The Floating Admiral - Agatha Christie [77]
He began at once, and a long job he found it. To man after man he showed his photograph and asked if he had taken the Vicar up. And man after man shook his head and said he had never seen the gentleman.
But Rudge persevered. These enquiries were his only hope, and he would be quite sure they led nowhere before abandoning them. And then at last his perseverance reaped its just reward. A driver came in from a job and took his place at the tail of the line. Rudge went up to him with his photograph.
The driver was by way of being discreet. He had seen Mount, but he didn’t know what business of Rudge’s that was. A little judicious backsheesh, however, overcame his scruples, and he told what he knew. Mount, it appeared, had hailed him from the station square and told him to drive to Judd Street, to a private hotel. He didn’t just remember the number, but he could find the place again.
“Then find it,” said Rudge, getting in.
Presently they drew up at Friedlander’s Private Hotel and in a couple of minutes Rudge was interviewing the manageress. Yes, the clergyman of the photograph had called on the morning in question. He had asked to see Mrs. Arkwright, a lady who had been staying with them for some three weeks. But Mrs. Arkwright had gone away unexpectedly the evening before and had not yet returned, so the clergyman was disappointed. He had left his name and address: Rev. Philip Mount, Lingham Vicarage, Whynmouth, Dorset, and asked that Mrs. Arkwright be requested to ring him up when she returned. He had then gone away.
Rudge turned the conversation on to Mrs. Arkwright. The manageress was reticent, but still he managed to pick up a good deal. Mrs. Arkwright was middle-aged, small, active and vivacious. She was decidedly good-looking and always dressed well. Though evidently not rich, she seemed comfortably off. The manageress was not certain that she might not be French. They had a French girl staying at the hotel, and Mrs. Arkwright spoke French to her as fluently as she spoke English to the others.
Rudge felt he was getting on. That this Mrs. Arkwright had unexpectedly travelled from London to Drychester on the evening before the crime now seemed clear. Having during the journey mysteriously become Mrs. Marsh, she had driven to the Vicarage and there vanished.
Rudge would have liked to search the lady’s room and belongings, but he had no warrant and he did not think he could manage it otherwise. However, by judicious pumping he obtained a little more information from the manageress.
Mrs. Arkwright was pleasant-mannered and a favourite among the residents. She had not, however, many friends of her own, by which the manageress meant visitors. Indeed the manageress might say she had only one visitor, a man who called at irregular intervals. He was tall and distinguished-looking, and his forehead was bronzed, as if he had lived in some hot country. The manageress indeed had seldom seen so good-looking a man. His name was Mr. Jellett.
Rudge was in a reflective frame of mind as he left the hotel and automatically turned his steps to the nearest tube station. There was something very puzzling about this whole business. That this Mrs. Arkwright or Marsh had gone to the Vicarage on the night of the murder, there could be no doubt. But it wasn’t at all certain that she had seen Mount. From what he had said to the taxi-man it was difficult to believe that Mount knew she was there. At the same time Rudge found it equally difficult to believe the story about her visiting the housekeeper and getting a fainting fit. In either case where had the woman disappeared to? It almost seemed as if Mount himself did not know and that his journeys to Drychester and London were simply an effort to find out.
To Rudge it looked very much as if there had been some secret negotiations in progress between the Vicar and this woman. Whether he had seen her on the night of the crime or not, something had happened to make him want to see her the next day. And