“He told you he wouldn’t come to us?”
“More than that. He denies that he was in the boat at all; he says that I was mistaken.”
“We have quite definite evidence that he was, sir; his finger-prints on the oars.”
“Yes, I was quite sure I was right.”
“Well, we must tackle Ware ourselves.”
“I doubt whether you’ll get much out of him.”
“We shall see, sir. In the meantime, are you sure there isn’t anything else you’d like to tell us yourself, sir, about that night—without necessarily incriminating anyone?”
“Nothing,” said the Vicar firmly.
6
Rudge left the Vicarage in some elation. Not only had his surmise been confirmed that Ware was rowing the boat, but definite evidence was at last forthcoming that it had headed down-stream. Curious that old Ware had been so insistent on that point too. Except for the single suggestion about the length of time needed for the journey, it seemed as if Ware had not been trying to deceive him at all—almost as if he had been attempting to put him on the right track. Was it possible that Neddy Ware’s guilty knowledge sat heavily upon him, that he thoroughly wanted the Admiral’s murderer to be caught, but that at the same time, like a schoolboy, he would not directly give him away? When one came to think of it, that really was the only explanation of his behaviour. But if so it was a pity in a way; for Rudge knew Neddy Ware well enough to be quite certain that if the old man had made up his mind not to give the murderer away, no possible means could be found of making him do so.
Anyhow, one could but try. Hastily obtaining permission from Major Twyfitt for the interview, and learning at the same time that the theory of the footprints had been proved correct, Rudge drove out to Ware’s cottage.
The old man was sunning himself in the garden, and seemed thoroughly pleased to see his visitor.
“Well, Mr. Rudge, still puzzled about them tides?”
Rudge sat down on the same bench. “No, Ware; it’s not the tides this time; it’s something more serious. I want you to tell me what you were doing in the Admiral’s company last Tuesday night—the night he was murdered?”
Old Ware looked the picture of innocent astonishment. “Me? I wasn’t in his company. Whatever put that idea in your head, Mr. Rudge? I didn’t even know him by sight. Didn’t I tell you the next day I hadn’t recognised him?”
“You did, and I’m afraid I can’t believe you. Especially as you were in Hong Kong when there was that scandal about him, so you must have known all about that though you never let on a word. Now look here, Ware, I’m not threatening you, mind; I wouldn’t do anything like that; but at the same time I’m ready to tell you that we’ve got evidence that you called for Admiral Penistone at Rundel Croft last Tuesday evening and rowed him down-stream at a quarter past tea. And what’s more, I’ll tell you what the evidence is: you were seen starting, there’s your finger-prints on the oars, and there’s your footprints on the bank. So you see there’s no getting away from it. Now I needn’t tell you this puts you in a nasty position. Mind you, I don’t think you had anything to do with the murder, but there’s others who might.”
“I’m glad you don’t think I had anything to do with the murder, Mr. Rudge,” said Ware dryly.
“But there’s others who might,” repeated Rudge, “and will, too, unless you tell us all you know about that evening. Now come, Ware.”
Neddy Ware drew a moment or two at his pipe before he spoke. “You’re pretty sure it was murder, eh, Mr. Rudge?”
“Well, you don’t imagine it’s suicide, do you? And I’m afraid I can’t see how that knife could have got into his chest by accident. Accident, suicide, or murder, it’s got to be one of those three.”
“Oh, no, it hasn’t,” retorted Ware. “Not by a long chalk it hasn’t.”
“What do you mean? Are you saying that the Admiral’s death wasn’t due to either accident, suicide, or murder?”
“Me? I’m not saying anything. That’s your job, to find out what the Admiral died from. All I’m saying is that every death isn’t due to one of those three. What about hanging a man, eh? What’s that, Mr. Rudge—accident, suicide, or murder?”
“Well, never mind that,” said Rudge impatiently. “What I want to know is, what did you do last Tuesday evening, and where did you take the Admiral? And I needn’t repeat what I said about it being in your own interests to tell me.”
