The room had gradually emptied. Kurt suddenly folded the files shut, tucked them all under his arm and hurried away.
*
Half an hour later, Agatha found herself knocking on the door of the Finch’s pantry.
It was a small, neat room, with a high window and a mahogany table at which were pulled up two chairs. Finch was sitting on one of them, and looked up at her with obvious relief. He gestured to the other chair, and she sat down.
He was silent for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts, as if unaccustomed to an interview of this nature. Then he spoke. ‘I fear, Madam, that secrets were about to be betrayed. Secrets, perhaps, worth killing for.’
He sat upright, in clean, crisp white, with his open blue gaze. ‘I wouldn’t normally betray any of these confidences, but these circumstances have rather knocked my usual rules.’ He took a breath, then said, ‘Mrs. Adler and Mr. Tyndall are … are what one might describe as fond of each other. That in itself is no secret. However …’ His words faltered.
In her mind, Agatha saw Mr. Tyndall, his care for Frau Adler, his springing to her defence.
Finch spoke again. ‘Their close friendship, it is believed locally, predated the death of Dr. Adler.’ He gave an out-breath of relief, as if unused to uttering such words.
‘I see,’ she said.
‘I would not normally confide such things to a third party, but the thought that someone might evade justice due to my silence … it is not a comfortable thought.’
‘No,’ she agreed. Then she said, ‘Have you told the police?’
He shook his head. ‘I wanted to ask your advice before I did so.’
She looked at this man in front of her, his soft blond-white hair, his broad, reliable shoulders. She felt strangely flattered.
Directly above him hung a framed painting, painted in oils. It showed a mother with her children, the woman golden-haired in flowing blue, the two children, fresh-faced boys in sailor suits, encircled by her loving arms. An evocation of family life. It seemed further to sharpen the sense of loneliness about this man in front of her.
‘Detective Inspector Olds,’ she said. ‘He’s local, he told me. Perhaps he already knows this –’ Gossip, she was about to say.
‘Perhaps.’ Mr. Finch looked as if this was unlikely.
‘You think not?’
‘It’s difficult for you others to understand,’ he said. ‘There are ways, here, whereby people keep their secrets. My fear is that the secret was about to be betrayed. That’s what brought about the danger. And to see Mr. Farrar with all those files from the big house sitting there in front of him, his breakfast getting cold … it made me feel a whole new fear.’ He stopped, breathing, as if exhausted by so many words.
‘I can see exactly what you mean,’ Agatha said. She met his eyes.
‘There is one other thing, Madam. I do so hate to burden you, but I really am beyond being able to see the right path …’
She waited. He went on, ‘The revolver that was found, next to the body of poor Mr. Collyer … It is mine. A Weston Mark Six.’
‘A soldier’s weapon,’ Agatha said, remembering Mr. Farrar’s words.
He nodded. ‘A soldier’s weapon. A soldier. That’s what I am.’ A new weariness seemed to descend upon him. ‘Oh, Madam. I have been going over and over in my mind, did I leave it loaded, how could I have left it here for anyone to steal? In my mind, I hear the firing of it, over and over …’ His voice cracked.
‘Mr. Finch,’ she said. She reached out a hand as if to touch his arm, let her fingers rest on the table-top.
‘I couldn’t possibly have left it loaded.’ His voice was agitated. ‘Soldier’s drill. The bullets were hidden. Someone must have found them …’
‘Do the police know?’
He shook his head. ‘I was about to confess to them.’
‘Are you sure it’s yours? It was a general issue weapon, I’m sure my husband had one –’
‘My revolver has been missing from its place in that drawer ever since Monday. It was the first thing I checked.’
‘Mr. Finch – if someone was determined to find your revolver, which they clearly were, nothing you did would have stopped them. And surely the police have found that the murderer loaded the weapon, not you.’
He nodded, mutely. ‘I never left it loaded. Soldier’s drill,’ he repeated.
She withdrew her hand. ‘Would you like me to mention this conversation to the police?’
His face seemed to soften with relief. ‘Oh, Madam … if you would. It would mean I could sleep at night.’
