There was a slight quiver in his voice. It was clear that Inspector Olds was facing a situation completely new to him, and probably rather uncomfortable.
‘Our investigation centres on three things,’ he went on. ‘Firstly, the events at the hotel on the morning of Mr. Collyer’s untimely death. Secondly, the house further along the track there, Ince Hall. And thirdly, the actual papers belonging to Dr. Adler that Mr. Collyer had come to possess. Now, what we know is that a lot of people were up unreasonably early on the morning of Mr. Collyer’s death. Not only Mr. Farrar here, but you, Frau Adler, you appeared at the hotel, having been driven there by your secretary. Do you have an explanation for that?’
Lilian Adler seemed pale with cold, perhaps, or from the tension that hung in the room. She put down her cup of coffee and said, ‘It is simple. The papers. Frederick was about to betray secrets. I wanted the papers back. I still want them back. I was lucky that my friend here got wind of it.’ She indicated Mr. Tyndall, with a small wave of her ringed fingers.
‘And what exactly were those secrets, Frau Adler?’ Inspector Olds’ gaze was intense. Detective Sergeant Brierley too was waiting, pen poised in his hand.
Frau Adler gave a sigh. ‘Ach, if only I knew. My husband was an admirable man. Admirable. I miss him terribly, as Mr. Tyndall here knows.’
Robin Tyndall gave a nod of his head.
‘We are outsiders,’ Lilian Adler went on. ‘Everyone knows that. We were German, living here during a war with Germany. But our loyalties have always been to the country we called home. This country. Our children are Englishmen. My husband’s work was on behalf of this country. His work on reflective paint, his art that made use of it to protect our soldiers in the Great War, all was out of loyalty to Britain, patriotism. And it is true, that during the war, Ince Hall was a hive of activity. The man who owned it was an artist too. He died, leaving no heirs. It continues to be disputed. That’s why it has fallen into ruin.’
The policeman looked thoughtful. ‘Ince Hall,’ he said. ‘Once owned by the Munro family?’
Lillian gave a small nod. ‘Theodore Munro had inherited it,’ she said. ‘The painter.’ She seemed about to say more, but Robin Tyndall threw her a warning glance.
Kurt Farrar was clutching the edge of the table. Agatha heard him murmur the name, ‘Theodore.’
The Inspector took up his questioning again. ‘Mr. Tyndall,’ he said. ‘Mr. Farrar. Could you explain how you know each other?’
They spoke at once. ‘We don’t,’ Mr. Tyndall said, firmly. ‘Artists,’ Mr. Farrar said, across him.
The policeman looked from one to the other. ‘Perhaps you could be a bit clearer?’
Robin Tyndall waited for Mr. Farrar to speak. Kurt glanced at Agatha, and then said, ‘Mr. Tyndall was at Ince Hall, during the war.’
All eyes were on Robin, who inclined his head and said, ‘That is correct.’
‘He never saw active service,’ Kurt went on.
‘That is also correct. I had polio as a child, and it left me disabled. Also,’ he added, ‘I was getting on a bit by the time war was declared.’
The Inspector addressed Mr. Farrar. ‘And you, Sir, were also at Ince Hall?’
‘Only at the beginning. I was called up as a soldier. Devonshire Regiment, First Battalion. Mr. Tyndall arrived after that. As did Dr. Adler. I never met him. ’
‘That is correct, too,’ Mr. Tyndall said.
‘So –’ The Inspector tucked his thumbs into his waistcoat – ‘that still does not explain how you know each other.’
There was a moment of silence. Then Frau Adler spoke. ‘Mr. Farrar has come here on holiday, have you not? Re-tracing memories of Ince Hall? You’ve encountered Mr. Tyndall from time to time that way.’
Kurt Farrar seemed to breathe. He nodded. ‘Frau Adler is correct,’ he said.
‘You’ve stayed in the village before?’ The Inspector eyed him closely. ‘At the same hotel?’
‘Once before,’ Mr. Farrar replied. ‘About a year ago.’
‘Ah.’ Inspector Olds tapped the notebook, watched his Detective Sergeant write it down. ‘I have another question,’ he said. ‘What is the significance of these papers belonging to Dr. Adler? What might they conceal?’
