The Floating Admiral - Agatha Christie [39]
“And that, of course,” said Inspector Rudge, “would take it past the Vicarage.”
CHAPTER VII
By Dorothy L. Sayers
SHOCKS FOR THE INSPECTOR
THE Inspector ruminated for a few moments upon the fascinating possibilities suggested by this piece of information, and then, dismissing Hempstead with the advice to get a good meal and turn in, he walked slowly back towards the house.
“Yes, sonny, what is it?”
This was to Peter Mount, who had suddenly appeared at his elbow.
“A note for you from father,” said the boy. “I came across with it.”
“About the funeral, I expect,” said Rudge to himself. But the note ran:
DEAR INSPECTOR RUDGE,
I am anxious to run up to London this afternoon on an urgent matter connected with my clerical duties. I hope that there will be no objection to my doing so. I should not think of absenting myself if the case were not of great importance, since I know that you would prefer to have all your witnesses on the spot. However, I trust that I shall not be detained very long, and I shall, of course, make a point of being back in time to attend the inquest which, as I am informed by Mr. Skipworth, will take place the day after to-morrow. I will keep you informed as to my movements, should you require to get in touch with me at any time, and should I be detained overnight, shall be staying at the Charing Cross Hotel.
Apologising for any inconvenience this request may cause you,
Yours very truly,
PHILIP MOUNT.
“Good lord! Another of them,” was the Inspector’s mental comment. He stood for a few moments undecided, the note open in his hand.
He had to make up his mind. If he forbade the Vicar to go—well, he could scarcely do that without committing himself to an accusation, for which step he was certainly not prepared. He could ask the Vicar not to go—but behind the courtesy of the expression the note seemed to carry a suggestion of mild determination. He had nothing definite against the Vicar, except that his hat and his coat had been found in a curious place, and that he was a bad gardener. He turned to Peter.
“I think I’d like to see your Dad if he can spare a few moments.”
“Right you are.”
“How did you get across, by the way?”
“Your new policeman brought the punt over for me—but he isn’t very good at it.”
Rudge noted with satisfaction that Hempstead’s deputy had arrived. That meant that he himself would be free to leave Rundel Croft if he wanted to. He spoke a word or two to the new arrival—a very stout man called Bancock—stepped into the punt and was poled across by Peter. On the way up to the Vicarage he noticed the drenched area round the summer-house. The hose had caught a clump of begonias at the edge of a garden-bed. One or two of the plants had been actually broken by the force of the stream, and on others the water-drops were standing like miniature burning-glasses under the bright sun. The Vicar would probably wonder, next day, why their foliage should be speckled with white heat-blisters.
The Vicar was in his study. He greeted Rudge cordially, but his face looked a little drawn. No doubt he had received a severe shock, thought Rudge. It was a strong face, though, and handsome in its rather set, ecclesiastical way. It looked honest, but you could never tell. According to local report the Vicar was a ritualist, and ritualists had odd ideas about the truth. They would, for instance, subscribe to the Thirty-nine Articles and then unblushingly invent ingenious ways to get round them. Rudge was rather well up in the different varieties of parsons, for his brother-in-law was people’s warden at St. Saviour’s, Whynmouth.
“Well, Inspector, I hope you haven’t come to tell me that I mustn’t go to town.”
“Well, no, sir—not exactly. I shouldn’t like to go so far as that, though I don’t say but what I hadn’t rather you stayed here. Still, as I understand you to say the business is urgent—”
He