He leaned towards her, as if about to shake her hand, then collected himself, and got to his feet, clicking his heels in a kind of salute. ‘Madam, I am so grateful to you. An outsider, you see. If you tell them, it’s not so bad.’
She stood up too. ‘I do understand, Mr. Finch. I shall find that nice Detective.’
In the corridor he turned to her again. ‘Thank you, Madam,’ he repeated. ‘You’ve rescued me.’
She smiled at him, and went on her way.
It was only when she was heading towards the tennis courts that it occurred to her that she had wanted to ask him more about young Oliver Hughes and his connection with Frau Adler.
*
There were no police to be seen throughout the hotel. Little May on reception told her they were all at the shipwreck – ‘They’ve found gold there, Madam, that’s what everyone was saying in the kitchen.’
It was a beautiful morning. Agatha imagined herself sitting in her room, gazing at the azure sea, writing the words whereby Captain Wingfield would declare his love to Martha Hobbes. With a sigh, she remembered her promise to Mr. Finch, that she would find Inspector Olds. She gathered her summer coat, and left the hotel.
She was unsurprised, as she neared the coast, to see others heading the same way. If they had ‘found gold’, she thought, it would bring people from far and wide. She could see the small Austin parked on the path, and sure enough, there on the beach was Inspector Olds, standing by the side of the shipwreck, deep in conversation with a man in a large fisherman’s jumper and India-rubber boots.
She began to descend the steps, until at last her feet were on the shingle. The detective looked up as she approached, waved his pipe in her direction.
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Mrs. Christie. The rumours have reached as far as your ears, it seems. Bosun, this is Mrs. Christie. She’s staying at the hotel where we’ve had our other trouble. Mrs. Christie, this is Bosun Ted Walker. He’s been helping us with this monster here.’
Ted Walker was broad, brisk and bearded. He raised his hat, revealing shorn red-tinged hair. ‘Pleasure, Madam,’ he said, with a brief bow.
‘I can only hope we’re wrong.’ Inspector Olds resumed their conversation. ‘Treasure is the last thing we need. It was bad enough, with all the tales of ghosts.’
The Bosun smiled. ‘It’s a fishing boat. Why would it be carrying gold? At most, that chest will hold some kind of loot. We’ll get it out and see what’s what.’ He turned back towards his team, with another tip of his cap. ‘You’re in safe hands, with my boys.’
The Detective watched him go, then turned to Agatha. ‘I don’t suppose you came in search of gold, Mrs. Christie?’
She smiled. ‘No. I came because –’
‘These events at the hotel,’ he finished for her.
She nodded. ‘I’ve had a conversation with the Hotel Manager, Mr. Finch.’
‘Ah. Finch.’
‘He – he wanted to confide in me, something that was on his mind.’
The policeman’s eyes were fixed on her.
‘He said,’ she went on, ‘that the, um, close friendship between Frau Adler and Mr. Tyndall … he said, he has reason to believe that it pre-dated the death of Dr. Adler. He was, as you can imagine, very embarrassed to be revealing such confidences, but he felt, in the circumstances, that it might be helpful. He wanted me to tell you.’
The policeman’s gaze seemed t
o crystallise with dawning understanding. ‘Ah,’ he murmured.
‘I did think perhaps it was the sort of gossip that the village already knew,’ Agatha was saying.
He shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I knew Mr. Tyndall was a friend of the couple. I didn’t think ...’ Again, the look of clarity. ‘Ah,’ he said again.
In front of them, activity. Hands digging, arms carrying, stacking. Beyond, the sea, sparkling in the sunlight.
Inspector Olds took off his hat and rubbed the back of his head. ‘It’s very helpful of Mr. Finch,’ he said. ‘But I’m not sure it sheds any light at all on the terrible death of Mr. Collyer. The work of a police officer, Mrs. Christie, is all about establishing the facts, not allowing oneself to be distracted. And the way I do that, is by following my intuition. I mean, to be sure, we have our methods, we can analyse the scene of the crime, we have all sorts of forensic tools … but for me, my intuition is at the heart of it all. Gut instinct, you might say.’ He paused, scanning the activity at the Lady Leona. ‘There is no doubt,’ he went on, ‘that someone wanted to silence Mr. Collyer. Of that I’m sure. But even if Mr. Collyer had uncovered some secret that Mrs. Adler and her friends didn’t want uncovered, we still have to ask, is it for that that he was silenced? Or is it something more?’ He turned to her. ‘There’s an old manor house, over towards the woodland. It’s derelict now. But during the war, it was a centre for all kinds of goings on.’
