The Floating Admiral - Agatha Christie [81]
“What you mean is that whoever shaved off that beard shaved it off on the night of the murder?” said the Inspector, frowning thoughtfully.
“That’s right, sir.”
“Mr. Holland didn’t wear a beard by any chance?” said the Inspector.
“No, sir: I saw him about three or four times when he was courting Mrs. Holland and he was just the same as now.”
“Ah,” said the Inspector, and he went on frowning.
Then he said: “But whoever it was called that night at the Lord Marshall and asked for Mr. Holland, did have a beard, and it seemed to me pretty clear that it wasn’t the Admiral at all, and this seems to settle it. Whoever wore the beard, he went back to Rundel Croft and shaved it off.”
“That’s right, sir,” said Hempstead.
“Well, he couldn’t have done that, unless he knew someone at Rundel Croft very well, and it could only have been the Admiral himself or Mrs. Holland. If the Admiral was alive, it might have been him; but if the Admiral was dead, it could only have been Mrs. Holland,” said the Inspector.
“But it could hardly have been the Admiral, sir, because whoever it was shaved off his beard, he shaved it off because he didn’t want anyone to know that he’d been pretending to be the Admiral,” said Hempstead.
“Exactly, and it doesn’t seem likely that the Admiral should want anyone to pretend to be him. But it was someone who knew one of them, right enough.”
“But the very last place that anyone who’d committed the murder would want to be seen in, is about here,” protested Hempstead.
“M’m,” said the Inspector. “If you’d seen the silly things murderers do that I’ve seen. Besides, there are some people who call themselves criminologists, who say that a murderer always goes back to the scene of his crime.”
“Does he now?”
“No, he doesn’t,” said the Inspector.
He was silent, considering the possibilities opened up by Hempstead’s discovery.
Then, glowing with quiet cheerfulness, he added: “Well, what we want is a man with a beard who has shaved it off. Now, where have I seen a man lately who’d shaved off his beard? I fancy I have.”
CHAPTER XI
By Clemence Dane
AT THE VICARAGE
RUDGE rang, and, getting no answer, rang again. He could hear the bell jangling in the deeps of the house, but he could not hear any sound of footsteps. The peace of summer which lay upon the garden had had its effect, apparently, upon the house itself. All its blinds were down and he could hear the loud ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall. Putting his eye to the key-hole, he observed: (a) That there was no key in the lock, and (b) that the hall was empty. No guilty Vicar was standing within upon the mat, quaking in his shoes, afraid to ignore the summons yet afraid to open. All was a tea-time quiet, yet there was no pleasant chink of china, no tinkle of spoons. “Doubtless,” thought Inspector Rudge, “the maids are taking tea out of doors. Girls often carry out their sewing to a paddock. I’ll go round.”
He went round. The neat, flagged courtyard at the back was, however, equally deserted. The kitchen door was locked, and there was nobody in the sheds at the further side of the yard. On the kitchen door, however, a card was pinned, a white card such as is used at funerals, and on it was inscribed: BACK AT SEVEN-THIRTY.
So that was that! Unwillingly, for in spite of his professional zeal Inspector Rudge would have enjoyed a cup of tea, he tramped out of the little yard. The noisy echoes of his feet breaking the silence, he skirted the garden. He should have gone straight out into the street, and knew it. Unless he were doing his official duty he was a trespasser without rights.