The Sittaford Mystery - Agatha Christie [72]
The novelist was a man of middle height with thick rather heavy chestnut hair. He was good-looking in a somewhat heavy fashion, with lips that were rather full and red.
Inspector Narracott was not prepossessed by his apppearance.
‘Good morning, Mr Dering. Sorry to trouble you all here again.’
‘Oh, it doesn’t matter, Inspector, but really I can’t tell you any more than you’ve been told already.’
‘We were led to understand that your brother-in-law, Mr Brian Pearson, was in Australia. Now, we find that he has been in England for the last two months. I might have been given an inkling of that, I think. Your wife distinctly told me that he was in New South Wales.’
‘Brian in England!’ Dering seemed genuinely astonished. ‘I can assure you, Inspector, that I had no knowledge of that fact—nor, I’m sure, had my wife.’
‘He has not communicated with you in any way?’
‘No, indeed, I know for a fact that Sylvia has twice written him letters to Australia during that time.’
‘Oh, well, in that case I apologize, sir. But naturally I thought he would have communicated with his relations and I was a bit sore with you for holding out on me.’
‘Well, as I tell you we knew nothing. Have a cigarette, Inspector? By the way, I see you’ve recaptured your escaped convict.’
‘Yes, got him late Tuesday night. Rather bad luck for him the mist coming down. He walked right round in a circle. Did about twenty miles to find himself about half a mile from Princetown at the end of it.’
‘Extraordinary how everyone goes round in circles in a fog. Good thing he didn’t escape on the Friday. I suppose he would have had this murder put down to him as a certainty.’
‘He’s a dangerous man. Fremantle Freddy, they used to call him. Robbery with violence, assault—led the most extraordinary double life. Half the time he passed as an educated, respectable wealthy man. I am not at all sure myself that Broadmoor wasn’t the place for him. A kind of criminal mania used to come over him from time to time. He would disappear and consort with the lowest characters.’
‘I suppose many people don’t escape from Princetown?’
‘It’s well-nigh impossible, sir. But this particular escape was extraordinarily well planned and carried out. We haven’t nearly got to the bottom of it yet.’
‘Well,’ Dering rose and glanced at his watch, ‘if there’s nothing more, Inspector—I’m afraid I am rather a busy man—’
‘Oh, but there is something more, Mr Dering. I want to know why you told me that you were at a literary dinner at the Cecil Hotel on Friday night?’
‘I—I don’t understand you, Inspector.’
‘I think you do, sir. You weren’t at that dinner, Mr Dering.’
Martin Dering hesitated. His eyes ran uncertainly from the Inspector’s face, up to the ceiling, then to the door, and then to his feet.
The Inspector waited calm and stolid.
‘Well,’ said Martin Dering at last, ‘supposing I wasn’t. What the hell has that got to do with you? What have my movements, five hours after my uncle was murdered, got to do with you or anyone else?’
‘You made a certain statement to us, Mr Dering, and I want that statement verified. Part of it has already proved to be untrue. I’ve got to check up on the other half. You say you lunched and spent the afternoon with a friend.’
‘Yes—my American publisher.’
‘His name?’
‘Rosenkraun, Edgar Rosenkraun.’
‘Ah, and his address?’
‘He’s left England. He left last Saturday.’
‘For New York?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then he’ll be on the sea at the present moment. What boat is he on?’
‘I—I really can’t remember.’
‘You know the line? Was it a Cunard or White Star?’
‘I—I