Mrs. McCrae, Canon Pennyfather’s housekeeper, had ordered a Dover sole for the evening of his return.
The advantages attached to a good Dover sole were manifold. It need not be introduced to the grill or frying pan until the Canon was safely in the house. It could be kept until the next day if necessary. Canon Pennyfather was fond of Dover sole; and, if a telephone call or telegram arrived saying that the Canon would after all be elsewhere on this particular evening, Mrs. McCrae was fond of a good Dover sole herself. All therefore was in good trim for the Canon’s return. The Dover sole would be followed by pancakes. The sole sat on the kitchen table, the batter for the pancakes was ready in a bowl. All was in readiness. The brass shone, the silver sparkled, not a minuscule of dust showed anywhere. There was only one thing lacking. The Canon himself.
The Canon was scheduled to return on the train arriving at 6:30 from London.
At 7 o’clock he had not returned. No doubt the train was late. At 7:30 he still had not returned. Mrs. McCrae gave a sigh of vexation. She suspected that this was going to be another of these things. Eight o’clock came and no Canon. Mrs. McCrae gave a long, exasperated sigh. Soon, no doubt, she would get a telephone call, though it was quite within the bounds of possibility that there would not be even a telephone call. He might have written to her. No doubt he had written, but he had probably omitted to post the letter.
“Dear, dear!” said Mrs. McCrae.
At 9 o’clock she made herself three pancakes with the pancake batter. The sole she put carefully away in the Frigidaire. “I wonder where the good man’s got to now,” she said to herself. She knew by experience that he might be anywhere. The odds were that he would discover his mistake in time to telegraph her or telephone her before she retired to bed. “I shall sit up until 11 o’clock but no longer,” said Mrs. McCrae. Ten thirty was her bedtime, an extension to eleven she considered her duty, but if at eleven there was nothing, no word from the Canon, then Mrs. McCrae would duly lock up the house and betake herself to bed.
It cannot be said that she was worried. This sort of thing had happened before. There was nothing to be done but wait for news of some kind. The possibilities were numerous. Canon Pennyfather might have got on the wrong train and failed to discover his mistake until he was at Land’s End or John o’ Groats, or he might still be in London having made some mistake in the date, and was therefore convinced he was not returning until tomorrow. He might have met a friend or friends at this foreign conference he was going to and been induced to stay out there perhaps over the weekend. He would have meant to let her know but had entirely forgotten to do so. So, as has been already said, she was not worried. The day after tomorrow his old friend, Archdeacon Simmons, was coming to stay. That was the sort of thing the Canon did remember, so no doubt he himself or a telegram from him would arrive tomorrow and at latest he would be home on the day after, or there would be a letter.
The morning of the day after, however, arrived without a word from him. For the first time Mrs. McCrae began to be uneasy. Between 9 a.m. and 1 p.m. she eyed the telephone in a doubtful manner. Mrs. McCrae had her own fixed views about the telephone. She used it and recognized its convenience but she was not fond of the telephone. Some of her household shopping was done by telephone, though she much preferred to do it in person owing to a fixed belief that if you did not see what you were being given, a shopkeeper was sure to try and cheat you. Still, telephones were useful for domestic matters. She occasionally, though rarely, telephoned her friends or relations in the near neighbourhood. To make a call of any distance, or a London call, upset her severely. It was a shameful waste of money. Nevertheless, she began to meditate facing that problem.
Finally, when yet another day dawned without any news of him, she decided to act. She knew where the Canon was staying in London. Bertram’s Hotel. A nice old-fashioned place. It might be as well, perhaps, if she rang up and made certain inquiries. They would probably know where the Canon was. It was not an ordinary hotel. She would asked to be put through to Miss Gorringe. Miss Gorringe was always efficient and thoughtful. The Canon might, of course, return by the twelve thirty. If so he would be here any minute now.
But the minutes passed and there was no Canon. Mrs. McCrae took a deep breath, nerved herself and asked for a call to London. She waited, biting her lips and holding the receiver clamped firmly to her ear.
“Bertram’s Hotel, at your service,” said a voice.
“I would like, if you please, to speak to Miss Gorringe,” said Mrs. McCrae.
“Just a moment. What name shall I say?”
“It’s Canon Pennyfather’s housekeeper. Mrs. McCrae.”
“Just a moment please.”
Presently the calm and efficient voice of Miss Gorringe came through.
“Miss Gorringe here. Did you say Canon Pennyfather’s housekeeper?”
“That’s right. Mrs. McCrae.”
“Oh yes. Of course. What can I do for you, Mrs. McCrae?”
“Is Canon Pennyfather staying at the hotel still?”
“I’m glad you’ve rung up,” said Miss Gorringe. “We have been rather worried as to what exactly to do.”
“Do you mean something’s happened to Canon Pennyfather? Has he had an accident?”
