Adele looked surprised.
“Didn’t Crump let you in? The butler? Oh no, I forgot. It’s his day out today. But surely Gladys—”
Lance gave a description. “Blue eyes, hair parted in the middle, soft voice, butter wouldn’t melt in the mouth. What goes on behind it all, I wouldn’t like to say.”
“That,” said Jennifer, “would be Mary Dove.”
Elaine said:
“She sort of runs things for us.”
“Does she, now?”
Adele said:
“She’s really very useful.”
“Yes,” said Lance thoughtfully, “I should think she might be.”
“But what is so nice is,” said Jennifer, “that she knows her place. She never presumes, if you know what I mean.”
“Clever Mary Dove,” said Lance, and helped himself to another piece of chocolate cake.
Chapter Twelve
I
“So you’ve turned up again like a bad penny,” said Miss Ramsbottom.
Lance grinned at her. “Just as you say, Aunt Effie.”
“Humph!” Miss Ramsbottom sniffed disapprovingly. “You’ve chosen a nice time to do it. Your father got himself murdered yesterday, the house is full of police poking about everywhere, grubbing in the dustbins, even. I’ve seen them out of the window.” She paused, sniffed again, and asked: “Got your wife with you?”
“No. I left Pat in London.”
“That shows some sense. I shouldn’t bring her here if I were you. You never know what might happen.”
“To her? To Pat?”
“To anybody,” said Miss Ramsbottom.
Lance Fortescue looked at her thoughtfully.
“Got any ideas about it all, Aunt Effie?” he asked.
Miss Ramsbottom did not reply directly. “I had an inspector here yesterday asking me questions. He didn’t get much change out of me. But he wasn’t such a fool as he looked, not by a long way.” She added with some indignation: “What your grandfather would feel if he knew we had the police in the house—it’s enough to make him turn in his grave. A strict Plymouth Brother he was all his life. The fuss there was when he found out I’d been attending Church of England services in the evening! And I’m sure that was harmless enough compared to murder.”
Normally Lance would have smiled at this, but his long, dark face remained serious. He said:
“D’you know, I’m quite in the dark after having been away so long. What’s been going on here of late?”
Miss Ramsbottom raised her eyes to heaven.
“Godless doings,” she said firmly.
“Yes, yes, Aunt Effie, you would say that anyway. But what gives the police the idea that Dad was killed here, in this house?”
“Adultery is one thing and murder is another,” said Miss Ramsbottom. “I shouldn’t like to think it of her, I shouldn’t indeed.”
Lance looked alert. “Adele?” he asked.
“My lips are sealed,” said Miss Ramsbottom.
“Come on, old dear,” said Lance. “It’s a lovely phrase, but it doesn’t mean a thing. Adele had a boyfriend? Adele and the boyfriend fed him henbane in the morning tea. Is that the setup?”
“I’ll trouble you not to joke about it.”
“I wasn’t really joking, you know.”
“I’ll tell you one thing,” said Miss Ramsbottom suddenly. “I believe that girl knows something about it.”
“Which girl?” Lance looked surprised.
“The one that sniffs,” said Miss Ramsbottom. “The one that ought to have brought me up my tea this afternoon, but didn’t. Gone out without leave, so they say. I shouldn’t wonder if she had gone to the police. Who let you in?”
“Someone called Mary Dove, I understand. Very meek and mild—but not really. Is she the one who’s gone to the police?”
“She wouldn’t go to the police,” said Miss Ramsbottom. “No—I mean that silly little parlourmaid. She’s been twitching and jumping like a rabbit all day. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ I said. ‘Have you got a guilty conscience?’ She said: ‘I never did anything—I wouldn’t do a thing like that.’ ‘I hope you wouldn’t,’ I said to her, ‘but there’s something worrying you now, isn’t there?’ Then she began to sniff and said she didn’t want to get anybody into trouble, she was sure it must be all a mistake. I said to her, I said: ‘Now, my girl, you speak the truth and shame the devil.’ That’s what I said. ‘You go to the police,’ I said, ‘and tell them anything you know, because no good ever came,’ I said, ‘of hushing up the truth, however unpleasant it is.’ Then she talked a lot of nonsense about she couldn’t go to the police, they’d never believe her and what on earth should she say? She ended up by saying anyway she didn’t know anything at all.”
