The Floating Admiral. Агата Кристи

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      Inspector Rudge sat down on the bank and motioned to his subordinates to join him.

      “Light up,” he said, pulling a pipe out of his pocket. “Think better smoking, and we must think now. The Vicar’s hat, in the first place; why was it in the boat?”

      “Put there by the guilty party to throw suspicion on the Vicar,” hazarded Sergeant Appleton.

      “Improve on that, Hempstead?”

      “The other alternative is that the Vicar left it there himself, sir, and forgot he had.”

      “He stated positively that he had his hat on when he saw the Admiral off after dinner last night and that he left it on the seat in the summer-house.”

      “But supposing he went out in the boat after that, sir?”

      “Ah, you mean … well, never mind what you mean. Now, why was the painter cut?”

      “Someone was in a hurry,” said Appleton.

      “Someone wanted to suggest that the boat was stolen,” murmured Hempstead.

      “And the rowlocks were unshipped,” the Inspector added his quota of surmise, “either because the body was dumped into the Vicar’s boat from another and the boat then cut adrift, or … to suggest that explanation, eh, Hempstead?”

      “Possibly, sir.”

      “Now, can anyone explain why the body was found where it was and when it was?” asked the Inspector, adding to himself, “and if it was.”

      Sergeant Appleton brightened.

      “Yes, sir,” he said. “I thought that out while I was waiting. If the murder was committed at midnight, as Doctor Grice says, and the boat cut adrift then, it would have gone right out to sea, because the tide was at full ebb then. My theory is that the murder was committed several miles up-stream and that before the boat reached Whynmouth the tide turned and it floated back to where it was found.”

      “What time did the tide turn?”

      “According to Mr. Ware, sir,” said Hempstead, “it turned about 3.45 a.m.”

      “Well, let’s work this out. He told us, you remember, Hempstead, that it would have taken forty to forty-five minutes for the boat to get from the Vicarage to the spot where he was when it reached him; what time was that?”

      “Just after 4.30 a.m., sir.”

      “That means it left—or passed—the Vicarage at about 3.50 a.m.—only five minutes after the tide turned?”

      “That’s right, sir.”

      “Then that means that if it was set adrift from here or from the Vicarage it must have been only just before 3.45 a.m.—otherwise it couldn’t have got back to where Ware found it by the time it did. But it’s nearly light by 3.45—they wouldn’t have left it as late as that. It looks as if Appleton’s theory was the right one.”

      Sergeant Appleton beamed, but P.C. Hempstead looked mulish. Rudge noticed the look.

      “Out with it, Hempstead,” he said. “You’ve got a theory, I can see.”

      “Well, sir, if I might make the suggestion, you’ve overlooked slack tide. For an hour or so before the turn the tide’s so slack that it’s barely running. It’s possible that a boat might fetch up against the bank for quite a time. My theory, as you know, sir, is that the body wasn’t in the boat long enough for the dew to make the clothes wet. I think it was set adrift from here about 2.30 or 3 a.m. If the person who did it was a stranger to the place he might not think of the river being tidal—he’d expect the boat to float straight out to sea. But what happened was that it floated a few hundred yards, and then, as the tide slackened, drifted into the bank; at 3.45, when the tide turned, it drifted off again and so floated up on the flow till it reached the spot where Neddy Ware found it at half past four.”

      CHAPTER IV

      By Agatha Christie

      MAINLY CONVERSATION

      “THAT’S a pretty good theory too,” said Rudge.

      He always believed in being diplomatic with his inferiors. In this instance, nothing in his face showed which of the two theories struck him as being the right one.

      He nodded his head once or twice and then rose to his feet. He looked behind him at the trees near the boat-house.

      “There’s one thing that strikes me,” he said. “I wonder if there’s anything in it?”

      Appleton and Hempstead looked at him enquiringly.

      “In my conversation with the Vicar, he mentioned that he had seen Miss Fitzgerald’s white dress through the trees.”

      “As she was going up to the house, sir—yes, I remember his saying that. Anything fishy about that, do you think, sir?”

      “No, I imagine it’s perfectly possible. Miss Fitzgerald was wearing a white chiffon dress with a cream lace coat. If the Vicar saw the dress, then clearly she was not wearing any coat or cloak over it. After all, why should she? It was quite a warm night.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      Appleton looked puzzled.

      “On the other hand, the Admiral, when he was found, was wearing a thick brown overcoat. Anything strike you as odd about that?”

      “Well—yes, I suppose it is a little queer—that the lady shouldn’t have had anything warmer in the way of a wrap than a lace coat, and that the Admiral—yes, sir, I take your meaning.”

      “I’m going to ask you, Sergeant, to take a boat across to the Vicarage and ask there if the Admiral was wearing a coat last night.”

      “Right, sir.”

      When the sergeant had departed, the Inspector turned to Hempstead.

      “Now,” he said with a twinkle; “I’m going to ask you a question.”

      “Yes, sir?”

      “Who is the biggest talker in Whynmouth?”

      P.C. Hempstead grinned in spite of himself.

      “Mrs. Davis, sir, who keeps the Lord Marshall. Nobody else can get a word in edgeways when she’s about.”

      “One of that kind, is she?”

      “Yes, indeed, sir.”

      “Well, that will just suit me. The Admiral was a new-comer to the place. There’s always talk about a new-comer. For ninety-nine false rumours, there will be one true thing that somebody has noticed and observed. Attention has been focussed on Rundel Croft. I want to know just what has transpired in village gossip.”

      “Then it’s Mrs. Davis you want, sir.”

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