‘Ince Hall?’ she asked.
He blinked. ‘Yes,’ he said, watching her. ‘Ince Hall. You know it?’
Agatha spoke reluctantly. ‘Mr. Farrar brought me there yesterday.’
His eyes narrowed with interest. He drew on his pipe, though it seemed to have gone out. ‘Ah. Mr. Farrar.’
‘You think it’s connected to the murder?’ she asked.
He paused, as if calculating how much to say. Then he spoke. ‘This is what I think, Mrs. Christie. I think poor Mr. Collyer had stumbled upon a local connection in his work that led him into danger. Frau Adler then tried to stop him researching any further, whether out of concern for his well-being, or for more sinister reasons. All these facts will be established on my next visit to Langlands.’
‘I see.’
‘Certainly,’ he went on, ‘what Mr. Finch has said does add a certain weight to my theory, now I come to think about it.’
‘Young Hughes is at Langlands, isn’t he?’ Agatha said.
His face softened. ‘Mr. Finch has sent him back there for safekeeping. Very wise, in my view.’
‘He seems to care about him very much,’ she said.
His expression exuded warmth. ‘That poor boy had ended up with no one. His father died at Ypres. Brave man, he was. And then his mother was very poorly, after the war. You’d see her, creeping to the shops here. Grief, my wife said. They said influenza, but my Elsie always said it was sorrow. And then poor Oliver had no one else. Finch has taken him under his wing. He’s a very caring man,’ he said. ‘Have you noticed how his staff are devoted to him? His men were the same, during the war. Devoted.’
A shout came up from the shipwreck. A man, taller than the others, was emerging from the bones of the ship, carrying a large chest. There were more shouts, laughter; people downed tools and gathered around him.
‘There we are, then. Moment of truth. I’d better get my men on guard just in case it’s gold after all.’ Inspector Olds gave a smile. ‘And then it’s up to the big house.’ He began to walk towards the ship. ‘Mr. Farrar, eh? I might have to have another word with him. If it turns out he knew something about the goings-on at Ince Hall, we may be getting somewhere. It’s an inescapable fact that he was first on the scene of the crime. These things matter, you know.’
Agatha followed him towards the listing hulk. A crowd had gathered around the chest. Sergeant Brierley was standing beside Bosun Walker. The villagers were producing tools to prize open the chest, which was square and large and seemed to be made of metal.
Agatha turned to Inspector Olds again. ‘There’s one more thing,’ she said. ‘About the murder weapon.’
Inspector Olds looked at her.
‘Mr. Finch said that the pistol that you found on the tennis courts was his. War Office standard issue, apparently.’
Inspector Olds smiled at her. ‘Madam, I had concluded that myself. This murderer, whoever he is, is no fool. He would have made sure the weapon left no clue. Discovering the unloaded pistol in the butler’s pantry, it would have been a matter of minutes to load it, seize his moment on the tennis courts, and then drop the weapon and disappear. We are having it tested for fingerprints. I had already surmised, that, should it carry any prints, they would include those of Mr. Finch. I shall reassure him when I next see him. And, more importantly, I will have another chat with Mr. Farrar and the others. Facts, you see, Mrs. Christie. Always establish the facts.’ He took a match from his pocket, re-lit his pipe. ‘Of course,’ he went on, ‘There is always the alternative conclusion, that we might yet be looking for a killer who has long since fled. And that will make my work a lot more difficult.’
There was another roar from the crowd, as the lid of the half-rusted chest was at last prized open. Then there was jostling, shouting, and, at last, cries of ‘Empty!’
‘Empty,’ Inspector Olds repeated. ‘I’m afraid I’m not at all surprised. Well, this makes my job a little easier, I hope.’ He turned to her and offered his hand. ‘I wish you a good afternoon, Mrs. Christie.’
