the Vicarage and there vanished.

  Rudge would have liked to search the lady’s room and belongings, but he had no warrant and he did not think he could manage it otherwise. However, by judicious pumping he obtained a little more information from the manageress.

  Mrs. Arkwright was pleasant-mannered and a favourite among the residents. She had not, however, many friends of her own, by which the manageress meant visitors. Indeed the manageress might say she had only one visitor, a man who called at irregular intervals. He was tall and distinguished-looking, and his forehead was bronzed, as if he had lived in some hot country. The manageress indeed had seldom seen so good-looking a man. His name was Mr. Jellett.

  Rudge was in a reflective frame of mind as he left the hotel and automatically turned his steps to the nearest tube station. There was something very puzzling about this whole business. That this Mrs. Arkwright or Marsh had gone to the Vicarage on the night of the murder, there could be no doubt. But it wasn’t at all certain that she had seen Mount. From what he had said to the taxi-man it was difficult to believe that Mount knew she was there. At the same time Rudge found it equally di
fficult to believe the story about her visiting the housekeeper and getting a fainting fit. In either case where had the woman disappeared to? It almost seemed as if Mount himself did not know and that his journeys to Drychester and London were simply an effort to find out.

  To Rudge it looked very much as if there had been some secret negotiations in progress between the Vicar and this woman. Whether he had seen her on the night of the crime or not, something had happened to make him want to see her the next day. And there was an element of secrecy about the whole thing which looked anything but well.

  Then Rudge remembered something he had been told by the garrulous landlady of the Lord Marshall Hotel at Whynmouth. This man, Mount, had had trouble in his life. His wife had run away from him with some man. Now could it be … ?

  Rudge whistled softly between his teeth. If Mrs. Arkwright-Marsh were really Mrs. Mount, it might at least partially account for these mysterious proceedings. Some question, possibly that of a divorce, might have been raised, which would have necessitated an immediate interview. This would account for the visit to the Vicarage and Mount’s subsequent journey to town, though it might not explain Mount’s denying knowledge of her call. Oh, yes, it might, though. Rudge saw that he had been wrong. In the excitement of discussing a divorce the taxi might well have been forgotten, and when Mount found it waiting he might have invented the story about the housekeeper to allay possible scandal.

  On the whole Rudge thought this theory promising enough to justify further enquiry into it. He did not see, it must be admitted, how it was connected with the death of Admiral Penistone, but that connection was suggested by the boat, the hat, and particularly by the Vicar’s eagerness at the inquest.

  How, Rudge wondered, could he find out about Mount’s erring wife? He thought for a while, then, returning to the Yard, borrowed a Crockford. From this he found that Mount had been in his present position for ten years, before which he had been a curate in one of the Hull churches. Rudge immediately put through a call to the Superintendent at Hull, asking him to try to obtain a description and if possible a photograph of Mrs. Mount.

  In a couple of hours there was a reply to say that a photograph and description had been obtained and were being sent up to the Yard.

  On Monday morning they arrived. The photograph had been got from one of the local newspaper offices, and showed the lady in a hospital committee group. The description gave Rudge a thrill of satisfaction. It looked as if he were on the right track.

  In half an hour he was back in the hotel in Judd Street. He was sorry to trouble the manageress again, but would she be good enough to tell him if Mrs. Arkwright was among this group?

  The manageress hesitated a little, but when he explained that the photograph was ten years old she became quite certain. Yes, that fourth lady from the left was undoubtedly Mrs. Arkwright.

  Full of self-satisfaction, Rudge took the first train from Waterloo. Determined to be thorough, he went to Drychester and saw his friend, the taxi-man. Here he had not such definite confirmation, though the man agreed that his passenger might well have been the original of the photo.

  It was with the gratifying consciousness of something attempted, something done, that Rudge returned to the police station at Whynmouth that afternoon to report his progress to Superintendent Hawkesworth. Hawkesworth, however, took the disappointingly narrow view of achievement so frequently displayed by Authority.

  “Huh,” he said when Rudge had finished, “it looks to me like a wash-out. This blessed parson is considering making things up with his wife or divorcing her or whatever you like to make it. But that won’t help us any with the question of who killed old Penistone. What do you propose to do now?”

  “I thought, sir, of going to Mount and asking for an explanation.”

  Hawkesworth frowned. “An explanation of just what?” he asked.

  “An explanation of where Mrs. Mount went to that night. The boat was gone; it was connected with the murder; who took it? Did Mrs. Mount? I think, sir, we could press that question under the circumstances.”

  The Superintendent considered, then nodded shortly. “Very well; try it. You may as well, now you’ve gone so far.”