A glance flashed between Tyndall and Frau Adler. Kurt Farrar began to speak. ‘Inspector Olds … I can tell you my fears surrounding Dr. Adler’s papers. Dr. Adler was an expert on colour. His work on reflection and absorption of light proved invaluable in the development of pigments for use in camouflage. But he was more than just a chemist. He was an artist, too. He was a man of admirable qualities. I never met him, but, with your permission, Frau Adler, may I say how much his work was admired in his lifetime.’
She bowed her head in acknowledgement.
Kurt continued, ‘It was entirely due to him that the artists who came to Ince Hall made such a huge contribution to the war effort. He was able to gather around him a group of chaps who became expert, not only in the tools of camouflage, but also in its application. We were sculptors, painters, cubists, pointillists … We made periscopes that looked like trees, we made watchtowers that couldn’t be seen from the sky, we made ourselves invisible …’ His face shadowed. ‘I wasn’t there for long, but it was a precious, privileged time.’
‘And the papers?’ the Inspector prompted.
Mr. Farrar sighed. He met his eyes. ‘There are many casualties of war, Inspector. As I’m sure you know. Not just the dead, the wounded, the widowed, the orphaned. But there are also those who are silenced by the horrors they have seen. Dr. Adler allowed such people to bear witness. He listened to their tales of brutality, unfurled in fragments, words tumbling out between weeping. And then, he would paint. His sympathetic listening allowed these people’s stories a shape, a colour. It allowed for beauty, for redemption.’
There was a silence, then Inspector Olds said, ‘But you never met him.’
Kurt Farrar shook his head. ‘I wish I had.’
‘So the papers?’ the Inspector prompted.
Frau Adler cleared her throat. ‘If I may, Mr. Farrar …’ She turned to the policeman. ‘My husband knew of an event that took place, during the war, which concerned Mr. Farrar; an event of some tragedy. It may well be that buried within his possessions, there is some evidence of this tragedy.’
The Inspector looked from Frau Adler to Kurt Farrar. ‘When you suggested to Mr. Collyer that you would teach him tennis, was it with this in mind?’
Kurt Farrar gave a small nod of agreement.
‘And did you ever find out if Mr. Collyer had these papers, this evidence, in his possession?’
Mr. Farrar shook his head. ‘No, Sir. I didn’t.’
‘Because the man was dead by then?’
Another brief nod.
‘Since then, Mr. Farrar, you have persuaded Mrs. Collyer to lend you the papers in her possession?’
‘Oh yes,’ Mr. Farrar said. ‘And now I know everything about white pigments and the Munsell Colour System. Hue, chroma, value …’ He smiled, and the tension in the room seemed to lift. Frau Adler leaned back a little, Mr. Tyndall settled in his chair.
The Inspector was gazing at the table top. He raised his head and addressed Mr. Tyndall.
‘Mr. Tyndall, it is no secret that your political sympathies are, shall we say, extreme?’
Robin Tyndall gave a theatrical sigh. ‘Oh, Inspector, are we to have more of this?’
‘You encountered Dr. and Frau Adler some years ago?’
‘Mr. Farrar has explained. I was living locally, I was drawn into the Ince Hall circle, and then became closer friends with the Adlers when they retired here.’
‘You’re known to have published letters in the local press concerning the political situation in Russia. Sympathetic letters –’
Mr. Tyndall interrupted the Inspector. ‘It’s not a crime, as far as I know, in this country, to express a political point of view in the newspapers.’
‘No,’ the policeman concede
d. ‘It’s not. However –’
He broke off, as the door opened. Oliver Hughes stood there, shyly. He was pink-cheeked, bright eyed, wearing a neat suit in navy blue.
‘Oliver, darling –’ Lillian opened her arms and he went to her. ‘Have you had a lovely day?’
‘Yes thank you, Ma’am,’ he said.
‘Ach…’ she gave a small laugh. ‘Ma’am, he calls me.’
‘I don’t know what else to call you,’ he said, blushing.
‘Mrs. Adler, you called me, at the hotel. It made me smile. But before that, long before, you used to call me Bunty,’ she laughed.
‘I was little in those days.’ He smiled up at her. ‘But now I’m a grown-up. Bunty, Amy wants to know if she should serve more coffee in here.’
Lillian laughed. She glanced at Robin, then said, ‘I don’t think so. I believe the Inspector was just coming to the end of his questioning. Weren’t you, Inspector Olds?’
