Problem at Pollensa Bay - Agatha Christie [49]
‘You wanted me, sir?’
It was the butler’s voice, still quavering and uncertain. Mr Satterthwaite slipped the fragment of glass into his waistcoat pocket and turned round.
The old man was standing in the doorway.
‘Sit down,’ said the chief constable kindly. ‘You’re shaking all over. It’s been a shock to you, I expect.’
‘It has indeed, sir.’
‘Well, I shan’t keep you long. Your master came in just after five, I believe?’
‘Yes, sir. He ordered tea to be brought to him here. Afterward, when I came to take it away, he asked for Jennings to be sent to him–that’s his valet, sir.’
‘What time was that?’
‘About ten minutes past six, sir.’
‘Yes–well?’
‘I sent word to Jennings, sir. And it wasn’t till I came in here to shut the windows and draw the curtains at seven o’clock that I saw–’
Melrose cut him short. ‘Yes, yes, you needn’t go into all that. You didn’t touch the body, or disturb anything, did you?’
‘Oh! No indeed, sir! I went as fast as I could go to the telephone to ring up the police.’
‘And then?’
‘I told Jane–her ladyship’s maid, sir–to break the news to her ladyship.’
‘You haven’t seen your mistress at all this evening?’
Colonel Melrose put the question casually enough, but Mr Satterthwaite’s keen ears caught anxiety behind the words.
‘Not to speak to, sir. Her ladyship has remained in her own apartments since the tragedy.’
‘Did you see her before?’
The question came sharply, and everyone in the room noted the hesitation before the butler replied.
‘I–I just caught a glimpse of her, sir, descending the staircase.’
‘Did she come in here?’
Mr Satterthwaite held his breath.
‘I–I think so, sir.’
‘What time was that?’
You might have heard a pin drop. Did the old man know, Mr Satterthwaite wondered, what hung on his answer?
‘It was just upon half past six, sir.’
Colonel Melrose drew a deep breath. ‘That will do, thank you. Just send Jennings, the valet, to me, will you?’
Jennings answered the summons with promptitude. A narrow-faced man with a catlike tread. Something sly and secretive about him.
A man, thought Mr Satterthwaite, who would easily murder his master if he could be sure of not being found out.
He listened eagerly to the man’s answers to Colonel Melrose’s questions. But his story seemed straightforward enough. He had brought his master down some soft hide slippers and removed the brogues.
‘What did you do after that, Jennings?’
‘I went back to the stewards’ room, sir.’
‘At what time did you leave your master?’
‘It must have been just after a quarter past six, sir.’
‘Where were you at half past six, Jennings?’
‘In the stewards’ room, sir.’
Colonel Melrose dismissed the man with a nod. He looked across at Curtis inquiringly.
‘Quite correct, sir, I checked that up. He was in the stewards’ room from about six-twenty until seven o’clock.’
‘Then that lets him out,’ said the chief constable a trifle regretfully. ‘Besides, there’s no motive.’
They looked at each other.
There was a tap at the door.
‘Come in,’ said the colonel.
A scared-looking lady’s maid appeared.
‘If you please, her ladyship has heard that Colonel Melrose is here and she would like to see him.’
‘Certainly,’ said Melrose. ‘I’ll come at once. Will you show me the way?’
But a hand pushed the girl aside. A very different figure now stood in the doorway. Laura Dwighton looked like a visitor from another world.
She was dressed in a clinging medieval tea gown of dull blue brocade. Her auburn hair was parted in the middle and brought down over her ears. Conscious of the fact she had a style of her own, Lady Dwighton had never had her hair cut. It was drawn back into a simple knot on the nape of her neck. Her arms were bare.
One of them was outstretched to steady herself against the frame of the doorway, the other hung down by her side, clasping a book. She looks, Mr Satterthwaite thought, like a Madonna from an early Italian canvas.
She stood there, swaying slightly from side to side. Colonel Melrose sprang toward her.