  Rudge was bitterly indignant as he drove out to Lingham Vicarage. This was always what happened when you took trouble and did anything specially well! What sort of mind had Hawkesworth? Surely to goodness it was clear that this information about Mrs. Mount was vital? Her unexpected visit to the Vicarage on the night of the crime; her unexpected disappearance after arrival there; Mount’s ignorance or assumed ignorance of the whole affair. The boat; the hat; Mount’s sudden attempt to find his wife; Mount’s subterfuges to keep his real business from leaking out—ecclesiastical matters, he had said to Rudge; a parishioner’s unhappy marriage, he had told the Drychester hotel-keeper; family news, he had explained to the lady in Judd Street. …

  In fact the whole thing was darned fishy, and he would be bound to get some valuable information from Mount. Somewhat cheered, Rudge set out for the Vicarage.

  CHAPTER X

  By Edgar Jepson

  THE BATHROOM BASIN

  POLICE CONSTABLE RICHARD HEMPSTEAD had been cherishing his aunt, Mrs. Emery. At first when she returned to her native neighbourhood and settled down at Rundel Croft, he had showed himself nephewly, but in moderation, certainly not to the point of cherishing her, and even now the cherishing, it is to be feared, was not a natural effusion of pure nepotic feeling. It was the result of feeling, indeed, of two feelings: a strong feeling, a hunch, in fact, that the secret of the murder of the Admiral was to be found in Rundel Croft, and a scarcely less strong feeling that the society of Jennie Merton was good for him.

  So it came about that during the last week he had been often in the house. When he was on his round, all kinds of reasons for just looking in on his aunt occurred to him; the house being empty, except for her and Jennie and Emery, burglars might have broken in, or the chickens might have been stolen; or he had to ask her some question, connected with the mystery, of no great importance; or he had to give her some information, of no great importance, about the progress of the police towards the solution of it. He was gifted with a quite decent creative imagination, which, doubtless, was often of use to him in the witness-box. When he was off duty he would, in nephewly fashion, drop in to tea or supper.

  It is to be doubted that Mrs. Emery, who had rather more than her fair share of womanly intelligence, as the wives of the Emerys of this world generally have, ascribed his assiduity to the finer feelings of a nephew. She perceived that Jennie was, as a rule, at hand—she would have a good view of the drive from the windows of the upper part of the house, where most of her work lay—to open the door to him when he called. Also she had once heard her say, as she was bringing him from the back door to the kitchen: “Oh, go hon, Mr. Hempstead!”

  Well, as Mrs. Emery saw it, Jennie was a good girl, as girls go nowadays, and showed quite a lot of sense in the way she was picking up cooking, and cooking was what a man really wanted when he was married; and in any case Dick was one of those pig-headed young men, who will go their own way, and he might do worse. Anyhow, who was she to interfere with love’s young dream?

  So it came about that Hempstead had had the run of Rundel Croft, for Elma Holland and her husband had not been in his way. If sometimes he was not alone, but accompanied by Jennie, when he was having the run of it, it did no one any harm. Also, he was a useful man to have about, for in a big house like Rundel Croft little things were always getting out of order and going wrong, and he was useful with his hands. Mrs. Emery soon fell into the way of getting him to set the little things right that the Admiral had been used to set right, putting a spring in a lock that had ceased to work, restoring a patch of paint that had been rubbed off, to maintain in fact the spick and spanness the Admiral had demanded. He was a useful visitor.

  He had inspired into Jennie his strong opinion that the solution of the mystery of the murder was to be found in the
house, and though she would have helped him in his search, or at any rate superintended it at intervals, in any case, that identity of opinion made her help him with enthusiasm.

  Together they searched the house with uncommon thoroughness, every nook and cranny of it, especially the Admiral’s study and bedroom and Elma Holland’s sitting-room and bedroom, hunting above all for the missing white frock in which Elma had dined at the Vicarage.

  “Mind you, Jennie, I don’t say as you’re wrong in thinking that she packed it up that morning and took it to London with her,” he said. “But there’s a possibility that she rolled it up small and stuffed it away in some hole or corner, and if so be as we could find it, I’ll eat my helmet if we don’t find it marked in some way or another that would be a useful clue. It might even be blood-stained.”

  “It might truly,” said Jennie in thoughtful agreement.

  They found several holes and corners in which the frock might have been hidden; but they did not find the frock.

  Then on Monday afternoon as they were finishing their tea (and it was just about the time that Inspector Rudge was reporting at Whynmouth police station) Mrs. Emery said: “There’s one thing, Dick, as you might have a look at before you go, and that’s the basin in the bathroom. Miss Elma complained, when she came back, that the water ran out of it very slowly and now it’s quite choked up and it won’t run out of it at all. It’s a job for a plumber, I know; but you might be able to do something with it.”

  “Well, that’s easy, Aunt,” said Hempstead with manly confidence. “It’s just a matter of clearing out the trap.”

  He finished his tea—he was always rather longer about it than his uncle and the two women—and having gathered the tools he wanted from the house tool-box, he and Jennie went up to the bathroom, and he got to work. It was an easy job, for, after he had taken up the linoleum, he found the board in the floor above the trap loose, to enable the inevitable plumber to get at the trap easily. He unscrewed the nuts and lifted the cover off the trap. The trap was choked with hair, and he began to pull it out. He was struck by its coarseness and paused to examine it.