The Floating Admiral - Agatha Christie [32]
The news of Sir Wilfrid’s absence was disconcerting, but on the whole, and after a couple of seconds of quick thinking, not altogether unwelcome. Inspector Rudge was subconsciously aware that his enquiries were becoming unduly dispersed and that none of them by itself had so far earned the description of “thorough.” As he thanked the woman, gave her a polite message for Sir Wilfrid asking him to get in touch with the police on his return, started up the car and drove back towards Lingham, his subconscious feelings took definite shape in his conscience, so definite that just before he reached the fork of the road he pulled in close to the hedge, stopped the car, lit his pipe, took out his notebook, and meditated.
He had been dashing about to and fro—from the Vicarage to Rundel Croft, from Rundel Croft to Whynmouth, from the Lord Marshall Hotel to Ware’s cottage, from the cottage back to West End, and now he was going—well, where was he going now? Of course, he had wasted very little time, for the distances were all of them small; incidentally he wondered whether a little while ago he had been quite safe to assume that the Admiral could hardly have reached the Lord Marshall on foot by eleven o’clock, for now that he came to consider it the distance from Rundel Croft could not be much over two and a half miles at the outside. However, that was by the way; what the Inspector wanted at the moment was to plan out his campaign.
What had he learnt, in the first place, at Rundel Croft? By Jove, he had forgotten all about that newspaper. If Emery had discovered the “regular” copy still in the hall, might not the explanation of the copy in the dead man’s pocket be that he had indeed gone into Whynmouth? Well, it was idle to speculate; there, obviously, was one loose thread to be picked up. For the rest, his enquiries had been directed to two distinct purposes—to find out something about the people involved, their history and characteristics and so on, and on the other hand, to discover what had happened after the dinner at the Vicarage on the previous evening. The more he considered it, the more annoyed he felt at Miss Fitzgerald’s flight—he hoped to goodness that was too strong a word; and he wondered, doubtfully, whether he had not been a bit too generous in the liberty he had allowed to Holland. Still, neither of them, perhaps—unless his impressions were all wrong—was the best source for information about the Admiral. But what else had he to go upon? Practically nothing but the gossip of the Vicarage, the servants, old Ware and Mrs. Davis, none of whom could boast more than a month’s acquaintance with the dead man. The Vicar had suggested that the Admiral usually was genial enough; his sons had implied rather the opposite. And old Ware—well, what reliance could be placed on his opinion? A petty officer could hardly have been intimate with the captain of a cruiser; and besides, twenty years was long enough to dim the vividness of his recollection. Of course, Sir Wilfrid Denny might have been able to help, but it was rather a leap in the dark. He might have known the Admiral no longer than had the Vicar; and if he had seen more of him in the past month it might simply be that the ex-gunnery expert had no particular penchant for clergymen; that would not be an unprecedented trait in a retired Admiral.
No, Rudge told himself, he must clearly get to work on less haphazard lines; there would be records at the Admiralty, there were the solicitors, there would be “references” given to the house-agents when the lease of Rundel Croft was signed. And the thought of the solicitors reminded him of the will. He had not finished his study of it; its provisions might be of first-rate importance, as a guide to motive. He did not even know whether it was a copy of a proved will, though that obviously would make a vital difference.
There seemed to be plenty of enquiries to set on foot, and the first essentials seemed