At her side, Robin was gathering his stick, getting to his feet.
Inspector Olds surveyed the room, then appeared to concede. ‘Indeed, yes. I have come to the end of my questioning.’ He stood up, leaning on the back of his chair.
The party moved slowly into the hall. Lilian had an arm around Oliver, and was chatting to him, ‘You must try one of the other horses tomorrow, Oliver, that little pony is too naughty, much too naughty…’
Kurt once more went to the painting.
‘Antigone.’ Agatha spoke to him, standing at his side.
He gave a nod.
‘Did Dr Adler paint this?’
Again, a nod.
‘Was this a witnessing,’ she pursued. ‘One of Dr. Adler’s healing works?’
Another nod, barely perceptible.
Agatha pointed at the third character, the dark-haired man walking towards the heroine. ‘Who’s this?’
He turned to her. ‘That’s Haemon. He’s the son of King Creon. He loves Antigone. He’s due to marry her. When she is imprisoned, he kills himself. That’s part of the tragedy, that Creon’s rules bring about his own terrible loss, the death of his own son.’
‘You said you never met Dr. Adler.’
‘That’s true.’
‘So, this witnessing. This painting that helped a wounded soldier heal …’
Kurt’s eyes were dark with feeling.
‘This other man,’ Agatha said. ‘The man who loves Antigone, who tries to rescue her …’ She glanced up at him, but his attention had gone beyond her, to the recesses of the hall. Agatha followed his gaze. Standing in the doorway, framed by its ornate green surround, was Quentin Fitzwilliam, the Adlers’ secretary.
Agatha heard Kurt take a sharp gasp of breath. She looked at Mr. Fitzwilliam, his black hair and dark suit. She saw how unmistakable was the likeness between the secretary standing now before her, and Haemon, the grieving young man of the painting.
Chapter Eleven
Kurt Farrar’s gaze was locked with that of Mr. Fitzwilliam. Lillian Adler had fallen silent and now watched, as Mr. Farrar turned hurriedly to leave, following the two policemen towards the front door.
Quentin Fitzwilliam raised a hand, as if to detain him, but Kurt had gone, hastening after the sergeant, who had gone out to the car.
Quentin, pale and shaking, turned and slipped away, back into the recesses of the house. Lillian watched him go, then rested her hand on the shoulder of young Oliver, who had come out to say goodbye to the party.
The Inspector bent to shake Oliver’s hand. ‘Goodbye young Hughes. See you in the village, perhaps.’
Oliver smiled, nodded.
Agatha found herself outside. The Inspector joined her by the car. On the steps, Robin Tyndall was standing next to Lillian Adler. The secretary was nowhere to be seen.
‘May I offer you a lift back to the hotel, Mrs. Christie, Mr. Farrar?’
Inspector Olds’ voice was cheerful. The sunlight shone on the paintwork of his Austin. Agatha hesitated. ‘It seems our work here is done,’ the Inspector was saying. He smiled at Sergeant Brierley. It was as if the rules had settled back to normal, as if now, out in the sunshine, everyone knew their place once more.
‘Thank you,’ Agatha said, following him towards the car.
‘I’ll walk,’ Kurt said. ‘If I’m allowed to.’ He flashed a dry smile at the Inspector.
The policeman nodded his agreement.
‘You know where to find me,’ Kurt added, as he turned and headed away, down the drive.
Agatha got into the car. This time she sat at the front, next to the Inspector, with Sergeant Brierley driving. ‘Mrs. Christie,’ the Inspector said, once they were on their way, ‘I have a favour to ask of you. As we know, Mr. Farrar persuaded Mrs. Collyer to hand over her husband’s papers. In spite of all his talk of the dullness of the subject, I think they might well be useful. Particularly in the light of what we’ve learned today. So, once I’ve retrieved them, I wondered whether I could ask you to read them.’
Agatha agreed that she would be happy to read them. The Inspector’s good mood seemed to grow with each turn in the road. By the time they approached the hotel, he was humming a tune.
