The Floating Admiral (Detection Club)

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

  Very still was the study, barred with sun and shadow, very cool, very dark. It was a pleasant coolness and a pleasant darkness after the glare of the lawn. “Quiet as a tomb,” thought the Inspector to himself. “So what’s she screaming about?” Then, as he moved to the writing-table, which was set at an angle to the window, rampart-wise, he saw what Elma Holland had screamed about.

  Slid down upon the floor between the desk and the wall lay the body of a woman. Her eyes were open and glazed like the eyes of a carefully painted waxwork; on her cheeks the make-up stood out in hectic patches on the skin. Her two hands were clasped upon her breast, not peacefully, but in a last gesture of energy. They were clasped about a knife-handle, whose blade was sunk in the stained folds of her flowered summer dress.

  CHAPTER XII

  By Anthony Berkeley

  CLEARING UP THE MESS

  RUDGE plumped down on his knees beside her, heedless of the blood which lay everywhere on the carpet. The woman was still warm, and the blood had scarcely ceased to flow from her breast. But quite certainly she was dead.

  A voice from the doorway brought the Inspector to his feet again.

  “We were in the hall when she did it. We actually heard her fall.” Holland spoke gravely, but without any traces of panic.

  Rudge frowned. “I thought I told you to stop outside, sir.”

  “Oh, damn your rotten little orders, man. Here’s a woman stabbed herself; it’s no time to stand on ceremony. Is there anything we can do? Is she dead? Are you certain?”

  Rudge got slowly to his feet. “She’s dead right enough. Must have died just about the time you were in the house.”

  “She died in my arms, then,” said Holland sombrely.

  Rudge glanced at the blood on the other’s hand, and Holland nodded.

  “I held her up for a second,” he said. “I thought she was dead, so didn’t disturb her hands or take the weapon out.”

  “That was wise of you, sir.”

  “You know who she is, of course? My wife’s French maid—Célie.”

  “Ah!” said Rudge. “I shall have a few questions to ask you and Mrs. Holland.”

  “Later,” Holland said, in his masterful way. “My wife’s very much upset at the moment. Naturally. I can’t have her worried till she’s had time to recover.”

  Rudge lifted his eyebrows slightly, but all he said was: “I must ask you not to leave these premises for the present, either of you. Where is Mrs. Holland now?”

  “I put her in a hammock, on the lawn. I must get back to her. We’ll wait for you there, Inspector. Anything we can tell you, of course, we will.”

  There was the sound of footsteps on the gravel outside, which marched without hesitation into the hall. “Anyone about?” called a voice. The next moment the figure of the ubiquitous reporter from the Evening Gazette appeared in the doorway. With a muttered word Holland slid past him and out of the house.

  A shaft of sunlight from the window flashed cheerfully on the reporter’s horn-rimmed spectacles. “Hullo, Inspector. Didn’t expect to see you. Is the Vicar about?” He caught sight of what lay at Rudge’s feet. “My God—what’s this?”

  “I understand it’s Mam’selle Célie,” Rudge replied austerely, “Mrs. Holland’s late maid. And I must ask you to leave me alone here, if you please. I’ll see you get your story later. There are—” Further sounds of footsteps outside caused him to break off short. Both men listened intently. Again the footsteps progressed without hesitation into the house, and along to the study. The Vicar came into the room.

  “Why, Inspector,” he said in surprise. “I didn’t know you were to be present too. Has—oh!” For a moment he appeared too frozen with horror to move. Then he threw himself on his knees beside the body with a little cry. “Celia!”

  “Don’t touch her, please, sir.” Rudge bent down as if to guard the body from the Vicar’s ministrations.

  The latter turned a ravaged face up to him. “She’s dead?”

  “I’m afraid so, sir.”

  “She hasn’t—killed herself?”

  “It looks uncommonly like it, sir.”

  Mr. Mount dropped his face into his hands and remained motionless for nearly a minute. When he spoke again it was with more self-possession.

