The Secret of Chimneys by Agatha Christie (good beach reads txt) đ
- Author: Agatha Christie
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Then he entered the car again and drove away. The whole business had occupied exactly one minute and a half. He made a détour to the right, returning to London by way of Burnham Beeches. There again he halted the car, and choosing a giant of the forest he deliberately climbed the huge tree. It was something of a feat, even for Anthony. To one of the topmost branches, he affixed a small brown-paper parcel, concealing it in a little niche close to the bole.
âA very clever way of disposing of the pistol,â said Anthony to himself with some approval. âEverybody hunts about on the ground, and drags ponds. But there are very few people in England who could climb that tree.â
Next, back to London and Paddington Station. Here he left the trunkâat the other cloak room this time, the one on the Arrival side. He thought longingly of such things as good rumpsteaks, juicy chops, and large masses of fried potatoes. But he shook his head ruefully, glancing at his wrist watch. He fed the Morris with a fresh supply of petrol, and then took the road once more. North this time.
It was just after half-past eleven that he brought the car to rest in the road adjoining the park of Chimneys. Jumping out he scaled the wall easily enough, and set out towards the house. It took him longer than he thought, and presently he broke into a run. A great grey mass loomed up out of the darknessâthe venerable pile of Chimneys. In the distance a stable clock chimed the three quarters.
11.45âthe time mentioned on the scrap of paper. Anthony was on the terrace now, looking up at the house. Everything seemed dark and quiet.
âThey go to bed early, these politicians,â he murmured to himself.
And suddenly a sound smote upon his earsâthe sound of a shot. Anthony spun round quickly. The sound had come from within the houseâhe was sure of that. He waited a minute, but everything was still as death. Finally he went up to one of the long French windows from where he judged the sound that had startled him had come. He tried the handle. It was locked. He tried some of the other windows, listening intently all the while. But the silence remained unbroken.
In the end he told himself that he must have imagined the sound, or perhaps mistaken a stray shot coming from a poacher in the woods. He turned and retraced his steps across the park, vaguely dissatisfied and uneasy.
He looked back at the house, and whilst he looked a light sprang up in one of the windows on the first floor. In another minute it went out again, and the whole place was in darkness once more.
Chimneys
Inspector Badgworthy in his office. Time, 8.30 A.M. A tall portly man, Inspector Badgworthy, with a heavy regulation tread. Inclined to breathe hard in moments of professional strain. In attendance Constable Johnson, very new to the Force, with a downy unfledged look about him, like a human chicken.
The telephone on the table rang sharply, and the inspector took it up with his usual portentous gravity of action.
âYes. Police station Market Basing. Inspector Badgworthy speaking. What?â
Slight alteration in the inspectorâs manner. As he is greater than Johnson, so others are greater than Inspector Badgworthy.
âSpeaking, my lord. I beg your pardon, my lord? I didnât quite hear what you said?â
Long pause, during which the inspector listens, quite a variety of expressions passing over his usually impassive countenance. Finally he lays down the receiver, after a brief âAt once, my lord.â
He turned to Johnson, seeming visibly swelled with importance.
âFrom his lordshipâat ChimneysâMurder.â
âMurder,â echoed Johnson, suitably impressed.
âMurder it is,â said the inspector, with great satisfaction.
âWhy, thereâs never been a murder hereânot that Iâve ever heard ofâexcept the time that Tom Pearse shot his sweetheart.â
âAnd that, in a manner of speaking, wasnât murder at all, but drink,â said the inspector, deprecatingly.
âHe werenât hanged for it,â agreed Johnson gloomily. âBut this is the real thing, is it, sir?â
âIt is, Johnson. One of his lordshipâs guests, a foreign gentleman, discovered shot. Open window, and footprints outside.â
âIâm sorry it were a foreigner,â said Johnson, with some regret.
It made the murder seem less real. Foreigners, Johnson felt, were liable to be shot.
âHis lordshipâs in a rare taking,â continued the inspector. âWeâll get hold of Dr. Cartwright and take him up with us right away. I hope to goodness no one will get messing with those footprints.â
Badgworthy was in a seventh heaven. A murder! At Chimneys! Inspector Badgworthy in charge of the case. The police have a clue. Sensational arrest. Promotion and kudos for the aforementioned inspector.
âThat is,â said Inspector Badgworthy to himself, âif Scotland Yard doesnât come butting in.â
The thought damped him momentarily. It seemed so extremely likely to happen under the circumstances.
They stopped at Dr. Cartwrightâs, and the doctor, who was a comparatively young man, displayed a keen interest. His attitude was almost exactly that of Johnson.
âWhy, bless my soul,â he exclaimed. âWe havenât had a murder here since the time of Tom Pearse.â
All three of them got into the doctorâs little car, and started off briskly for Chimneys. As they passed the local inn, The Jolly Cricketers, the doctor noticed a man standing in the doorway.
âStranger,â he remarked. âRather a nice-looking fellow. Wonder how long heâs been here, and what heâs doing staying at the Cricketers? I havenât seen him about at all. He must have arrived last night.â
âHe didnât come by train,â said Johnson.
Johnsonâs brother was the local railway porter, and Johnson was therefore always well up in arrivals and departures.
âWho was there for Chimneys yesterday?â asked the inspector.
