The Floating Admiral. Агата Кристи

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      “Then perhaps it would be as well if you did, and asked her to return here without delay.”

      Holland nodded.

      “I’ll tell her, but she’s likely to please herself about that.”

      “It’ll be wise if she pleases herself by coming back, sir. You’ll keep in touch with us, in any case, won’t you, sir?”

      Holland halted, with his hand on the door.

      “Does that mean that I’m to be under observation or whatever you call it?”

      “I shan’t put a man on to watch you, sir, but I’d like you to keep in touch.”

      With a grunt Miss Fitzgerald’s “young man” swung open the door and strode out of the room. There was a smile on Inspector Rudge’s face as he pressed the bell.

      “I’d like to see Miss Fitzgerald’s maid—Merton, I think you said her name was—please, Emery.”

      A minute later Merton was sitting on the edge of a chair, nervously eyeing the formidable Police Inspector. She was a fresh-looking English girl of about twenty-six, attractive without being actually pretty, and evidently intelligent. Inspector Rudge decided at once to put her at her ease—one of his favourite alternatives of examination.

      “‘Merton’ they call you?” he said with a friendly smile. “Sounds a bit formal to me. I expect you’ve got another name, eh?”

      “Jennie’s my Christian name, sir.”

      “Ah, that’s better. Well, Jennie, this is a sad affair and I don’t want to upset you more than I can help, but I must just ask you a few questions about your employers. You see, I don’t know anything of them; not been here long, have they?”

      “No, sir; only about a month.”

      “Were you with them before they came here?”

      “Oh, no; I come from Whynmouth myself. I’ve only been here three weeks.”

      “Ah, so Miss Fitzgerald didn’t bring a maid with her when she came?”

      “Oh, yes, she did—a French one—Mademoiselle Blanc she called herself, but Miss Fitzgerald called her Célie. She didn’t stay long—told the other girls the place was like a mortuary—‘dead-house’ she called it—I don’t know whether she meant Rundel Croft or Whynmouth, but I suppose she thought it was dull. Anyway she packed up and went off without waiting for her month, nor yet her wages, so the girls say. Miss Fitzgerald had to go to Marlow’s Agency for another maid in a hurry and as they hadn’t got one but they knew I’d been in a maid’s situation but I’m living with mother now—she’s not well—they asked me, and I consented to oblige.”

      The last sentence, though rather involved, had the merit of explaining the situation. Inspector Rudge nodded.

      “I see; so you don’t really know Miss Fitzgerald very well.”

      “Not so very, but I’m not blind.”

      “I’m sure not. What did you see?”

      “Just that they didn’t look much like an uncle and niece to me.”

      “Oh, they didn’t? Why not?”

      “The way she spoke to him—sharp and sarcastic—more like a wife, I should say. Not that I mean there was anything wrong.”

      “But he was old enough to be her uncle—or her father, wasn’t he?”

      “Oh, yes—if you think that matters.”

      “Did they seem fond of each other?”

      “Not so as you’d notice it.”

      “Rather the reverse in fact?”

      “Well, of course, I really couldn’t say. It’s not my place to be with them—only with her.”

      Jennie evidently felt that she had said too much already.

      “Well, about her then. You knew that she was engaged to this Mr. Holland, of course?”

      “So she told me.”

      “Did she seem to be in love with him?”

      “I’m sure I couldn’t say.”

      “You didn’t see them together much?”

      “Not so much. But I never saw them kissing or holding hands.”

      “Ah!” Here evidently was significance—a criterion.

      “Now tell me, Jennie, did Miss Fitzgerald care about her appearance?”

      Jennie stared.

      “Funny your asking that, sir. It always puzzled me. Sometimes she didn’t and sometimes she did. She’d be downright plain some days—like she was this morning—and then she’d take and do herself up till she looked real handsome.”

      “And when did she do that? When her young man was coming?”

      “I never could make out when she did or why she did—but it wasn’t for him. Last night she was lovely—took over an hour to dress, when she usually flung her things off and on in five minutes. That white dress she wore was her favourite—it was chiffon with an overcoat of cream lace; she always wore a coloured flower—artificial—with it.”

      “Ah! I’d like to have a look at that dress sometime,” said Rudge. “I’ve heard it mentioned more than once.”

      “Well now, that’s another funny thing,” said Jennie, who was now fully at her ease—as Rudge had intended. “She’s taken it with her! She only told me to pack sleeping things and a change of underclothes and stockings, but she must have packed that herself after I’d done.”

      “But didn’t you take it away—to brush, or whatever you do to it—when you called her this morning?” asked the Inspector, fumbling with half-guessed mysteries.

      “Well now, there you are again! I didn’t call her before you came—she likes to sleep late. But when I went to tell her you were here I went to pick up her dress and shoes and things to take away, but she snapped at me fierce and told me to go away, she wanted to get up. Of course, I went, but when she’d come down to see you, I went back to get them—and they were gone!”

      “Gone! All the clothes she wore last night?”

      “The dress and shoes and stockings were.”

      “Didn’t you look for them?”

      “Of course I did. They weren’t anywhere.”

      “So that’s why you think she took them with her?”

      “Well, she must have. Where else could they be?”

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