  “Inspector, you know who this poor soul is?”

  “She’s already been identified, sir, as Mrs. Holland’s late French maid.”

  “Yes.” The Vicar paused for a moment, as if to stiffen himself in a resolve. “Inspector, there are many things connected with this tragedy that I cannot tell you. My lips are sealed by the confessional. But if it will serve the interests of justice this much I can say: this poor woman is my wife. And alas, I fear that it is I who drove her to this terrible deed.”

  2

  “You, sir?” said the Inspector sharply. “How is that?” Then catching sight of the newspaper man, he added: “Here, I told you to clear out.” He was about to seize the fellow by the shoulder and hustle him out of the room, by way of some physical vent for the various emotions that were boiling inside him, when he saw from the other’s white face and shaking hands that it was not just callous professional curiosity which had kept him there; the man looked indeed almost incapable of walking. Rudge laid a gentle instead of a ferocious hand on his arm, and led him towards the door. “In the War, weren’t you?”

  The reporter mustered up a shaky smile. “Yes, but we didn’t kill—women. I think I’m going to be sick.”

  The Vicar pushed past the Inspector and took charge, leading the man into a small lavatory that opened off the hall just inside the front door. “Stay there till you feel better,” he nodded, and returned with the Inspector to the study.

  “Turns some people up, blood does,” commented the latter. “Now, sir—you were going to tell me?”

  They stood side by side, looking down on the dead woman. “Poor soul, poor soul,” muttered the Vicar. “The mother of my boys, Inspector. Perhaps I was too harsh with her. Too narrow, perhaps. Yet what else could I have done? My creed expressly forbids divorce. ‘Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder. …’ It’s too explicit.”

  “She wanted you to divorce her?” Rudge gently dropped the question into the Vicar’s musings, which seemed to be addressed more to himself than to the Inspector.

  “Yes. I never knew the name of the man who induced her to run away with him; she always refused to tell me; perhaps it was better so. But he seems to have been kind to her, according to his lights.” It was plain that the Vicar was trying hard to be just. “At any rate, he was faithful to her; and she to him. They wanted to marry. They always have wanted to marry. But I could not reconcile it with my conscience to divorce her. Then last Tuesday—the night of the murder, in fact …”

  “Yes?” Rudge almost held his breath. At last something was going to come out about that night’s hidden happenings.

  “She called upon me here, quite late, and urged me once more to reconsider my decision. She was very upset—agitated—quite distraught, in fact …”

  “Ah!” breathed Rudge.

  “I had the greatest difficulty in soothing her. Especially in view of what I had to say.”

  “You repeated your refusal, then?”

  “What else could I do?” asked the Vicar piteously. “I considered that I had no choice. The injunction is too explicit. It distressed me very much to have to say so, but conscience,” added the Vicar, with a wan smile, “makes brave men of us all.”

  “And what time was this, sir, when the lady called?” It distressed the Inspector too to have to continue his cross-examination in these circumstances, but his duty was no less plain.

  “I saw her soon after midnight.”

  “But we have information that she arrived here at about eleven?” Rudge said gently.

  A slight flush appeared on the Vicar’s cheekbones. “I repeat, I saw her soon after midnight. About a quarter past twelve, so far as I can say. I brought her into the study he
re, and we talked for nearly an hour.”

  “But what was she doing between eleven and a quarter past twelve?”

  The Vicar’s lips stiffened. “That I cannot tell you, Inspector.”

  “Meaning that you won’t tell me, sir, or you don’t know?”

  “I have nothing further to say.”

  The two men eyed each other steadily.

  Rudge gave up the point. “And this afternoon? Had she made an appointment with you?”

  “She had, for seven o’clock, and with Mr. and Mrs. Holland too. Unfortunately, most unfortunately, I was late. Otherwise,” said the Vicar, with a little break in his voice, “who knows but what I might not have prevented—this?”

  “And you had been—?”

  “At the Ferrers Abbas flower-show. The maids are there still, and my boys. The house was quite empty.”