“No, no, nothing of that kind. But we expected him back from Lucerne on Friday or Saturday.”
“Eh—that’d be right.”
“But he didn’t arrive. Well, of course that wasn’t really surprising. He had booked his room on—booked it, that is, until yesterday. He didn’t come back yesterday or send any word and his things are still here. The major part of his baggage. We hadn’t been quite sure what to do about it. Of course,” Miss Gorringe went on hastily, “we know the Canon is, well—somewhat forgetful sometimes.”
“You may well say that!”
“It makes it a little difficult for us. We are so fully booked up. His room is actually booked for another guest.” She added: “You have no idea where he is?”
With bitterness Mrs. McCrae said:
“The man might be anywhere!” She pulled herself together. “Well, thank you, Miss Gorringe.”
“Anything I can do—” Miss Gorringe suggested helpfully.
“I dare say I’ll hear soon enough,” said Mrs. McCrae. She thanked Miss Gorringe again and rang off.
She sat by the telephone, looking upset. She did not fear for the Canon’s personal safety. If he had had an accident she would by now have been notified. She felt sure of that. On the whole the Canon was not what one could call accident prone. He was what Mrs. McCrae called to herself “one of the scatty ones,” and the scatty ones seemed always to be looked after by a special providence. Whilst taking no care or thought, they could still survive even a Panda crossing. No, she did not visualize Canon Pennyfather as lying groaning in a hospital. He was somewhere, no doubt innocently and happily prattling with some friend or other. Maybe he was abroad still. The difficulty was that Archdeacon Simmons was arriving this evening and Archdeacon Simmons would expect to find a host to receive him. She couldn’t put Archdeacon Simmons off because she didn’t know where he was. It was all very difficult, but it had, like most difficulties, its bright spot. Its bright spot was Archdeacon Simmons. Archdeacon Simmons would know what to do. She would place the matter in his hands.
Archdeacon Simmons was a complete contrast to her employer. He knew where he was going, and what he was doing, and was always cheerfully sure of knowing the right thing to be done and doing it. A confident cleric. Archdeacon Simmons, when he arrived, to be met by Mrs. McCrae’s explanations, apologies and perturbation, was a tower of strength. He, too, was not alarmed.
“Now don’t you worry, Mrs. McCrae,” he said in his genial fashion, as he sat down to the meal she had prepared for his arrival. “We’ll hunt the absentminded fellow down. Ever heard that story about Chesterton? G. K. Chesterton, you know, the writer. Wired to his wife when he’d gone on a lecture tour ‘Am at Crewe Station. Where ought I to be?’”
He laughed. Mrs. McCrae smiled dutifully. She did not think it was very funny because it was so exactly the sort of thing that Canon Pennyfather might have done.
“Ah,” said Archdeacon Simmons, with appreciation, “one of your excellent veal cutlets! You’re a marvellous cook, Mrs. McCrae. I hope my old friend appreciates you.”
Veal cutlets having been succeeded by some small castle puddings with a blackberry sauce which Mrs. McCrae had remembered was one of the Archdeacon’s favourite sweets, the good man applied himself in earnest to the tracking down of his missing friend. He addressed himself to the telephone with vigour and a complete disregard for expense, which made Mrs. McCrae purse her lips anxiously, although not really disapproving, because definitely her master had got to be tracked down.
Having first dutifully tried the Canon’s sister who took little notice of her brother’s goings and comings and as usual had not the faintest idea where he was or might be, the Archdeacon spread his net farther afield. He addressed himself once more to Bertram’s Hotel and got details as precisely as possible. The Canon had definitely left there on the early evening of the 19th. he had with him a small BEA handbag, but his other luggage had remained behind in his room, which he had duly retained. He had mentioned that he was going to a conference of some kind at Lucerne. He had not gone direct to the airport from the hotel. The commissionaire, who knew him well by sight, had put him into a taxi and had directed it as told by the Canon, to the Athenaeum Club. That was the last time that anyone at Bertram’s Hotel had seen Canon Pennyfather. Oh yes, a small detail—he had omitted to leave his key behind but had taken it with him. It was not the first time that that had happened.
Archdeacon Simmons paused for a few minutes” consideration before the next call. He could ring up the air station in London. That would no doubt take some time. There might be a short cut. He rang up Dr. Weissgarten, a learned Hebrew scholar who was almost certain to have been at the conference.
Dr. Weissgarten was at his home. As soon as he heard who was speaking to him he launched out into a torrent of verbiage consisting mostly of disparaging criticism of two papers that had been read at the conference in Lucerne.
“Most unsound, that fellow Hogarov,” he said, “most unsound. How he gets away with it I don’t know! Fellow isn’t a scholar at all. Do you know what he actually said?”