“You don’t think,” Lance hesitated, “that she was just making herself important?”
“No, I don’t. I think she was scared. I think she saw something or heard something that’s given her some idea about the whole thing. It may be important, or it mayn’t be of the least consequence.”
“You don’t think she herself could’ve had a grudge against Father and—” Lance hesitated.
Miss Ramsbottom was shaking her head decidedly.
“She’s not the kind of girl your father would have taken the least notice of. No man ever will take much notice of her, poor girl. Ah, well, it’s all the better for her soul, that I dare say.”
Lance took no interest in Glady’s soul. He asked:
“You think she may have run along to the police station?”
Aunt Effie nodded vigorously.
“Yes. I think she mayn’t like to’ve said anything to them in this house in case somebody overheard her.”
Lance asked: “Do you think she may have seen someone tampering with the food?”
Aunt Effie threw him a sharp glance.
“It’s possible, isn’t it?” she said.
“Yes, I suppose so.” Then he added apologetically: “The whole thing still seems so wildly improbable. Like a detective story.”
“Percival’s wife is a hospital nurse,” said Miss Ramsbottom.
The remark seemed so unconnected with what had gone before that Lance looked at her in a puzzled fashion.
“Hospital nurses are used to handling drugs,” said Miss Ramsbottom.
Lance looked doubtful.
“This stuff—taxine—is it ever used in medicine?”
“They get it from yewberries, I gather. Children eat yewberries sometimes,” said Miss Ramsbottom. “Makes them very ill, too. I remember a case when I was a child. It made a great impression on me. I never forgot it. Things you remember come in useful sometimes.”
Lance raised his head sharply and stared at her.
“Natural affection is one thing,” said Miss Ramsbottom, “and I hope I’ve got as much of it as anyone. But I won’t stand for wickedness. Wickedness has to be destroyed.”
II
“Went off without a word to me,” said Mrs. Crump, raising her red, wrathful face from the pastry she was now rolling out on the board. “Slipped out without a word to anybody. Sly, that’s what it is. Sly! Afraid she’d be stopped, and I would have stopped her if I’d caught her! The idea! There’s the master dead, Mr. Lance coming home that hasn’t been home for years and I said to Crump, I said: ‘Day out or no day out, I know my duty. There’s not going to be cold supper tonight as is usual on a Thursday, but a proper dinner. A gentleman coming home from abroad with his wife, what was formerly married in the aristocracy, things must be properly done.’ You know me, miss, you know I take a pride in my work.”
Mary Dove, the recipient of these confidences, nodded her head gently.
“And what does Crump say?” Mrs. Crump’s voice rose angrily. “ ‘It’s my day off and I’m goin’ off,’ that’s what he says. ‘And a fig for the aristocracy,’ he says. No pride in his work, Crump hasn’t. So off he goes and I tell Gladys she’ll have to manage alone tonight. She just says: ‘All right, Mrs.
Crump,’ then, when my back’s turned out she sneaks. It wasn’t her day out, anyway. Friday’s her day. How we’re going to manage now, I don’t know! Thank goodness Mr. Lance hasn’t brought his wife here with him today.”
“We shall manage, Mrs. Crump,” Mary’s voice was both soothing and authoritative, “if we just simplify the menu a little.” She outlined a few suggestions. Mrs. Crump nodded unwilling acquiescence. “I shall be able to serve that quite easily,” Mary concluded.
“You mean you’ll wait at table yourself, miss?” Mrs. Crump sounded doubtful.
“If Gladys doesn’t come back in time.”
“She won’t come back,” said Mrs. Crump. “Gallivanting off, wasting her money somewhere in the shops. She’s got a young man, you know, miss, though you wouldn’t think it to look at her. Albert his name is. Going to get married next spring, so she tells me. Don’t know what the married state’s like, these girls don’t. What I’ve been through with Crump.” She sighed, then said in an ordinary voice: “What about tea, miss. Who’s going to clear it away and wash it up?”
“I’ll do that,” said Mary. “I’ll go and do it now.”
