Secret of Chimneys - Agatha Christie [31]
‘A very clever way of disposing of the pistol,’ said Anthony to himself with some approval. ‘Everybody hunts about on the ground, and drags ponds. But there are very few people in England who could climb that tree.’
Next, back to London and Paddington Station. Here he left the trunk–at the other cloakroom this time, the one on the Arrival side. He thought longingly of such things as good rump steaks, juicy chops, and large masses of fried potatoes. But he shook his head ruefully, glancing at his wristwatch. He fed the Morris with a fresh supply of petrol, and then took the road once more. North this time.
It was just after half past eleven that he brought the car to rest in the road adjoining the park of Chimneys. Jumping out he scaled the wall easily enough, and set out towards the house. It took him longer than he thought, and presently he broke into a run. A great grey mass loomed up out of the darkness–the venerable pile of Chimneys. In the distance a stable clock chimed the three-quarters.
11.45–the time mentioned on the scrap of paper. Anthony was on the terrace now, looking up at the house. Everything seemed dark and quiet.
‘They go to bed early, these politicians,’ he murmured to himself.
And suddenly a sound smote upon his ears–the sound of a shot. Anthony spun round quickly. The sound had come from within the house–he was sure of that. He waited a minute, but everything was still as death. Finally he went up to one of the long french windows from where he judged the sound that had startled him had come. He tried the handle. It was locked. He tried some of the other windows, listening intently all the while. But the silence remained unbroken.
In the end he told himself that he must have imagined the sound, or perhaps mistaken a stray shot coming from a poacher in the woods. He turned and retraced his steps across the park, vaguely dissatisfied and uneasy.
He looked back at the house, and whilst he looked a light sprang up in one of the windows on the first floor. In another minute it went out again, and the whole place was in darkness once more.
Chapter 10
Chimneys
Inspector Badgworthy in his office. Time, 8.30 a.m. A tall portly man, Inspector Badgworthy, with a heavy regulation tread. Inclined to breathe hard in moments of professional strain. In attendance Constable Johnson, very new to the Force, with a downy unfledged look about him, like a human chicken.
The telephone on the table rang sharply, and the inspector took it up with his usual portentous gravity of action.
‘Yes. Police station Market Basing. Inspector Badgworthy speaking. What?’
Slight alteration in the inspector’s manner. As he is greater than Johnson, so others are greater than Inspector Badgworthy.
‘Speaking, my lord. I beg your pardon, my lord? I didn’t quite hear what you said?’
Long pause, during which the inspector listens, quite a variety of expressions passing over his usually impassive countenance. Finally he lays down the receiver, after a brief ‘At once, my lord.’
He turned to Johnson, seeming visibly swelled with importance.
‘From his lordship–at Chimneys–murder.’
‘Murder,’ echoed Johnson, suitably impressed.
‘Murder it is,’ said the inspector, with great satisfaction.
‘Why, there’s never been a murder here–not that I’ve ever heard of–except the time that Tom Pearse shot his sweetheart.’
‘And that, in a manner of speaking, wasn’t murder at all, but drink,’ said the inspector, deprecatingly.
‘He weren’t hanged for it,’ agreed Johnson gloomily. ‘But this is the real thing, is it, sir?’
‘It is, Johnson. One of his lordship’s guests, a foreign gentleman, discovered shot. Open window, and footprints outside.’
‘I’m sorry it were a foreigner,’ said Johnson, with some regret.
It made the murder seem less real. Foreigners, Johnson felt, were liable to be shot.
‘His lordship’s in a rare taking,’ continued the inspector. ‘We’ll get hold of Dr Cartwright and take him up with us right away. I hope to goodness no one will get messing with those footprints.’
Badgworthy