*
Captain Wingfield slipped away from the empty chatter of the drawing room through the French windows. He found himself in the garden, and noticed, not for the first time, how clipped it appeared, as if the splendour of the flowers was being deliberately tamed. Wandering further away from the house, in the warm afternoon sunlight, he came upon the walls of the old garden, with the grey stone sundial at their centre. Here the wild roses rambled, tangled in a blaze of colour. He listened to the birdsong; but there was another sound, that of a woman weeping. And there he espied Miss Hobbes, seated on a stone bench, quietly sobbing.
‘Miss Hobbes,’ he said, approaching her. ‘Whatever is the matter?’
She shook her head, saying only, ‘I wish you every happiness.’
‘My dear,’ he said. What are you talking about?’
She raised her pretty face to him. ‘Your engagement,’ she said. ‘To Peggy Bertram.’
Captain Wingfield felt the breath go out of him as he registered his surprise. ‘Miss Hobbes,’ he said. ‘Please disabuse yourself of such an idea. I’m not engaged. To Miss Bertram or to anyone else for that matter.’
Now it was Miss Hobbes’ turn to show astonishment. ‘You’re not to be married?’ she asked.
‘My dear Miss Hobbes,’ he said. ‘If I’m to marry anyone, it will be you.’
Agatha put down her pen, and re-read her words. She got to her feet and went out on to the balcony of her hotel room. The sunshine had persisted into the afternoon, and a calm had returned to the hotel. Tennis was being played on the tennis court again. It was beginning to feel like a normal holiday. She thought about her telegram to Archie. It all seemed rather over-dramatic now. Perhaps that’s why he hadn’t replied, because he knew there was no need.
Inspector Olds was presumably up at Langlands again. She decided to reassure Mr. Finch about the murder weapon, and went to find him.
There was no sign of the hotel manager anywhere. His pantry was empty. Wandering back towards the Palm Court she encountered, instead, Mr. Farrar. He was striding towards her, a stack of files clutched across his chest.
‘Hah!’ he said. ‘Just the woman I wanted to speak to.’
Agatha felt a sinking feeling. Captain Wingfield’s proposal to Miss Hobbes was still unwritten. She wished she hadn’t left her desk.
‘The police,’ he said. ‘Bound to question me. Blanche is terribly worried, mental state, you know, all a bit fragile.’ He stood in the corridor, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
‘I’m sure they don’t think you’re a suspect, Mr. Farrar.’
‘Shall we consider the facts, Mrs. Christie?’ His voice was loud in the soft carpeted space. ‘On the morning of the murder, a gunshot is heard, at six or thereabouts. It is known that I had arranged to play tennis with the deceased. It is also known that the only two people present on the courts at the point where the staff run out to see what’s going on, is me, and Mr. Collyer. Mr. Collyer is dying, from a single gunshot wound. And there I am, standing there on the tennis court. It is quite clear that I am the only person in this hotel with no alibi. Everyone else has proved that they were elsewhere. The chambermaids were stoking the fires for hot water. The cooks were in the kitchen, and the front of house staff were preparing for breakfast service, along with young Oliver and Mr. Finch, all tucked away behind the green baize door. Mrs. Collyer was roused by the noise. And Mr. Tyndall claims he slept through it, though I have reason to doubt that.’
‘You do?’
He looked into the distance, then back at her. ‘He seemed to be up and dressed in record time, shall we say, for someone who claimed to be asleep at the time of the shooting. But Mrs. Christie, all this is the sort of evidence that, in your stories, proves to be of great importance.’
He was fidgety and nervous, his arms still holding the files. Agatha laid a hand lightly on his arm. ‘Shall we go and find a cup of tea, Mr. Farrar?’
They sat in the Palm Court, which was empty. The sunshine must have drawn people out to the terraces, Agatha thought, with relief. Little May served them, still full of stories of the shipwreck, ‘Well, yes, Ma’am, you say the chest was empty but it might have had a hidden base, people are saying now, they want to saw it open if they can find the right tools, and in any case, there’s another floor to the ship, there’s every chance they’ll find something there …’
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