“Yes, sir. You see, I’m not on duty in the afternoons. I come back again at 6 o’clock. By then he must have left, or at any rate he was downstairs. Not in his room. He had left two suitcases behind.”
“That’s right,” said Father. The contents of the suitcases had been examined, but had given no useful lead. He went on: “Did you call him the next morning?”
“Call him? No, sir, he was away.”
“What did you do ordinarily—take him early tea? Breakfast?”
“Early tea, sir. He breakfasted downstairs always.”
“So you didn’t go into his room at all the next day?”
“Oh yes, sir.” Rose sounded shocked. “I went into his room as usual. I took his shirts in for one thing. And of course I dusted the room. We dust all the rooms every day.”
“Had the bed been slept in?”
She stared at him. “The bed, sir? Oh no.”
“Was it rumpled—creased in any way?”
She shook her head.
“What about the bathroom?”
“There was a damp hand towel, sir, that had been used. I presume that would be the evening before. He may have washed his hands last thing before going off.”
“And there was nothing to show that he had come back into the room—perhaps quite late—after midnight?”
She stared at him with an air of bewilderment. Father opened his mouth, then shut it again. Either she knew nothing about the Canon’s return or she was a highly accomplished actress.
“What about his clothes—suits. Were they packed up in his suitcases?”
“No, sir, they were hanging up in the cupboards. He was keeping his room on, you see, sir.”
“Who did pack them up?”
“Miss Gorringe gave orders, sir. When the room was wanted for the new lady coming in.”
A straightforward coherent account. But if that old lady was correct in stating that she saw Canon Pennyfather leaving his room at 3 a.m. on Friday morning, then he must have come back to that room sometime. Nobody had seen him enter the hotel. Had he, for some reason, deliberately avoided being seen? He had left no traces in the room. He hadn’t even lain down on the bed. Had Miss Marple dreamed the whole thing? At her age it was possible enough. An idea struck him.
“What about the airport bag?”
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“A small bag, dark blue—a BEA or BOAC bag—you must have seen it?”
“Oh that—yes, sir. But of course he’d take that with him abroad.”
“But he didn’t go abroad. He never went to Switzerland after all. So he must have left it behind. Or else he came back and left it here with his other luggage.”
“Yes—yes—I think—I’m not quite sure—I believe he did.”
Quite unsolicited, the thought raced into Father’s mind: They didn’t brief you on that, did they?
Rose Sheldon had been calm and competent up till now. But that question had rattled her. She hadn’t known the right answer to it. But she ought to have known.
The Canon had taken his bag to the airport, had been turned away from the airport. If he had come back to Bertram’s, the bag would have been with him. But Miss Marple had made no mention of it when she had described the Canon leaving his room and going down the stairs.
Presumably it was left in the bedroom, but it had not been put in the baggage room with the suitcases. Why not? Because the Canon was supposed to have gone to Switzerland?
He thanked Rose genially and went downstairs again.
Canon Pennyfather! Something of an enigma, Canon Pennyfather. Talked a lot about going to Switzerland, muddled up things so that he didn’t go to Switzerland, came back to his hotel so secretly that nobody saw him, left it again in the early hours of the morning. (To go where? To do what?)
Could absentmindedness account for all this?
If not, then what was Canon Pennyfather up to? And more important, where was he?
From the staircase, Father cast a jaundiced eye over the occupants of the lounge, and wondered whether anyone was what they seemed to be. He had got to that stage! Elderly people, middle-aged people (nobody very young) nice old-fashioned people, nearly all well-to-do, all highly respectable. Service people, lawyers, clergymen; American husband and wife near the door, a French family near the fireplace. Nobody flashy, nobody out of place; most of them enjoying an old-fashioned English afternoon tea. Could there really be anything seriously wrong with a place that served old-fashioned afternoon teas?
The Frenchman made a remark to his wife that fitted in appositively enough.
“Le Five-o’-clock,” he was saying. “C’est bien Anglais ça, n’est ce pas?” He looked round him with approval.
“Le Five-o’-clock,” thought Davy as he passed through the swing doors to the street. “That chap doesn’t know that ‘le Five-o’-clock’ is as dead as the Dodo!”
Outside, various vast American wardrobe cases and suitcases were being loaded on to a taxi. It seemed that Mr. and Mrs. Elmer Cabot were on their way to the Hotel Vendôme, Paris.
Beside him on the kerb, Mrs. Elmer Cabot was expressing her views to her husband.
“The Pendleburys were quite right about this place, Elmer. It just is old England. So beautifully Edwardian. I just feel Edward the Seventh could walk right in any moment and sit down there for his afternoon tea. I mean to come back here next year—I really do.”
“If we’ve got a million dollars or so to spare,” said her husband dryly.
“Now, Elmer, it wasn’t as bad as all that.”
The baggage was loaded, the tall commissionaire helped them in, murmuring “Thank you, sir” as Mr. Cabot made the expected gesture. The taxi drove off. The commissionaire transferred his attention to Father.
“Taxi, sir?”
Father looked up at him.
Over six feet. Good-looking chap. A bit run to seed. Ex-Army. Lot of medals—genuine, probably. A bit shifty? Drinks too much.
Aloud he said: “Ex-Army man?”
“Yes, sir. Irish Guards.”
“Military Medal, I see. Where did you get that?”
“Burma.”
“What’s your name?”
“Michael Gorman. Sergeant.”
“Good job here?”
“It’s a peaceful spot.”
“Wouldn’t you prefer the Hilton?”
“I would not. I like it here. Nice people come here, and quite a lot of racing gentlemen—for Ascot and Newbury. I’ve had good tips from them now and again.”
“Ah, so you’re an Irishman and gambler, is that it?”
“Och! Now, what would life be without a gamble?”
“Peaceful and dull,” said Chief-Inspector Davy, “like mine.”
“Indeed, sir?”
“Can you guess what my profession is?” asked Father.
The Irishman grinned.
“No offence to you, sir, but if I may guess I’d say you were a cop.”
“Right first time,” said Chief-Inspector Davy. “You remember Canon Pennyfather?”
“Canon Pennyfather now, I don’t seem to mind the name—”
“Elderly clergyman.”
Michael Gorman laughed.
“Ah now, clergyman are as thick as peas in a pod in there.”
“This one disappeared from here.”
“Oh, that one!” The commissionaire seemed slightly taken aback.
“Did you know him?”