âLady Eileen, she come down by the 3.40, and two gentlemen with her, an American gent, and a young Army chapâneither of them with valets. His lordship come down with a foreign gentleman, the one thatâs been shot as likely as not, by the 5.40, and the foreign gentlemanâs valet. Mr. Eversleigh come by the same train. Mrs. Revel came by the 7.25, and another foreign-looking gentleman came by it too, one with a bald head and a hook nose. Mrs. Revelâs maid came by the 8.56.â
Johnson paused, out of breath.
âAnd there was no one for the Cricketers?â
Johnson shook his head.
âHe must have come by car then,â said the inspector. âJohnson, make a note to institute inquiries at the Cricketers on your way back. We want to know all about any strangers. He was very sunburnt, that gentleman. Likely as not, heâs come from foreign parts too.â
The inspector nodded his head with great sagacity, as though to imply that that was the sort of wide-awake man he wasânot to be caught napping under any consideration.
The car passed in through the Park gates of Chimneys. Descriptions of that historic place can be found in any guide book. It is also No. 3 in Historic Homes of England, price 21s. On Thursdays, chars-Ă -bancs come over from Middlingham and view those portions of it which are open to the public. In view of all these facilities, to describe Chimneys would be superfluous.
They were received at the door by a white-headed butler whose demeanour was perfect.
âWe are not accustomed,â it seemed to say, âto having murder committed within these walls. But these are evil days. Let us meet disaster with perfect calm, and pretend with our dying breath that nothing out of the usual has occurred.â
âHis lordship,â said the butler, âis expecting you. This way, if you please.â
He led them to a small cosy room which was Lord Caterhamâs refuge from the magnificence elsewhere, and announced them.
âThe police, my lord, and Dr. Cartwright.â
Lord Caterham was pacing up and down in a visibly agitated state.
âHa! inspector, youâve turned up at last. Iâm thankful for that. How are you, Cartwright? This is the very devil of a business, you know. The very devil of a business.â
And Lord Caterham, running his hands through his hair in a frenzied fashion until it stood upright in little tufts, looked even less like a peer of the realm than usual.
âWhereâs the body?â asked the doctor, in curt business-like fashion.
Lord Caterham turned to him as though relieved at being asked a direct question.
âIn the council chamberâjust where it was foundâI wouldnât have it touched. I believedâerâthat that was the correct thing to do.â
âQuite right, my lord,â said the inspector approvingly.
He produced a notebook and pencil.
âAnd who discovered the body? Did you?â
âGood Lord, no,â said Lord Caterham. âYou donât think I usually get up at this unearthly hour in the morning, do you? No, a housemaid found it. She screamed a good deal, I believe. I didnât hear her myself. Then they came to me about it, and of course I got up and came downâand there it was, you know.â
âYou recognized the body as that of one of your guests?â
âThatâs right, inspector.â
âBy name?â
This perfectly simple question seemed to upset Lord Caterham. He opened his mouth once or twice, and then shut it again. Finally he asked feebly.
âDo you meanâdo you meanâwhat was his name?â
âYes, my lord.â
âWell,â said Lord Caterham, looking slowly round the room, as though hoping to gain inspiration. âHis name wasâI should say it wasâyes, decidedly soâCount Stanislaus.â
There was something so odd about Lord Caterhamâs manner, that the inspector ceased using his pencil and stared at him instead. But at that moment a diversion occurred which seemed highly welcome to the embarrassed peer.
The door opened and a girl came into the room. She was tall, slim and dark, with an attractive boyish face, and a very determined manner. This was Lady Eileen Brent, commonly known as Bundle, Lord Caterhamâs eldest daughter. She nodded to the others, and addressed her father directly.
âIâve got him,â she announced.
For a moment the inspector was on the point of starting forward under the impression that the young lady had captured the murderer red-handed, but almost immediately he realized that her meaning was quite different.
Lord Caterham uttered a sigh of relief.
âThatâs a good job. What did he say?â
âHeâs coming over at once. We are to âuse the utmost discretion.ââ
Her father made a sound of annoyance.
âThatâs just the sort of idiotic thing George Lomax would say. However, once he comes, I shall wash my hands of the whole affair.â
He appeared to cheer up a little at the prospect.
âAnd the name of the murdered man was Count Stanislaus?â queried the doctor.
A lightning glance passed between father and daughter, and then the former said with some dignity:
âCertainly. I said so just now.â
âI asked because you didnât seem quite sure about it before,â explained Cartwright.
There was a faint twinkle in his eye, and Lord Caterham looked at him reproachfully.
âIâll take you to the Council Chamber,â he said more briskly.
They followed him, the inspector bringing up the rear, and darting sharp glances all around him as he went, much as though he expected to find a clue in a picture frame, or behind a door.
Lord Caterham took a key from his pocket and unlocked a door, flinging it open. They all passed into a big room panelled in oak, with three long windows giving on the terrace. There was a long refectory table and a good many oak chests, and some beautiful old chairs. On the walls were various paintings of dead and gone Caterhams and others.
Near the left-hand wall, about half-way between the door and the window, a man was lying on his back, his arms flung wide.
Dr. Cartwright went over and knelt down by the body. The inspector strode across to the windows, and examined them in turn. The centre one was closed, but not fastened. On the steps outside were footprints leading up to the window, and a second set going away again.
âClear enough,â said the inspector, with a nod. âBut there ought to be
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