Again Ware paused before replying, so long that the Inspector began to think that he was never going to reply at all; but at crucial moments such as these he had learnt that silent patience was the best policy.
At last the old man took the pipe out of his mouth. “This woman, now. What’s all this about her? They’re saying she’s Mr. Mount’s wife, and there’s others saying she was the Frenchy maid that the Admiral’s niece had.”
“She’s both,” said Rudge, shortly, annoyed at this side-track but thinking it best not to bustle the old man. Rudge was something of a fisherman himself.
“Is she? That’s queer now. And killed herself, they say.”
Ware turned round suddenly and looked full at the Inspector. “Is that true, Mr. Rudge? Did she kill herself? What is it this time, eh? Accident, suicide, or murder?”
“The Super and Major Twyfitt are satisfied it’s suicide,” said Rudge, and did not add that he was not.
“Ah!” said Ware, and returned to his pipe again.
Once more the Inspector reminded himself that patience is a virtue.
And then Neddy Ware did a thing which surprised his listener. He voluntarily returned to the subject of his own doings. “So you want to know about me, Mr. Rudge? Well, seeing you know so much, perhaps I’d better tell you. I would have told you before, but it seemed better to say nothing about it, in case you might get foolish ideas into your head about me. That’s why I said the next morning I didn’t know him. Well, I did call for the Admiral, like you said. He’d offered me five shillings that afternoon, seeing me fishing near his place, to row him down to Whynmouth after late dinner, him not wanting to do any hard work with the oars just after eating a lot, you understand.”
“And where did you take him?” Rudge asked eagerly.
“Why, where he wanted to go—Whynmouth. I put him ashore at the steps, and he asked me the quickest way to reach the Lord Marshall. And that’s the last I see of him.”
“You didn’t wait for him?” Rudge said, disappointed.
“I did not. He said he’d be late, and come back likely by motor.”
“You left the boat, and walked back?”
“I did not. I rowed it back, and put it in the boat-house for him all ship shape.”
“Which end first?”
“I can’t say that. Probably bow. That comes easier. Why, Mr. Rudge?”
“Oh, nothing. Do anything else?”
“I give her a bit of a swab out before I left her, that’s all.”
“What time did you get to Whynmouth?”
“Couldn’t say for certain. ’Bout eleven, I suppose.”
“And you rowed the boat back nearly three miles against the tide. How long did that take you?”
“Not much under two hours. Must have been—yes, nigh on one o’clock (your time) before I berthed her.”
“And then you walked straight back to your cottage?”
“I did, Mr. Rudge. And that’s all I know. So I’m glad you don’t suspect me of murdering the Admiral, whatever others may think.”
Rudge persevered for some little time longer, but could get no further information. As he returned to his car he was not altogether satisfied with what he had got. How far could Neddy Ware be trusted? If one accepted his story it seemed proved that the man who visited the Lord Marshall that night really was the Admiral: and that might well be the case. But the rest of the story did not seem to ring quite so true. Would it be likely, for instance, that the Admiral would saddle Ware with that two-hour pull back against the tide for the sake of
the forty-minute run down with it? It was possible, of course, but somehow the Inspector had a strong feeling that it was here that Ware’s story left the rails of truth. He was pretty sure that the old man had not told all he knew. Why, for instance, after getting to bed so late, was he up and fishing at such an early hour the next morning? It almost looked as if he knew what he was going to catch.
But for the present at any rate there was nothing to be done about it: and at least Rudge thought he might now take it as established that it was to Whynmouth that the Admiral had gone that night. But whom to see?
Whom but—his murderer?
Walter Fitzgerald had been in Whynmouth. With any luck he had been staying there, and could thus be traced. It was to Whynmouth that every signpost seemed now to be pointing: and it was towards Whynmouth accordingly that Inspector Rudge now headed his shabby little two-seater.
