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By Root 843 0

Arthur Holland had arrived. No doubt a copy would be delivered at Rundel Croft, but that could not be till about 9 p.m. and the Admiral had left the house at 7.15 for his dinner at the Vicarage. Unless he had got a copy from the Vicarage, that seemed to imply that Penistone had returned to Rundel Croft after leaving the Vicarage at 10 p.m.—but then why was the paper in his overcoat pocket? Had he gone back to fetch it in order to read it out of doors—surely that was inconceivable? Or had he, on his way back to Rundel Croft, met someone who gave him the paper—not the delivery boy, it was too late for that. Someone, perhaps, who had brought the paper out with him—had brought it, perhaps, from London—Arthur Holland, for instance? Holland, who had spent the evening by the seashore and then gone early to bed—by himself. But here again was surmise—facts were what he wanted. Rudge rang the bell.

“Emery, did your master take in the late London Evening Gazette?”

“Yes, sir. Tolwhistle’s boy brings it out of an evening—gets here about nine.”

“Did it get here last night?”

“Yes, sir,” said Emery, a faint look of surprise on his stodgy face.

“Where did you put it?”

“In the hall, sir.”

“Is it still there?”

“I couldn’t say.”

“Go and have a look, and if it’s not there, find out whether it’s been tidied away.”

Looking more surprised than ever, Emery slouched out of the door. Rudge thought it would probably be ten minutes at least before the tortoise-like butler returned, so he reached for the telephone which stood upon the writing-table and put a call through to Tolwhistle’s, the Whynmouth stationer. The number was engaged, and while he waited Rudge let his mind drift back to the missing dress. He remembered that when he sent Emery off to ask Miss Fitzgerald to come and see him it was ten minutes before the butler returned and then it was with the information that Miss Fitzgerald would be down in a quarter of an hour. There was, in fact, an interval of twenty-five minutes between his despatching his message and the arrival of Miss Fitzgerald. Did her appearance—slovenly in the extreme—justify or explain such a long delay? Was it possible that the mysterious “niece” had spent part of the time in hiding the clothes she had … ?

The telephone bell trilled.

“Tolwhistle’s? I want to speak to Mr. Tolwhistle, please. That you, Mr. Tolwhistle? Inspector Rudge here. I want some information; quite confidential. Sounds trivial, but isn’t. Do you supply the Reverend Mount, Vicar of Lingham, with newspapers? You do. Does he have a late London Evening Gazette? Left it off at the end of last year? Said what? Oh, spoilt the morning’s—yes, I see. Any chance of anyone else supplying him? No, you’d have heard of it, of course. Thank you, Mr. Tolwhistle. Keep my questions to yourself. I’ll explain them some day.”

That settled the question of whether the Admiral had got the paper from the Vicarage; there remained the two alternatives of his having come back to the house, fetched his own paper, and gone out again, or having met someone outside who had for some reason given him the paper.

Impatient at the long absence of Emery, Rudge went to look for him. There was no sign of the butler, but Police Constable Hempstead was standing in the hall.

“I came to report that the body has been taken to the undertaker’s, sir. I formally handed it over and obtained a receipt.”

The Inspector blinked. Here was efficiency carried to full stretch.

“Right,” he said. “This house isn’t in your district, I think you said?”

“No, sir, but the corpse was found in it.”

“And you think it your duty to see that its presence is accounted for?”

“That’s for you to say, sir.”

Rudge grinned. He knew that this keen-eyed young constable was itching to be “in” the investigation.

“All right,” he said. “Here’s a job for you; go down to the boat-house and find out from Sergeant Appleton whether he’s found anything significant. No. I’ll come with you. If there’s anything, I shall want to see it for myself and we mustn’t keep our detective-sergeant there all day.”

And so, forgetting