do?”
“I came straight up, and went to bed myself.”
“You didn’t hear Admiral Penistone come in?”
“No. But I wasn’t listening particularly. He often stays up quite late, walking about,” said Miss Fitzgerald.
“I gather,” said the Inspector, “that Admiral Penistone, last night, appeared rather worried and distressed?”
“I don’t think so. … No. Why should he have been?”
“You hadn’t had a—a disagreement with him at all?”
“You mean,” said Miss Fitzgerald with disconcerting penetration, “about my marriage. That—is—pure—gossip.” There was a considerable amount of contempt in her tone. “My uncle was not in the least opposed to my marriage. He was a little worried, I believe, about the best way of arranging the money side of it—but that was only a question which would settle itself, in time. That was all.” But there must be a little more to it, the Inspector swiftly reflected, or she wouldn’t have tumbled so quick to what I was talking about.
“Then you can’t suggest at all what was worrying him?”
“I don’t think for a moment there was anything,” said Miss Fitzgerald; and made a slight movement that at least suggested a gesture of dismissal.
“I see. Well …” The Inspector would have liked to continue the interview, but did not see, at the moment, exactly what other information he could well demand. And it was perhaps hardly in the best of taste to sit there pestering a lady in her first grief—if she was grieved. There was a sudden twitch of a strong, rather large hand, that suggested more emotion than appeared on the surface, at any rate. “Just one more thing, Miss Fitzgerald, and then I need not trouble you further. Can you give me the name of Admiral Penistone’s lawyers?”
“Dakers and Dakers. They live somewhere in Lincoln’s Inn, I think.”
“Thank you. And if I could see Admiral Penistone’s papers now—and the servants—”
“I think all his papers are in the study. Emery will show you.” Miss Fitzgerald leaned across and touched the bell. “Inspector,” she said, a little suddenly, “will you tell me—what happens? Will they be bringing him—here?” It was the first trace of real emotion her voice had shown, and Rudge hastened to assure her that the body would be taken to the mortuary, and that every effort would be made to spare her as much as possible.
“Thank you,” she said, returning to indifference again; and at that moment Emery shuffled in. “Emery, take the Inspector to the Admiral’s study, and let him see anything he wants to. And you’d better none of you go out of the house. The Inspector may want to speak to you.” She leaned back in her chair, and made no movement, as Rudge, looking, he hoped, not as puzzled as he felt, followed Emery out of the room.
The Admiral’s study was a large and pleasant room on the first floor, looking out upon the lawn and the river. It was in fairly good order, though it had obviously not been cleaned this morning, and there were a few papers, dating probably from the previous evening, lying untidily upon the desk. Rudge took in the appearance of the room with a practised eye, and reflected that it ought not to take long to make it yield up any secrets it possessed. Then he dismissed the hovering Emery. “And you’re not to let anybody into the house for the present, please, without asking me about it,” were his final instructions. Emery, with a muttered “Very good,” shuffled off again.
The desk and a small filing cabinet which stood beside it were the only likely receptacles for papers in the room. The filing cabinet, when opened, disclosed nothing but newspaper cuttings neatly sorted. The desk was locked, but Rudge had prudently possessed himself of the dead man’s keys, and he very soon had it open. The first thing which he found was a pistol, perfectly clean and fully loaded, lying all by itself in a little drawer. He formed his mouth into the shape of a soundless whistle, and proceeded to unearth writing-paper and envelopes, a drawer full of pipes, another with a few letters of recent date, another with bank-books, stub-ends of cheque-books, income-tax forms and other financial paraphernalia, and a fifth which contained only a large legal envelope inscribed Elma Fitzgerald. In view of what the Vicar had said, the Inspector conjectured that the contents of this envelope might possibly have some bearing upon his case, and he settled himself down to study them as a preliminary. The first item was the “Last Will and Testament of John Martin Fitzgerald,” bulky and wordy beyond even the normal run of such documents; and the Inspector, whose mastery of legal jargon was not as thorough as he could have wished, found some trouble in disentangling its provisions. He had succeeded in making out that John Martin Fitzgerald was the Admiral’s brother-in-law, and that his will devised his property, whatever that might be, in equal proportions to his son Walter Everett Fitzgerald, “if he should be found to be alive at the date of my death,” and his daughter Elma Fitzgerald; and had noted that if the son turned out to be dead (“I suppose he must have disappeared or something. It’s a funny way to put it anyhow.”) Elma Fitzgerald would get all the property on her marriage—when his attention was arrested by what sounded like an altercation below-stairs. For a moment or two he listened, and judged that, in spite of his orders, some visitor must be trying to force an entrance into the house. And as he strongly mistrusted Emery’s power to oppose even a determined fly, he went down into the hall to see what it was all about, and found, as he had anticipated, a pink and perplexed butler feebly flapping at an enraged visitor who had already penetrated as far as the foot of the stairs.
“—the Inspector said—” he was bleating.
“To hell with the Inspector!” the intruder retorted; and, glancing up, found himself looking straight into the eyes of the said Inspector—a contingency which disconcerted him not at all.
Nor need it have done so. Whoever he was, the intruder was easily capable of dealing with a dozen inspectors. He must have been six foot three at the very least, with the build and gait of an athlete, and an athlete, moreover, who specialised in events requiring exceptional strength. Above a pair of magnificently broad shoulders was set a handsome head with sunburned face and neck, a square chin, and short aquiline nose, brown hair cropped so close that it could hardly indulge its natural curls, and big, fiery, hazel eyes, which glared up at Rudge with all the righteous indignation of a supporter of Law and Justice resenting the interference of Law with his own avocations.
“I told Mr. Holland,” Emery bleated, “that you’d said nobody was to be let in without orders.”
“And I told him,” Mr. Holland remarked, “that I was coming in.”
“You’re Mr. Holland?” the Inspector said. “Mr. Arthur Holland?” Holland nodded. “And you want to see—?”
“I’ve come to see Miss Fitzgerald,” Arthur Holland said. “And let me tell you I’m in a hurry, whoever you are. Here, Emery, go and tell Miss Fitzgerald I’m here, and be quick about it, will you?”
“Half a moment, sir,” the Inspector said, while a maidservant came out of one of the rooms opening into the hall, and began to whisper to the butler. “If you’ll excuse me, I want a word or two with you myself, first. Did this man tell you that Admiral Penistone has—?”
“Been killed? Yes,” the young man said. “Is that any reason why I shouldn’t see Miss Fitzgerald? She’ll need someone—”
“Beg pardon, sir.” Emery approached deferentially. “But Miss Fitzgerald’s away.”
“Away!” The exclamation
