The Floating Admiral - Agatha Christie [54]
“That solves our problems, I think, Inspector.”
Rudge looked at the paper. It was typewritten, with the exception of the signature, and ran—
“I willingly give my consent to the marriage of my niece, Elma Mary Fitzgerald, with Arthur Holland.
“(Signed) H. L. PENISTONE.”
It was dated the 9th August.
Inspector Rudge looked at Holland.
“When did this come into your possession, sir?”
“My wife gave it to me this morning,” he said. “She had it last night from the Admiral.”
“At what time was that, ma’am?” enquired the Inspector.
“Just after midnight,” replied the girl, in a curious flat tone which reminded Rudge of his interview with her earlier in the day.
“After midnight? Did you see your uncle alive after midnight?”
“Why, of course,” interrupted Holland. “I saw him myself. Yes, I know, Inspector! I didn’t want to tell you about that because I was afraid you might stop us from going to town. But I’ll come clean now. I saw the Admiral alive here in his study at a quarter past twelve last night.”
CHAPTER VIII
By Ronald A. Knox
THIRTY-NINE ARTICLES OF DOUBT
IN THE nature of the case, a policeman’s life is bound up with surprises. A considerable part of the community is only too ready to set playful booby-traps for him, stretching wires across garden-paths or waiting in dark alleys with half a brick concealed in the foot of a stocking. Rudge had not risen to his inspectorship without some experiences of the kind, and he had come near to achieving that unwondering attitude which is (the old poet assures us) part of the stuff of happiness. But this sudden admission almost caught him off his guard. Grice’s statement that the body had been a corpse since some time before midnight had seemed so evident a point of departure; all the other features of the case had grouped themselves round it so obligingly—the possibility of a journey into Whynmouth and foul play down-stream, the visit of the strange car, the darkness, the loneliness, the set of the tides. (By the way, why had he been so certain about the tides? Oh, yes, Neddy Ware; odd that Neddy should have been so positive about it.) Too late he realised that no single piece of evidence, except the misleading infallibility of the expert, had excluded the possibility of a murder well after midnight. And this, it seemed now, was what must have happened. Of course, Holland might be lying, but it was difficult to see his motive; why abandon a first-class alibi at the Lord Marshall for the honour of being the last man who saw deceased alive? It would be a fool’s game, and Holland did not look like a fool.
In a moment, habit reasserted itself; he had drawn out the inevitable note-book, and was turning over the pages to a blank, remembering not to moisten his finger as he did so. “I think I ought to tell you, sir,” he explained, “that you are not bound to make any statement. You know well enough that you will have to be called at the inquest; and if you prefer to reserve—”
“My defence?” interrupted Holland, with heavy raillery. “It is too kind of you. But, you see, here I am, all ready binged up with a cock-and-bull story carefully prepared to mislead you; it would be a pity not to get it off my chest while I’m word-perfect. You would like to get me in jug first, wouldn’t you, and take down my statement with no witnesses, so that you could cook it afterwards? I prefer the present occasion, if you don’t mind.”
Rudge just checked himself in time from reminding the unseasonable jester that he wouldn’t do himself any good by this kind of thing. After all, Holland evidently belonged to the opulent classes, who get the benefit of the doubt. “Certainly, sir,” he amended, with some frigidity of manner. “But I think perhaps if Mrs. Holland—”
“You mean you want to be certain that we both pitch the same yarn? Well, it’s bad luck, for a man on his honeymoon. But perhaps, Elma, if you wouldn’t mind—” A rapid look passed between