Unexpected Guest by Agatha Christie Read Free Book Online

your cars be able to take him there when you’ve finished here?…Very well.’
    Turning to face the company, Mrs Warwick announced, ‘The police will be here as soon as they can in this fog. They’ll have two cars, one of which will return right away to take this gentleman’–she gestured at Starkwedder–‘to the inn in the village. They want him to stay overnight and be available to talk to them tomorrow.’
    â€˜Well, since I can’t leave with my car still in the ditch, that’s fine with me,’ Starkwedder exclaimed. As he spoke, the door to the corridor opened, and a dark-haired man of medium height in his mid-forties entered the room, tying the cord of his dressing-gown. He suddenly stopped short just inside the door. ‘Is something the matter, madam?’ he asked, addressing Mrs Warwick. Then, glancing past her, he saw the body of Richard Warwick. ‘Oh, my God,’ he exclaimed.
    â€˜I’m afraid there’s been a terrible tragedy, Angell,’ Mrs Warwick replied. ‘Mr Richard has been shot,and the police are on their way here.’ Turning to Starkwedder, she said, ‘This is Angell. He’s–he was Richard’s valet.’
    The valet acknowledged Starkwedder’s presence wth a slight, absent-minded bow. ‘Oh, my God,’ he repeated, as he continued to stare at the body of his late employer.

Chapter 6
    At eleven the following morning, Richard Warwick’s study looked somewhat more inviting than it had on the previous foggy evening. For one thing, the sun was shining on a cold, clear, bright day, and the french windows were wide open. The body had been removed overnight, and the wheelchair had been pushed into the recess, its former central place in the room now occupied by the armchair. The small table had been cleared of everything except decanter and ashtray. A good-looking young man in his twenties with short dark hair, dressed in a tweed sports jacket and navy-blue trousers, was sitting in the wheelchair, reading a book of poems. After a few moments, he got up. ‘Beautiful,’ he said to himself. ‘Apposite and beautiful.’ His voice was soft and musical, with a pronounced Welsh accent.
    The young man closed the book he had been reading, and replaced it on the bookshelves in the recess.Then, after surveying the room for a minute or two, he walked across to the open french windows, and went out onto the terrace. Almost immediately, a middle-aged, thick-set, somewhat poker-faced man carrying a briefcase entered the room from the hallway. Going to the armchair which faced out onto the terrace, he put his briefcase on it, and looked out of the windows. ‘Sergeant Cadwallader!’ he called sharply.
    The younger man turned back into the room. ‘Good morning, Inspector Thomas,’ he said, and then continued, with a lilt in his voice, ‘“Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, close bosom friend of the maturing sun”.’
    The inspector, who had begun to unbutton his overcoat, stopped and looked intently at the young sergeant. ‘I beg your pardon?’ he asked, with a distinct note of sarcasm in his voice.
    â€˜That’s Keats,’ the sergeant informed him, sounding quite pleased with himself. The inspector responded with a baleful look at him, then shrugged, took off his coat, placed it on the wheelchair in the recess, and came back for his briefcase.
    â€˜You’d hardly credit the fine day it is,’ Sergeant Cadwallader went on. ‘When you think of the terrible time we had getting here last night. The worst fog I’ve known in years. “The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes”. That’s T.S. Eliot.’ He waited fora reaction to his quotation from the inspector, but got none, so continued, ‘It’s no wonder the accidents piled up the way they did on the Cardiff road.’
    â€˜Might have been worse,’ was