Towards Zero - Agatha Christie [47]
Leach said sharply:
“Where did you find this?”
“Bundled down into the bottom of the wardrobe. Just look at this, sir.”
He picked up the coat and showed the edges of the dark blue cuffs.
“See those dark stains? That’s blood, sir, or I’m a Dutchman. And see here, it’s spattered all up the sleeve.”
“H’m.” Battle avoided the other’s eager eyes. “Looks bad for young Nevile, I must say. Any other suit in the room?”
“Dark grey pinstripe hanging over a chair. Lot of water on the floor here by the washbasin.”
“Looking as though he washed the blood off himself in the devil of a hurry? Yes. It’s near the open window, though, and the rain has come in a good deal.”
“Not enough to make those pools on the floor, sir. They’re not dried up yet.”
Battle was silent. A picture was forming itself before his eyes. A man with blood on his hands and sleeves, flinging off his clothes, bundling the bloodstained garments into the cupboard, sluicing water furiously over his hands and bare arms.
He looked across at a door in the other wall.
Williams answered the look.
“Mrs. Strange’s room, sir. The door is locked.”
“Locked? On this side?”
“No. On the other.”
“On her side, eh?”
Battle was reflective for a minute or two. He said at last:
“Let’s see that old butler again.”
Hurstall was nervous. Leach said crisply:
“Why didn’t you tell us, Hurstall, that you overheard a quarrel between Mr. Strange and Lady Tressilian last night?”
The old man blinked.
“I really didn’t think twice about it, sir. I don’t imagine it was what you’d call a quarrel—just an amicable difference of opinion.”
Resisting the temptation to say, “Amicable difference of opinion my foot!” Leach went on:
“What suit was Mr. Strange wearing last night at dinner?”
Hurstall hesitated. Battle said quietly:
“Dark blue suit or grey pinstripe? I dare say someone else can tell us if you don’t remember.”
Hurstall broke his silence.
“I remember now, sir. It was his dark blue. The family,” he added, anxious not to lose prestige, “have not been in the habit of changing into evening dress during the summer months. They frequently go out after dinner—sometimes in the garden, sometimes down to the quay.”
Battle nodded. Hurstall left the room. He passed Jones in the doorway. Jones looked excited.
He said:
“It’s a cinch, sir. I’ve got all their prints. There’s only one lot fills the bill. Of course I’ve only been able to make a rough comparison as yet, but I’ll bet they’re the right ones.”
“Well?” said Battle.
“The prints on that niblick, sir, were made by Mr. Nevile Strange.”
Battle leaned back in his chair.
“Well,” he said, “that seems to settle it, doesn’t it?”
IV
They were in the Chief Constable’s office—three men with grave worried faces.
Major Mitchell said with a sigh:
“Well, I suppose there’s nothing to be done but arrest him?”
Leach said quietly:
“Looks like it, sir.”
Mitchell looked across at Superintendent Battle.
“Cheer up, Battle,” he said kindly. “Your best friend isn’t dead.”
Superintendent Battle sighed.
“I don’t like it,” he said.
“I don’t think any of us like it,” said Mitchell. “But we’ve ample evidence, I think, to apply for a warrant.”
“More than ample,” said Battle.
“In fact if we don’t apply for one, anybody might ask why the dickens not?”
Battle nodded an unhappy head.
“Let’s go over it,” said the Chief Constable. “You’ve got motive—Strange and his wife come into a considerable sum of money at the old lady’s death. He’s the last person known to have seen her alive—he was heard quarrelling with her. The suit he wore that night had bloodstains on it, of course, most damning of all, his fingerprints were found on the actual weapon—and no one else’s.”
“And yet sir,” said Battle, “you don’t like it either.”
“I’m damned if I do.”
“What is it exactly you don’t like about it, sir?”
Major Mitchell rubbed his nose. “Makes the fellow out a bit too much of a fool, perhaps?” he suggested.
“And yet, sir, they do behave like fools sometimes.”
“Oh I know—I know. Where would we be if they didn’t?”
Battle said