  “Why did Mrs. Mount make this appointment?”

  “She did not say, in so many words.”

  “But you gathered, sir?”

  “I think,” said the Vicar, a little uneasily, “that she had come to some decision regarding certain information she considered she had concerning Admiral Penistone’s death.”

  “And that information is known to you?”

  A look of obstinacy which Rudge in his exasperation characterised privately as mulish, spread over the Vicar’s face. “I told you just now, Inspector, that on some points my lips are sealed. That is one of them.”

  Again the two looked at each other.

  But this time an interruption came from without. Once more footsteps sounded on the gravel drive, to be followed this time by the jangling in the back regions of an old-fashioned bell.

  The Vicar went out into the hall, and Rudge followed him.

  Standing in the open front door was a small, elderly man, whose not very spick-and-span suit was set off by a smart grey trilby hat set at a jaunty angle. “Ah, Mount,” he said. “Sorry I’m so infernally late. Is the conference over?”

  “Conference?” repeated the Vicar stupidly.

  “Yes. Seven o’clock I was told to be here. I couldn’t quite make out what it was about on the telephone, but the—the lady sounded pretty urgent.”

  “She—rang you up?”

  “Yes.” The new-comer looked more than a little embarrassed. “Sounded like a cock-and-bull story to me. Well, she said she was your wife.”

  “She was,” said the Vicar sombrely. He turned to Rudge. “Inspector, I don’t think you know Sir Wilfrid Denny, do you?”

  “By sight well enough, sir. I’m glad to see you’ve come back, Sir Wilfrid. I’ve been hoping to have a word with you.”

  “About this terrible business at Rundel Croft? Yes, of course. I got back this afternoon. It never occurred to me that you’d want to see me, or I’d have come back sooner. I had to go to Paris.”

  “Denny …”

  The Vicar was obviously going to break the news of the latest tragedy, and, not wishing to intrude on the scene, Rudge turned away. Out of curiosity he opened the door of the lavatory where the sick reporter had been parked, and glanced inside. It was empty. Evidently he had recovered.

  Before returning to the study to mount guard over the body and telephone to the Super and Dr. Grice, Rudge indulged his curiosity once more. He took a couple of steps outside the front door and glanced across the lawn. The result gratified him. In the hammock sat Mr. and Mrs. Holland, side by side; Mr. Holland’s arm was about his wife, and Mrs. Holland’s head was on her husband’s shoulder. Even as Rudge glanced at them she raised it and spontaneously kissed him.

  “So she is human after all,” said Rudge to himself as he hurriedly turned away. “And now she’s found out that she loved him all the time. Well, they say it takes a shock to make some of ’em realise it.”

  3

  Rudge had handed over to Superintendent Hawkesworth.

  Major Twyfitt, the Chief Constable, had motored back home, but luckily he had not taken back Hawkesworth to the county town with him. Together the two, as soon as Dr. Grice had arrived, had searched the house, but nothing had been discovered to throw any further light on the death. The Superintendent was now making arrangements for the removal of the body, and Rudge found himself at liberty for a few words with Mr. and Mrs. Holland.

  Mrs. Holland was still in the hammock. That she had received a severe shock was obvious, but already she was showing such signs of recovery that Rudge, who wished to put his questions while impressions were still strong, thought himself justified in over-riding Holland’s objections to an immediate interview. He dropped, with a carefully unofficial air, on the grass beside the pair.

  “It’s unfortunate, sir, I agree. But you’ll understand that I must do my duty. Now would you be good enough to tell me first of all what you know about this appointment? When did Mrs. Mount make it, and what reason did she give?”

  Rudge had addressed his question to Elma, but it was Holland who answered it. “She rang us up at the Lord Marshall just after lunch to-day, and asked us to meet her here. She gave no reason.”

  “But you would have inferred one?”

  “No.”

  “Was it you who spoke to her on the telephone?”

  “No,” said Holland—a little reluctantly, Rudge thought. “It was my wife.”