7
Nevertheless his journey thither was occupied by reflections of a matter alien to his errand. The more he thought about it the less satisfied he was that Mrs. Mount’s death was due to suicide, as the Super and Major Twyfitt were so comfortably convinced. The matter of the freshly-eaten greengages was only one of a dozen indications, slight enough in themselves but in the aggregate formidable, that suicide had never been intended. It was quite obvious that Mrs. Mount had been mixed up somehow in the Admiral’s murder. At any rate she must have known a good deal about it—too much, Rudge fancied, for its perpetrator. Her suicide was really too fortunate, for him, to be true. And especially just before that conference which she herself had summoned, and at which without the smallest doubt she intended to shift at any rate some of the burden of knowledge from her own shoulders. Would it be likely that after summoning her husband, the Hollands and Sir Wilfrid Denny, Mrs. Mount should intend to confront them with nothing less than her own corpse? That would have been a grim joke indeed: but Mrs. Mount had not been a grim lady.
No, it was altogether too lucky for Walter Fitzgerald that she should have died when she did.
But how had he managed it? There the Inspector had to admit himself completely at a loss. As soon as his telephone messages had brought relief, he and the Superintendent had searched the house from attic to cellar, and had found nothing. Moreover, he was satisfied that nobody had escaped while he was still confined to the neighbourhood of the study. He had had both the front door and the kitchen regions continuously under his eye, to say nothing of the drive. If Walter Fitzgerald really had done the thing, he had done it exceedingly cleverly.
All the way to Whynmouth the Inspector beat his brains against this stone wall.
Nor did he have any better luck on his other errand. Though he spent the entire afternoon calling personally at every hotel, inn, public-house, and apartment-house in the place, no trace could he find of his bearded quarry. It seemed that the man had not been staying in Whynmouth at all.
Well, it did not really matter. The Admiral must have arranged to meet him there: but that did not necessarily mean that he would be staying there. It was quite possible to understand why the rendezvous had not been arranged for Rundel Croft; no doubt the Admiral would not have him in the place.
Rudge began to regret his lack of information about this nephew. It seemed impossible to get a line on the fellow from any angle. It was worse than useless to apply to the only person who could give any really valuable information, Mrs. Holland. Besides, in her present rôle of accessory after the fact Mrs. Holland herself was once more in the limelight of suspicion. The only possible hope was Sir Wilfrid Denny.
Rudge put his car up in Whynmouth and had himself ferried across the river to West End.
Sir Wilfrid was in his garden, syringing his roses for green fly with tobacco juice. A rose lover himself, Rudge was interested to notice now that the little rose-garden was the only part of the grounds which did not wear the same air of neglect.
Sir Wilfrid greeted him with a nod. “Afternoon, Inspector. I was rather expecting you to-day. Look—did you ever see anything more lovely?” He cupped a half-opened Emma Wright in two fingers and turned it towards the Inspector.
“Beautiful, sir,” agreed the latter wholeheartedly.
“But she loses her colour almost as soon as she opens,” mourned Sir Wilfrid. “That’s the worst of these modern roses—at least, I class her with the moderns. They don’t keep their colour. Give me the old-fashioned ones. That pink over there now. There’s no modern variety to come anywhere near it, in the pinks.”
“Madam Abel always has been a favourite of mine,” Rudge nodded.
Sir Wilfrid beamed up at him. “You’re a rose enthusiast too, Inspector? That’s magnificent. I’ll take you round. This is my latest importation. Mrs. G. A. van Rossem. Know her? I can’t say I’m altogether satisfied. The usual mix-up of colours they seem to like so much nowadays. I must say I prefer my roses self-coloured. Mabel Morse, now. … Eh? Don’t you agree?”
“Yes, I do, sir. Entirely. I think you’re quite right. But to tell you the truth, I came to see you about something rather different.”
“Ah, yes,” Sir Wilfrid nodded, descending to earth. “Poor Admiral Penistone. I remember; you said you wanted to ask me something. Yes?”
“It’s about his nephew. Walter Fitzgerald. Can you give me any information about him?”