The Archdeacon sighed and had to be firm with him. Otherwise there was a good chance that the rest of the evening would be spent in listening to criticism of fellow scholars at the Lucerne Conference. With some reluctance Dr. Weissgarten was pinned down to more personal matters.
“Pennyfather?” he said. “Pennyfather? He ought to have been there. Can’t think why he wasn’t there. Said he was going. Told me so only a week before when I saw him in the Athenaeum.”
“You mean he wasn’t at the conference at all?”
“That’s what I’ve just said. He ought to have been there.”
“Do you know why he wasn’t there? Did he send an excuse?”
“How should I know? He certainly talked about being there. Yes, now I remember. He was expected. Several people remarked on his absence. Thought he might have had a chill or something. Very treacherous weather.” He was about to revert to his criticisms of his fellow scholars but Archdeacon Simmons rang off.
He had got a fact but it was a fact that for the first time awoke in him an uneasy feeling. Canon Pennyfather had not been at the Lucerne Conference. He had meant to go to that conference. It seemed very extraordinary to the Archdeacon that he had not been there. He might, of course, have taken the wrong plane, though on the whole BEA were pretty careful of you and shepherded you away from such possibilities. Could Canon Pennyfather have forgotten the actual day that he was going to the conference? It was always possible, he supposed. But if so where had he gone instead?
He addressed himself now to the air terminal. It involved a great deal of patient waiting and being transferred from department to department. In the end he got a definite fact. Canon Pennyfather had booked as a passenger on the 21:40 plane to Lucerne on the 18th but he had not been on the plane.
“We’re getting on,” said Archdeacon Simmons to Mrs. McCrae, who was hovering in the background. “Now, let me see. Who shall I try next?”
“All this telephoning will cost a fearful lot of money,” said Mrs. McCrae.
“I’m afraid so. I’m afraid so,” said Archdeacon Simmons. “But we’ve got to get on his track, you know. He’s not a very young man.”
“Oh, sir, you don’t think there’s anything could really have happened to him?”
“Well, I hope not…I don’t think so, because I think you’d have heard if so. He—er—always had his name and address on him, didn’t he?”
“Oh yes, sir, he had cards on him. He’d have letters too, and all sorts of things in his wallet.”
“Well, I don’t think he’s in a hospital then,” said the Archdeacon. “Let me see. When he left the hotel he took a taxi to the Athenaeum. I’ll ring them up next.”
Here he got some definite information. Canon Pennyfather, who was well known there, had dined there at seven thirty on the evening of the 19th. It was then that the Archdeacon was struck by something he had overlooked until then. The aeroplane ticket had been for the 18th but the Canon had left Bertram’s Hotel by taxi to the Athenaeum, having mentioned he was going to the Lucerne Conference, on the 19th. Light began to break. “Silly old ass,” thought Archdeacon Simmons to himself, but careful not to say it aloud in front of Mrs. McCrae. “Got his dates wrong. The conference was on the 19th. I’m sure of it. He must have thought that he was leaving on the 18th. He was one day wrong.”
He went over the next bit carefully. The Canon would have gone to the Athenaeum, he would have dined, he would have gone on to Kensington Air Station. There, no doubt, it would have been pointed out to him that his ticket was for the day before and he would then have realized that the conference he was going to attend was now over.
“That’s what happened,” said Archdeacon Simmons, “depend upon it.” He explained it to Mrs. McCrae, who agreed that it was likely enough. “Then what would he do?”
“Go back to his hotel,” said Mrs. McCrae.
“He wouldn’t have come straight down here—gone straight to the station, I mean.”
“Not if his luggage was at the hotel. At any rate, he would have called there for his luggage.”
“True enough,” said Simmons. “All right. We’ll think of it like this. He left the airport with his little bag and he went back to the hotel, or started for the hotel at all events. He might have had dinner perhaps—no, he’d dined at the Athenaeum. All right, he went back to the hotel. But he never arrived there.” He paused a moment or two and then said doubtfully, “Or did he? Nobody seems to have seen him there. So what happened to him on the way?”
“He could have met someone,” said Mrs. McCrae, doubtfully.
“Yes. Of course that’s perfectly possible. Some old friend he hadn’t seen for a long time…He could have gone off with a friend to the friend’s hotel or the friend’s house, but he wouldn’t have stayed there three days, would he? He couldn’t have forgotten for three whole days that his luggage was at the hotel. He’d have rung up about it, he’d have called for it, or in a supreme fit of absentmindedness he might have come straight home. Three days’ silence. That’s what’s so inexplicable.”
“If he had an accident—”
“Yes, Mrs. McCrae, of course that’s possible. We can try the hospitals. You say he had plenty of papers on him to identify him? Hm—I think there’s only one thing for it.”
Mrs. McCrae looked at him apprehensively.
“I think, you know,” said the Archdeacon gently, “that we’ve got to go to the police.”
[At Bertram’s Hotel- Agatha Christie] Chapter Eleven