  “I see.” Rudge turned pointedly to Mrs. Holland. “What reason did you infer then, madam?”

  “None.” Elma’s tone was as curt as ever.

  “You did not ask for any?”

  “No.”

  “But it must have seemed strange to you that your late maid should want to meet you at the Vicarage?”

  “I imagined she was upset about something and wanted advice, and did not care to come to the inn, where she might be recognised.”

  “But why shouldn’t she be recognised?”

  Elma shrugged her shoulders. “That I can’t tell you.”

  “Did you know that she was Mrs. Mount?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “It surprises you?”

  “Very much.”

  “Perhaps,” said Rudge tentatively, “you can see some way in which that fact may throw light on your uncle’s death?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t,” Elma retorted. “But of course it gives a reason for her having left me—my service so abruptly.”

  Rudge nodded. “Yes, that’s true enough. By the way, you say you imagined she was upset about something. Did she sound upset on the telephone?”

  “Agitated, perhaps,” Elma said slowly. “Yes, she did.”

  And yet not too agitated, Rudge thought, to eat greengages before the conference she had called.

  “It never occurred to you,” he went on, “that the advice you thought she wanted might be on some matter connected with your uncle’s murder, Mrs. Holland?”

  “Certainly not,” Elma replied sharply. “Why should it?”

  Rudge might have given more than one reason for his question. Instead, he asked, slowly and significantly: “How much did Célie—know?”

  His shot got home. Elma paled, then flushed, and sent a glance towards her husband which was a patent appeal for help. Holland supplied it at once.

  His words took Rudge by surprise. He did not bluster or attempt to end the interview, merely remarking: “It’s curious you should say that, Inspector; I asked my wife that identical question not an hour ago. I too had considered the possibility that she might be about to give us some information on the Admiral’s death. But my wife was positive she could have known nothing.”

  “How could she?” asked Elma, in relieved tones.

  Rudge glanced from one to the other. He knew very well that Mrs. Holland had said nothing of the sort, at any rate just then. He was not sure that he had been wise. In an attempt to frighten information out of them, he had intimated to the pair that he had overheard their conversation while they were waiting; and Holland, of course, had seen him come out of the bushes. They could not know for certain that he had not been able to
hear them too while Elma was in the hammock. And yet Holland had not been in the least frightened. He had taken the thing quietly out of Rudge’s hands, reassured his wife, and returned an answer which was admirable in its noncommittal quality. Rudge had to console himself with the fact that without doubt Elma had, just for an instant, lost her grip. These two must know something—but Rudge recognised that there was not the faintest hope of getting it out of them by direct questioning.

  Anxious not to put them too much on their guard, he tried another line. “Now, will you tell me, sir, exactly what happened when you got into the house? You noticed the front door open, I think, and followed Mrs. Holland inside?”

  Holland smiled slightly. “As you saw, Inspector, from your laurel bush, yes. By the way,” he added, more sternly, “had you some idea that anything like that was going to happen? Because if so …”

  “I had no idea, sir; no more than yourself. Now, will you kindly give me those facts?”

  “Well, I followed my wife into the hall. We thought that Célie—Mrs. Mount—must have come, as the door was ajar. We looked into the drawing-room first, then the dining-room. I think it was while we were in the dining-room (which adjoins the study, you know) that we heard a scream—”

  “A terrible scream,” put in Mrs. Holland with a shudder.

  “Yes, it was terrible. I’ve never heard anything so—well, awful—producing awe. It was just like an animal. I dashed out of the dining-room and into the study, but before I got there I heard a thud, which must have been made by her fall. And there she was, on the carpet, and the blood streaming out. As I told you, she died in my arms.”

  “Oh-h-h-h-h-h,” shuddered Elma.

  “I see. Thank you, sir. And you, Mrs. Holland? That coincides with your own impressions?”

  “Yes. I think so. Perhaps I should have said myself that we heard her fall before my husband moved, but I couldn’t be sure.”

  “But you think not, sir?”