“Walter Fitzgerald?” Sir Wilfrid looked puzzled. “No, I don’t really think I can. Of course, Inspector, I never knew the Admiral really well. We’d been acquaintances for a very long time, but I can’t say that we ever got much beyond that stage. I imagine,” Sir Wilfrid added with a slight smile, “that few people did, with Admiral Penistone.”
“You were in Hong Kong when he was stationed there, sir, weren’t you?”
Sir Wilfrid nodded gravely. “Yes, I was. And when a certain incident took place. But no doubt you know all about that already?”
“Yes, we’ve heard about that. Did the Admiral ever refer to that incident to you, sir?”
“He did. Frequently,” replied Sir Wilfrid dryly.
“Yes, I understand it was a bit of a bee in his bonnet. Do you agree with his idea, sir, that there was a good deal more behind it than ever came out?”
“I wish I could,” said Sir Wilfrid, looking a little distressed. “But the facts were too plain. And I happen to know the authorities made a very searching investigation. It was always my belief that this idea of Admiral Penistone’s was due to a kind of obstinate pride. It was his one lapse, you see, in a thoroughly honourable life; and he simply refused to face it.”
“Then you don’t fancy there was any possibility of the Admiral’s having been impersonated on that occasion?”
“None. To anyone with even as little acquaintance as myself of service conditions, the notion’s simply moonshine. Why, there were some of his own men there. How could they have been mistaken? No, I’m sorry to have to say so, Inspector, but Captain Penistone had no one else to thank but himself for the affair. That was the opinion of everyone on the spot. But in any case, this is all old history. It can’t have anything to do with his death.”
“No, of course not,” said the Inspector tactfully. “Then you can’t give me any information about the nephew, which is what I really came to see you about? You knew he was in Hong Kong at about that time too?”
“By Jove, I remember now. Yes, he did come to dine with us once. A tall, good-looking fellow. I remember. Pleasant chap, too. I heard he’d rather gone to the dogs, afterwards. Pity.”
“Had he a beard, sir?”
“A beard?” repeated Sir Wilfrid, puzzled. “I don’t think so. I don’t really remember. Why?”
“Oh, just a small point. Then you never saw him again?”
“No, I think he only came once. But I wouldn’t swear. We used to entertain such a lot in those days,” said Sir Wilfrid, rather ruefully. “He might have come again, but I don’t remember it.”
“I see, sir. Thank you. Now there’s one other point. Were you by any chance in the garden here
last Tuesday evening?”
“The night of Admiral Penistone’s death? Yes, almost certainly; though again I couldn’t swear to it. But unless it’s raining, I always have a stroll round the roses after dinner. So far as I remember it wasn’t raining that night, so I expect I did. Why do you ask?”
“Because we have information that the Admiral landed from his boat at Whynmouth steps at about eleven o’clock that night, and as you know, they’re almost opposite this garden. I was wondering if by any lucky chance you’d seen him and could confirm that?”
“No,” said Sir Wilfrid decidedly. “Not so late as that, I’m afraid. And I’m pretty sure I had a couple of friends in that night. (Funny, isn’t it, how hard it is to say for certain what one was doing only a week ago?) But what’s all this about the Admiral being seen in Whynmouth that night? I’d gathered he was killed up-stream somewhere.”
“Why did you think that, sir?”
“Well, I don’t know. Wasn’t the boat floating down-stream at four in the morning? I took it for granted that must have meant it had been up-stream.”
With a slightly superior air the Inspector explained the tidal vagaries of the River Whyn, and pointed his remarks by accompanying Sir Wilfrid over his own rather dishevelled lawn to the water’s edge and illustrating his meaning on the spot. Sir Wilfrid, a somewhat mild little man, had the air of promising to know better next time.
Having delivered his lesson, the Inspector took his leave, with the unhappy reflection that he had really learned nothing at all from his visit. Sir Wilfrid’s private opinion regarding the Superintendent’s “smart piece of work” could hardly be called information.
The Floating Admiral (Detection Club) Page 22