The lights had not been turned on in the drawing room though Adele Fortescue was still sitting on the sofa behind the tea tray.
“Shall I switch the lights on, Mrs. Fortescue?” Mary asked. Adele did not answer.
Mary switched on the lights and went across to the window, where she pulled the curtains across. It was only then that she turned her head and saw the face of the woman who had sagged back against the cushions. A half-eaten scone spread with honey was beside her and her tea cup was still half full. Death had come to Adele Fortescue suddenly and swiftly.
III
“Well?” demanded Inspector Neele impatiently.
The doctor said promptly:
“Cyanide—potassium cyanide probably—in the tea.”
“Cyanide,” muttered Neele.
The doctor looked at him with slight curiosity.
“You’re taking this hard—any special reason—”
“She was cast as a murderess,” said Neele.
“And she turns out to be a victim. Hm. You’ll have to think again, won’t you?”
Neele nodded. His face was bitter and his jaw was grimly set.
Poisoned! Right under his nose. Taxine in Rex Fortescue’s breakfast coffee, cyanide in Adele Fortescue’s tea. Still an intimate family affair. Or so it seemed.
Adele Fortescue, Jennifer Fortescue, Elaine Fortescue and the newly arrived Lance Fortescue had had tea together in the library. Lance had gone up to see Miss Ramsbottom, Jennifer had gone to her own sitting room to write letters, Elaine had been the last to leave the library. According to her Adele had then been in perfect health and had just been pouring herself out a last cup of tea.
A last cup of tea! Yes, it had indeed been her last cup of tea.
And after that a blank twenty minutes, perhaps, until Mary Dove had come into the room and discovered the body.
And during that twenty minutes—
Inspector Neele swore to himself and went out into the kitchen.
Sitting in a chair by the kitchen table, the vast figure of Mrs. Crump, her belligerence pricked like a balloon, hardly stirred as he came in.
“Where’s that girl? Has she come back yet?”
“Gladys? No—she’s not back—Won’t be, I suspect, until eleven o’clock.”
“She made the tea, you say, and took it in.”
“I didn’t touch it, sir, as God’s my witness. And what’s more I don’t believe Gladys did anything she shouldn’t. She wouldn’t do a thing like that—not Gladys. She’s a good enough girl, sir—a bit foolish like, that’s all—not wicked.”
No, Neele did not think that Gladys was wicked. He did not think that Gladys was a poisoner. And in any case the cyanide had not been in the teapot.
“But what made her go off suddenly—like this? It wasn’t her day out, you say.”
“No, sir, tomorrow’s her day out.”
“Does Crump—”
Mrs. Crump’s belligerence suddenly revived. Her voice rose wrathfully.
“Don’t you go fastening anything on Crump. Crump’s out of it. He went off at three o’clock—and thankful I am now that he did. He’s as much out of it as Mr. Percival himself.”
Percival Fortescue had only just returned from London—to be greeted by the astounding news of this second tragedy.
“I wasn’t accusing Crump,” said Neele mildly. “I just wondered if he knew anything about Gladys’s plans.”
“She had her best nylons on,” said Mrs. Crump. “She was up to something. Don’t tell me! Didn’t cut any sandwiches for tea, either. Oh yes, she was up to something. I’ll give her a piece of my mind when she comes back.”
When she comes back—
A faint uneasiness possessed Neele. To shake it off he went upstairs to Adele Fortescue’s bedroom. A lavish apartment—all rose brocade hanging and a vast gilt bed. On one side of the room was a door into a mirror-lined bathroom with a sunk orchid-pink porcelain bath. Beyond the bathroom, reached by a communicating door, was Rex Fortescue’s dressing room. Neele went back into Adele’s bedroom, and through the door on the farther side of the room into her sitting room.
The room was furnished in Empire style with a rose pile carpet. Neele only gave it a cursory glance for that particular room had had his close attention on the preceding day—with special attention paid to the small elegant desk.
Now, however, he stiffened to sudden attention. On the centre of the rose pile carpet was a small piece of caked mud.
Neele went over to it and picked it up. The mud was still damp.
He looked round—there were no footprints visible—only this one isolated fragment of wet earth.
