The Floating Admiral - Agatha Christie [85]
Slid down upon the floor between the desk and the wall lay the body of a woman. Her eyes were open and glazed like the eyes of a carefully painted waxwork; on her cheeks the make-up stood out in hectic patches on the skin. Her two hands were clasped upon her breast, not peacefully, but in a last gesture of energy. They were clasped about a knife-handle, whose blade was sunk in the stained folds of her flowered summer dress.
CHAPTER XII
By Anthony Berkeley
CLEARING UP THE MESS
RUDGE plumped down on his knees beside her, heedless of the blood which lay everywhere on the carpet. The woman was still warm, and the blood had scarcely ceased to flow from her breast. But quite certainly she was dead.
A voice from the doorway brought the Inspector to his feet again.
“We were in the hall when she did it. We actually heard her fall.” Holland spoke gravely, but without any traces of panic.
Rudge frowned. “I thought I told you to stop outside, sir.”
“Oh, damn your rotten little orders, man. Here’s a woman stabbed herself; it’s no time to stand on ceremony. Is there anything we can do? Is she dead? Are you certain?”
Rudge got slowly to his feet. “She’s dead right enough. Must have died just about the time you were in the house.”
“She died in my arms, then,” said Holland sombrely.
Rudge glanced at the blood on the other’s hand, and Holland nodded.
“I held her up for a second,” he said. “I thought she was dead, so didn’t disturb her hands or take the weapon out.”
“That was wise of you, sir.”
“You know who she is, of course? My wife’s French maid—Célie.”
“Ah!” said Rudge. “I shall have a few questions to ask you and Mrs. Holland.”
“Later,” Holland said, in his masterful way. “My wife’s very much upset at the moment. Naturally. I can’t have her worried till she’s had time to recover.”
Rudge lifted his eyebrows slightly, but all he said was: “I must ask you not to leave these premises for the present, either of you. Where is Mrs. Holland now?”
“I put her in a hammock, on the lawn. I must get back to her. We’ll wait for you there, Inspector. Anything we can tell you, of course, we will.”
There was the sound of footsteps on the gravel outside, which marched without hesitation into the hall. “Anyone about?” called a voice. The next moment the figure of the ubiquitous reporter from the Evening Gazette appeared in the doorway. With a muttered word Holland slid past him and out of the house.
A shaft of sunlight from the window flashed cheerfully on the reporter’s horn-rimmed spectacles. “Hullo, Inspector. Didn’t expect to see you. Is the Vicar about?” He caught sight of what lay at Rudge’s feet. “My God—what’s this?”
“I understand it’s Mam’selle Célie,” Rudge replied austerely, “Mrs. Holland’s late maid. And I must ask you to leave me alone here, if you please. I’ll see you get your story later. There are—” Further sounds of footsteps outside caused him to break off short. Both men listened intently. Again the footsteps progressed without hesitation into the house, and along to the study. The Vicar came into the room.
“Why, Inspector,” he said in surprise. “I didn’t know you were to be present too. Has—oh!” For a moment he appeared too frozen with horror to move. Then he threw himself on his knees beside the body with a little cry. “Celia!”
“Don’t touch her, please, sir.” Rudge bent down as if to guard the body from the Vicar’s ministrations.
The latter turned a ravaged face up to him. “She’s dead?”
“I’m afraid so, sir.”
“She hasn’t—killed herself?”
“It looks uncommonly like it, sir.”
Mr. Mount dropped his face into his hands and remained motionless for nearly a minute. When he spoke again it was with more self-possession.
“Inspector, you know who this poor soul is?”
“She’s already been identified, sir, as Mrs. Holland’s late French maid.”
“Yes.” The Vicar paused for a moment, as if to stiffen himself in a resolve.