At the hotel, Inspector Olds jumped out of the car and held the door open for her. As he did so, he said, ‘Mrs. Christie, you might well be wondering why I let Tyndall off the hook. Well, I’ll tell you. It’s quite clear that the relationship he has with Frau Adler is not straightforward. Whatever gossip has been circulating, I fear it’s true. And it’s also clear, that whatever I would have asked him, I’d never have got a straight answer. But don’t think I’ve finished with him, oh no. The man they call Bosun Walker has given me some very useful information on Mr. Tyndall’s movements last Sunday night. Very useful indeed. I shall be following it up. Sergeant,’ he called to Brierley, ‘wait here while I raid Mr. Farrar’s room for those papers.’
*
Half an hour later, Agatha was sitting in the Palm Court, with the heaps of files from Mr. Farrar’s room in front of her. Inspector Olds had got the key from Finch, had swept them all off the desk, he told her, and had handed them over.
‘I’ll leave you in peace now, Mrs. Christie,’ he said. ‘You may be no detective, but I still appreciate your help in all this. Sometimes it can take a whole team of us, just getting to the facts.’ He leaned back on his heels, surveying the files. ‘There’s no doubt that Mr. Tyndall has been involved in some kind of unauthorized shipping. I imagine, it’s from those Soviets, some way of helping them with contraband, I’ll wager. And I fear that Frau Adler is caught up in it too. I wouldn’t be surprised if Mr. Farrar knows more than he’s letting on. And the key fact is, Mrs. Christie, that Mr. Collyer had stumbled upon this information, and being a law-abiding sort of man, was about to reveal it.’ He wagged a finger towards her. ‘This is how we do it, we professionals. We have a method, and we allow the picture to emerge. Much as I appreciate your fictional version of our work, I’m sure you’d be the first to admit that it bears very little relation to real life. We have our methods, you see. We have our ways of getting to the facts. And one such fact is, Mrs. Christie, that the whole thing might be very simple. If Mr. Tyndall had reason to suspect that Mr. Collyer was about to reveal his affair with Frau Adler, then there we are. He’s here on the premises, he knew that there was this promised tennis lesson early that morning … As I’ve said before, Mrs. Christie, these things are always about following one’s intuition.’ He’d shaken her hand with a warm smile, and then left.
*
Agatha sat with a pot of tea, leafing through the files. After a while she found herself agreeing with Mr. Farrar, that there was really nothing of interest in Mr. Collyer’s notes, unless one was fascinated by the details of colour chemistry.
The good weather had persisted into the afternoon. The two Scottish ladies were taking tea on the terrace, and Agatha noticed Nora Collyer too, sitting outside at a shady table. She saw little May bring her a tray of tea, a plate of scones. Beyond the terrace she could g
limpse the tennis party, poor Sophie hard at work practising her backhand.
There was a sense of anticipation, as if the whole hotel was waiting for something. The end of the story, Agatha thought. She had an image of Captain Wingfield, waiting too, for his own happy ending. The Captain’s proposal of marriage would be more interesting than pigment stabilization, she thought.
She tucked the files under her arm and got to her feet. The final declaration of love between the Captain and dear Martha the governess would fill the time until dinner far more enjoyably than any more of Mr. Collyer’s lists. She would simply have to agree with Inspector Olds that she was, after all, no detective.
*
Dinner took place with the same sense of subdued anticipation. Agatha was glad to be left alone, to leaf through the Times while eating a rather fine seafood salad. Mrs. Collyer was nowhere to be seen, but Blanche had said she’d intended to eat in her room. Agatha was surprised to see Mr. Farrar sitting with Blanche, Sophie and Sebastian. But he seemed listless, barely speaking. From time to time Blanche placed a concerned hand on his arm.
Agatha wondered, again, about Mr. Fitzwilliam. She thought about the dark-haired hero of the painting, the therapeutic bearing witness of Dr. Adler’s art work. She finished her salad, glanced at the share prices.
‘No sign of the poor nursery-maid, then?’
Agatha looked up to see Mr. Farrar standing at her elbow.
‘No,’ she agreed. ‘Not yet.’
He pulled up a chair, flung himself into it. She noticed how drawn he seemed, his hair awry, his shirt unbuttoned at the neck.
‘No happy endings, eh?’ he said.
‘Mr. Farrar …’ she began.
‘The police raided my room, I gather,’ he said. ‘They’ve tasked you with those ghastly files.’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Any luck?’
She shook her head. ‘Just chemistry,’ she said.
He smiled. ‘As I say. No easy answers. I even checked up on our Butler story,’ he said.
Agatha Christie Investigates Omnibus Page 20