IV
Inspector Neele looked round the bedroom that belonged to Gladys Martin. It was past eleven o’clock—Crump had come in half an hour ago—but there was still no sign of Gladys. Inspector Neele looked round him. Whatever Gladys’s training had been, her own natural instincts were slovenly. The bed, Inspector Neele judged, was seldom made, the windows seldom opened. Gladys’s personal habits, however, were not his immediate concern. Instead, he went carefully through her possessions.
They consisted for the most part of cheap and rather pathetic finery. There was little that was durable or of good quality. The elderly Ellen, whom he had called upon to assist him, had not been helpful. She didn’t know what clothes Gladys had or hadn’t. She couldn’t say what, if anything, was missing. He turned from the clothes and the underclothes to the contents of the chest of drawers. There Gladys kept her treasures. There were picture postcards and newspaper cuttings, knitting patterns, hints on beauty culture, dressmaking and fashion advice.
Inspector Neele sorted them neatly into various categories. The picture postcards consisted mainly of views of various places where he presumed Gladys had spent her holidays. Amongst them were three picture postcards signed “Bert.” Bert, he took to be the “young man” referred to by Mrs. Crump. The first postcard said—in an illiterate hand: “All the best. Missing you a lot. Yours ever, Bert.” The second said: “Lots of nice-looking girls here but not one that’s a patch on you. Be seeing you soon. Don’t forget our date. And remember after that—it’s thumbs up and living happy ever after.” The third said merely: “Don’t forget. I’m trusting you. Love, B.”
Next, Neele looked through the newspaper cuttings and sorted them into three piles. There were the dressmaking and beauty hints, there were items about cinema stars to which Gladys had appeared greatly addicted and she had also, it appeared, been attracted by the latest marvels of science. There were cuttings about flying saucers, about secret weapons, about truth drugs used by Russians, and claims for fantastic drugs discovered by American doctors. All the witchcraft, so Neele thought, of our twentieth century. But in all the contents of the room there was nothing to give him a clue to her disappearance. She had kept no diary, n
ot that he had expected that. It was a remote possibility. There was no unfinished letter, no record at all of anything she might have seen in the house which could have had a bearing on Rex Fortescue’s death. Whatever Gladys had seen, whatever Gladys had known, there was no record of it. It would still have to be guesswork why the second tea tray had been left in the hall, and Gladys herself had so suddenly vanished.
Sighing, Neele left the room, shutting the door behind him.
As he prepared to descend the small winding stairs he heard a noise of running feet coming along the landing below.
The agitated face of Sergeant Hay looked up at him from the bottom of the stairs. Sergeant Hay was panting a little.
“Sir,” he said urgently. “Sir! We’ve found her—”
“Found her?”
“It was the housemaid, sir—Ellen—remembered as she hadn’t brought the clothes in from where they were hanging on the line—just round the corner from the back door. So she went out with a torch to take them in and she almost fell over the body—the girl’s body—strangled, she was, with a stocking round her throat—been dead for hours, I’d say. And, sir, it’s a wicked kind of joke—there was a clothes-peg clipped on her nose—”
Chapter Thirteen
An elderly lady travelling by train had bought three morning papers, and each of them as she finished it, folded it and laid it aside, showed the same headline. It was no longer a question now of a small paragraph hidden away in the corner of the papers. There were headlines with flaring announcements of Triple Tragedy at Yewtree Lodge.
The old lady sat very upright, looking out of the window of the train, her lips pursed together, an expression of distress and disapproval on her pink and white wrinkled face. Miss Marple had left St. Mary Mead by the early train, changing at the junction and going on to London, where she took a Circle train to another London terminus and thence on to Baydon Heath.
At the station she signalled a taxi and asked to be taken to Yewtree Lodge. So charming, so innocent, such a fluffy and pink and white old lady was Miss Marple that she gained admittance to what was now practically a fortress in a state of siege far more easily than could have been believed possible. Though an army of reporters and photographers were being kept at bay by the police, Miss Marple was allowed to drive in without question, so impossible would it have been to believe that she was anyone but an elderly relative of the family.
A Pocket Full of Rye: A Miss Marple Mystery (Miss Marple Mysteries) Page 8