The Floating Admiral - Agatha Christie [96]
No, it was altogether too lucky for Walter Fitzgerald that she should have died when she did.
But how had he managed it? There the Inspector had to admit himself completely at a loss. As soon as his telephone messages had brought relief, he and the Superintendent had searched the house from attic to cellar, and had found nothing. Moreover, he was satisfied that nobody had escaped while he was still confined to the neighbourhood of the study. He had had both the front door and the kitchen regions continuously under his eye, to say nothing of the drive. If Walter Fitzgerald really had done the thing, he had done it exceedingly cleverly.
All the way to Whynmouth the Inspector beat his brains against this stone wall.
Nor did he have any better luck on his other errand. Though he spent the entire afternoon calling personally at every hotel, inn, public-house, and apartment-house in the place, no trace could he find of his bearded quarry. It seemed that the man had not been staying in Whynmouth at all.
Well, it did not really matter. The Admiral must have arranged to meet him there: but that did not necessarily mean that he would be staying there. It was quite possible to understand why the rendezvous had not been arranged for Rundel Croft; no doubt the Admiral would not have him in the place.
Rudge began to regret his lack of information about this nephew. It seemed impossible to get a line on the fellow from any angle. It was worse than useless to apply to the only person who could give any really valuable information, Mrs. Holland. Besides, in her present rôle of accessory after the fact Mrs. Holland herself was once more in the limelight of suspicion. The only possible hope was Sir Wilfrid Denny.
Rudge put his car up in Whynmouth and had himself ferried across the river to West End.
Sir Wilfrid was in his garden, syringing his roses for green fly with tobacco juice. A rose lover himself, Rudge was interested to notice now that the little rose-garden was the only part of the grounds which did not wear the same air of neglect.
Sir Wilfrid greeted him with a nod. “Afternoon, Inspector. I was rather expecting you to-day. Look—did you ever see anything more lovely?” He cupped a half-opened Emma Wright in two fingers and turned it towards the Inspector.
“Beautiful, sir,” agreed the latter wholeheartedly.
“But she loses her colour almost as soon as she opens,” mourned Sir Wilfrid. “That’s the worst of these modern roses—at least, I class her with the moderns. They don’t keep their colour. Give me the old-fashioned ones. That pink over there now. There’s no modern variety to come anywhere near it, in the pinks.”
“Madam Abel always has been a favourite of mine,” Rudge nodded.
Sir Wilfrid beamed up at him. “You’re a rose enthusiast too, Inspector? That’s magnificent. I’ll take you round. This is my latest importation. Mrs. G. A. van Rossem. Know her? I can’t say I’m altogether satisfied. The usual mix-up of colours they seem to like so much nowadays. I must say I prefer my roses self-coloured. Mabel Morse, now. … Eh? Don’t you agree?”
“Yes, I do, sir. Entirely. I think you’re quite right. But to tell you the truth, I came to see you about something rather different.”
“Ah, yes,” Sir Wilfrid nodded, descending to earth. “Poor Admiral Penistone. I remember; you said you wanted to ask me something. Yes?”
“It’s about his nephew. Walter Fitzgerald. Can you give me any information about him?”
“Walter Fitzgerald?” Sir Wilfrid looked puzzled. “No, I don’t really think I can. Of course, Inspector, I never knew the Admiral really well. We’d been