The Floating Admiral. Агата Кристи

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      “What is it, Mr. Ware?” he asked.

      “Something pretty bad, I’m afraid.”

      Hempstead, wide awake now, slipped on his clothes again, came down and opened the door. Ware told him what had happened.

      “I must get the Inspector out from Whynmouth—and a doctor,” said the constable, “I’ll phone to the station there.”

      He came out again in two or three minutes.

      “All right,” he said. “They’ll run over in a car at once. Now you come along with me and show me that boat and what’s in it. You haven’t been messing about with anything—moving the body and so on, I hope?”

      “I shouldn’t be such a fool,” replied Ware.

      “That’s all right. You haven’t seen anyone else?”

      “No one.”

      The policeman went on asking questions from time to time as they hurried along. He was a smart man, this young constable, eager for his stripes, and wanted to make the most of the opportunity. As soon as they reached the river bank he took a glance at the boat and its contents, and exclaimed:

      “Hullo! Don’t you know who that is, Mr. Ware?”

      “Never saw him before that I know of. Who is he?”

      “Why, it’s Admiral Penistone. He lives at Rundel Croft—that big house the other side of the river just opposite the Vicarage. Leastways, he’s been in residence there about a month. He only bought it last June. A new-comer.”

      “Oh! Admiral Penistone, is he?” said Neddy Ware.

      “That’s the man, right enough. But, look here: are you sure this is the Vicarage boat?”

      “Certain.”

      “Queer, eh? That seems to mean something happened this side of the river, for of course there’s no bridge till you get to Fernton—three miles lower down. Ah, and the parson’s hat, eh? Let’s see; what time did you first see the boat coming along?”

      “A little after half-past four, I should say.”

      Hempstead had his note-book out and was making pencilled jottings in it. Then he said:

      “Look here, Mr. Ware, I want you, if you will, to go back to the road and stop Inspector Rudge when he comes along in his car.”

      “Very well,” replied Ware; “nothing more I can do?”

      “Not yet, at any rate.”

      Hempstead was an astute man. He waited until Neddy Ware was out of the way before he began a little examination on his own account. He knew very well that his superior officer would take the case fully in hand, but he was anxious to see what he could, without disturbing anything, in the meantime.

      As he got into the boat, he noticed a folded newspaper, half sticking out of the dead man’s overcoat pocket. He took it out, gingerly, looked at it, and replaced it.

      “Ah,” he murmured, “the Evening Gazette, last night’s late London edition. He wouldn’t get that here. The nearest place where it’s sold is Whynmouth.”

      He would very much have liked to examine the contents of all the pockets of the dead man’s clothes, but felt he had better not. So he got out of the boat, sat down on the bank, and waited.

      After a bit the sound of a car running along the main road was heard, and in a minute or two, four men came across the meadow; Neddy Ware, a police inspector in uniform, and two men in plain clothes, one of them a doctor, the other a detective-sergeant.

      Inspector Rudge was a tall, thin man, with sallow, cleanshaven face. He came up to Hempstead.

      “You haven’t moved anything?” he asked curtly.

      “No, sir.”

      Rudge turned to the doctor.

      “I won’t do anything, Doctor Grice, till you have made your examination.”

      Doctor Grice got into the boat and proceeded to examine the body. It was only a few minutes before he said:

      “Stabbed to the heart, Inspector, with some narrow-bladed instrument—a thin knife or dagger. Death must have been instantaneous. There’ll have to be a post-mortem, of course.”

      “How long has he been dead?”

      “Some hours. He probably died before midnight.”

      “Nothing more?”

      “Not at present, Inspector.”

      “Very well. I’ll have a look now.”

      He turned the body over, shifting it slightly.

      “No sign of blood under him,” he said, “or anywhere else in the boat that I can see. Let’s have a look in his pockets—ah, it wasn’t robbery. Gold watch and chain—wallet full of notes—they were not after that. Evening paper here—last night’s date. That must be noted. Now—we’ve got to be as quick as possible. Tell me, Hempstead, what do you know about him?”

      “He’s Admiral Penistone, sir. Retired. A new-comer hereabouts. Bought Rundel Croft, a big house on the other side of the river, a few months ago. Took up residence there lately. I believe he has a niece living with him. But it’s not in my district, sir.”

      “I know.”

      The Inspector turned to Ware.

      “You say the boat belongs to the Vicar here?”

      “Yes.”

      “How long would it take for the tide to bring it up from his place?”

      “Forty to forty-five minutes,” replied Ware promptly, “with the tide as it is to-day.”

      “I see. Now, the question is how are we to move him? We might pull the boat back against the tide. Won’t do, though. Those oars must be tested for finger-prints before they are handled. Let’s see—Vicarage on the telephone, Hempstead?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “All right. I’ll go there now. I want to see the Vicar. We’ll phone to Whynmouth for an ambulance. Have to run him to Rundel Croft round by Fernton Bridge. You remain here, Hempstead, and if anyone comes along don’t let ’em touch anything. I shall want you, Sergeant—we’ll have to put you across the river from the Vicarage if we can get a boat there; I want you to mount guard over the Admiral’s boat and boat-house. Perhaps you won’t mind coming too, Mr. Ware. You may be useful. There! We’ll get a move on. Come along, Doctor.”

      In a very short time the Inspector was driving the car down the short bit of road leading from the highway to the Vicarage. The front door of the latter faced the river, a lawn stretching down to the bank. Opposite, about a hundred yards from the bank, stood a large, red-brick, Tudor СКАЧАТЬ