The Floating Admiral - Agatha Christie [9]
“Hullo! Don’t you know who that is, Mr. Ware?”
“Never saw him before that I know of. Who is he?”
“Why, it’s Admiral Penistone. He lives at Rundel Croft—that big house the other side of the river just opposite the Vicarage. Leastways, he’s been in residence there about a month. He only bought it last June. A new-comer.”
“Oh! Admiral Penistone, is he?” said Neddy Ware.
“That’s the man, right enough. But, look here: are you sure this is the Vicarage boat?”
“Certain.”
“Queer, eh? That seems to mean something happened this side of the river, for of course there’s no bridge till you get to Fernton—three miles lower down. Ah, and the parson’s hat, eh? Let’s see; what time did you first see the boat coming along?”
“A little after half-past four, I should say.”
Hempstead had his note-book out and was making pencilled jottings in it. Then he said:
“Look here, Mr. Ware, I want you, if you will, to go back to the road and stop Inspector Rudge when he comes along in his car.”
“Very well,” replied Ware; “nothing more I can do?”
“Not yet, at any rate.”
Hempstead was an astute man. He waited until Neddy Ware was out of the way before he began a little examination on his own account. He knew very well that his superior officer would take the case fully in hand, but he was anxious to see what he could, without disturbing anything, in the meantime.
As he got into the boat, he noticed a folded newspaper, half sticking out of the dead man’s overcoat pocket. He took it out, gingerly, looked at it, and replaced it.
“Ah,” he murmured, “the Evening Gazette, last night’s late London edition. He wouldn’t get that here. The nearest place where it’s sold is Whynmouth.”
He would very much have liked to examine the contents of all the pockets of the dead man’s clothes, but felt he had better not. So he got out of the boat, sat down on the bank, and waited.
After a bit the sound of a car running along the main road was heard, and in a minute or two, four men came across the meadow; Neddy Ware, a police inspector in uniform, and two men in plain clothes, one of them a doctor, the other a detective-sergeant.
Inspector Rudge was a tall, thin man, with sallow, cleanshaven face. He came up to Hempstead.
“You haven’t moved anything?” he asked curtly.
“No, sir.”
Rudge turned to the doctor.
“I won’t do anything, Doctor Grice, till you have made your examination.”
Doctor Grice got into the boat and proceeded to examine the body. It was only a few minutes before he said:
“Stabbed to the heart, Inspector, with some narrow-bladed instrument—a thin knife or dagger. Death must have been instantaneous. There’ll have to be a post-mortem, of course.”
“How long has he been dead?”
“Some hours. He probably died before midnight.”
“Nothing more?”
“Not at present, Inspector.”
“Very well. I’ll have a look now.”
He turned the body over, shifting it slightly.
“No sign of blood under him,” he said, “or anywhere else in the boat that I can see. Let’s have a look in his pockets—ah, it wasn’t robbery. Gold watch and chain—wallet full of notes—they were not after that. Evening paper here—last night’s date. That must be noted. Now—we’ve got to be as quick as possible. Tell me, Hempstead, what do you know about him?”
“He’s Admiral Penistone, sir. Retired. A new-comer hereabouts. Bought Rundel Croft, a big house on the other side of the river, a few months ago. Took up residence there lately. I believe he has a niece living with him. But it’s not in my district, sir.”
“I know.”
The Inspector turned to Ware.
“You say the boat belongs to the Vicar here?”
“Yes.”
“How long would it take for the tide to bring it up from his place?”
“Forty to forty-five minutes,” replied Ware promptly, “with the tide as it is to-day.”
“I see. Now, the question is how are we to move him? We might pull the boat back against