The Floating Admiral - Agatha Christie [89]
“Yes, it was terrible. I’ve never heard anything so—well, awful—producing awe. It was just like an animal. I dashed out of the dining-room and into the study, but before I got there I heard a thud, which must have been made by her fall. And there she was, on the carpet, and the blood streaming out. As I told you, she died in my arms.”
“Oh-h-h-h-h-h,” shuddered Elma.
“I see. Thank you, sir. And you, Mrs. Holland? That coincides with your own impressions?”
“Yes. I think so. Perhaps I should have said myself that we heard her fall before my husband moved, but I couldn’t be sure.”
“But you think not, sir?”
Holland considered. “I couldn’t say. Perhaps. I suppose we stood still for a few seconds. Sort of frozen, you know. Yes, perhaps we heard the thud before I moved. I’m not sure we didn’t, now I come to think. But in any case there couldn’t be more than a second and a half in it either way.”
“And then you followed your husband into the study, madam?”
“Yes,” Elma faltered. “And saw—and saw …” She covered her face with her hands and her body shook.
Holland leapt up. “Inspector,” he said, in a low voice, “get out.”
Rudge got.
In any case he had not expected to learn anything more.
4
“Of course it’s suicide,” growled the Superintendent. “The doctor says her grip on the dagger must have been applied during life; there’s only her prints on it; the Hollands were within a few yards of the room when she did it, and actually heard her fall; Rudge had command of the front door, and the back door remained bolted on the inside, and when he searched the house there was no one in it. How could it be anything but suicide?” The Superintendent spoke scornfully.
Rudge said nothing, but his ruddy cheeks grew a shade ruddier still.
“You don’t agree, Rudge?” said the Chief Constable.
“No, sir, I’m afraid I don’t. The way I look at it is this. Would a woman going to commit suicide fill up the time beforehand by eating greengages? It isn’t natural.”
“Then are you saying Holland killed her?” asked the Superintendent sharply. “Because there’s no one else who could.”
“No, sir, I’m not saying that either.”
It was the following morning, and a conference was being held at Whynmouth police station. Already there was tension in the air, and further tension threatened. The possibilities of Mrs. Mount’s death being due to suicide or murder had been discussed already for at least half an hour, and no decision had yet been reached. The Superintendent was all for suicide, and the Chief Constable had to agree that the logic was on his side; Inspector Rudge obstinately clung to murder, and when challenged to produce his proofs could only mutter puerilities about things being “natural” or the reverse, and “feeling things in his bones” no wonder the Superintendent snorted. Major Twyfitt had persevered nobly in a Chief Constable’s first duty, that of holding the balance between two disputing subordinates, but did not know how soon it might not escape from his grasp.
He determined now to shift the ground of discussion. “Well, of course, Rudge, if you feel that way you’ll do all you can to collect evidence to support your ideas. Otherwise I think we can leave it for the time being to the coroner. Now, about the murder of Admiral Penistone. You told us last night of the dead woman’s identity with Célie Blanc, the lady’s maid, which does definitely connect the Vicarage with the tragedy, as you’ve felt all along,” said the Chief Constable soothingly. “And you told us about Hempstead’s discovery in the bathroom at Rundel Croft. Now, have you any ideas where all this is going to lead us?”
“I have, sir,” replied the Inspector grimly. “I’ve a very good idea indeed.”
“Ah, that’s good. What is it?”
“I’d rather not say, sir, if you don’t mind, until I’ve collected a little more evidence,” Rudge answered, with a side-glance at the Superintendent.
“Yes, yes, of course. So long as you’re working on definite lines. Well, the Superintendent has got the details from the Admiralty now about that episode at Hong Kong, which you’d like to