The Floating Admiral - Agatha Christie [94]
Anyhow, one could but try. Hastily obtaining permission from Major Twyfitt for the interview, and learning at the same time that the theory of the footprints had been proved correct, Rudge drove out to Ware’s cottage.
The old man was sunning himself in the garden, and seemed thoroughly pleased to see his visitor.
“Well, Mr. Rudge, still puzzled about them tides?”
Rudge sat down on the same bench. “No, Ware; it’s not the tides this time; it’s something more serious. I want you to tell me what you were doing in the Admiral’s company last Tuesday night—the night he was murdered?”
Old Ware looked the picture of innocent astonishment. “Me? I wasn’t in his company. Whatever put that idea in your head, Mr. Rudge? I didn’t even know him by sight. Didn’t I tell you the next day I hadn’t recognised him?”
“You did, and I’m afraid I can’t believe you. Especially as you were in Hong Kong when there was that scandal about him, so you must have known all about that though you never let on a word. Now look here, Ware, I’m not threatening you, mind; I wouldn’t do anything like that; but at the same time I’m ready to tell you that we’ve got evidence that you called for Admiral Penistone at Rundel Croft last Tuesday evening and rowed him down-stream at a quarter past tea. And what’s more, I’ll tell you what the evidence is: you were seen starting, there’s your finger-prints on the oars, and there’s your footprints on the bank. So you see there’s no getting away from it. Now I needn’t tell you this puts you in a nasty position. Mind you, I don’t think you had anything to do with the murder, but there’s others who might.”
“I’m glad you don’t think I had anything to do with the murder, Mr. Rudge,” said Ware dryly.
“But there’s others who might,” repeated Rudge, “and will, too, unless you tell us all you know about that evening. Now come, Ware.”
Neddy Ware drew a moment or two at his pipe before he spoke. “You’re pretty sure it was murder, eh, Mr. Rudge?”
“Well, you don’t imagine it’s suicide, do you? And I’m afraid I can’t see how that knife could have got into his chest by accident. Accident, suicide, or murder, it’s got to be one of those three.”
“Oh, no, it hasn’t,” retorted Ware. “Not by a long chalk it hasn’t.”
“What do you mean? Are you saying that the Admiral’s death wasn’t due to either accident, suicide, or murder?”
“Me? I’m not saying anything. That’s your job, to find out what the Admiral died from. All I’m saying is that every death isn’t due to one of those three. What about hanging a man, eh? What’s that, Mr. Rudge—accident, suicide, or murder?”
“Well, never mind that,” said Rudge impatiently. “What I want to know is, what did you do last Tuesday evening, and where did you take the Admiral? And I needn’t repeat what I said about it being in your own interests to tell me.”
Again Ware paused before replying, so long that the Inspector began to think that he was never going to reply at all; but at crucial moments such as these he had learnt that silent patience was the best policy.
At last the old man took the pipe out of his mouth. “This woman, now. What’s all this about her? They’re saying she’s Mr. Mount’s wife, and there’s others saying she was the Frenchy maid that the Admiral’s niece had.”
“She’s both,” said Rudge, shortly, annoyed at this side-track but thinking it best not to bustle the old man. Rudge was something of a fisherman himself.
“Is she? That’s queer now. And killed herself, they say.”
Ware turned round suddenly and looked full at the Inspector. “Is that true, Mr. Rudge? Did she kill herself? What is it this time, eh? Accident, suicide, or murder?”
“The Super and Major Twyfitt are satisfied it’s suicide,