The Complete Miss Marple Collection

by Agatha Christie

  “She was nice about it then?”

  “Not exactly nice. I mean, she said—”

  “Yes, what else did she say?”

  Again Elaine flushed.

  “Oh, something stupid about my being able to do a lot better for myself now. It was the sort of thing Adele would say.”

  “Ah, well,” said Inspector Neele soothingly, “relations say these sort of things.”

  “Yes, yes, they do. But people often find it difficult to—to appreciate Gerald properly. He’s an intellectual, you see, and he’s got a lot of unconventional and progressive ideas that people don’t like.”

  “That’s why he didn’t get on with your father?”

  Elaine flushed hotly.

  “Father was very prejudiced and unjust. He hurt Gerald’s feelings. In fact, Gerald was so upset by my father’s attitude that he went off and I didn’t hear from him for weeks.”

  And probably wouldn’t have heard from him now if your father hadn’t died and left you a packet of money, Inspector Neele thought. Aloud he said:

  “Was there any more conversation between you and Mrs. Fortescue?”

  “No. No, I don’t think so.”

  “And that was about twenty-five past five and Mrs. Fortescue was found dead at five minutes to six. You didn’t return to the room during that half hour?”

  “No.”

  “What were you doing?”

  “I—I went out for a short walk.”

  “To the Golf Hotel?”

  “I—well, yes, but Gerald wasn’t in.”

  Inspector Neele said “I see” again, but this time with a rather dismissive effect. Elaine Fortescue got up and said:

  “Is that all?”

  “That’s all, thank you, Miss Fortescue.”

  As she got up to go, Neele said casually:

  “You can’t tell me anything about blackbirds, can you?”

  She stared at him.

  “Blackbirds? You mean the ones in the pie?”

  They would be in the pie, the inspector thought to himself. He merely said, “When was this?”

  “Oh! Three or four months ago—and there were some on Father’s desk, too. He was furious—”

  “Furious, was he? Did he ask a lot of questions?”

  “Yes—of course—but we couldn’t find out who put them there.”

  “Have you any idea why he was so angry?”

  “Well—it was rather a horrid thing to do, wasn’t it?”

  Neele looked thoughtfully at her—but he did not see any signs of evasion in her face. He said:

  “Oh, just one more thing, Miss Fortescue. Do you know if your stepmother made a will at any time?”

  “I’ve no idea—I—suppose so. People usually do, don’t they?”

  “They should do—but it doesn’t always follow. Have you made a will yourself, Miss Fortescue?”

  “No—no—I haven’t—up to now I haven’t had anything to leave—now, of course—”

  He saw the realization of the changed position come into her eyes.

  “Yes,” he said. “Fifty thousand pounds is quite a responsibility—

  it changes a lot of things, Miss Fortescue.”

  II

  For some minutes after Elaine Fortescue left the room, Inspector Neele sat staring in front of him thoughtfully. He had, indeed, new food for thought. Mary Dove’s statement that she had seen a man in the garden at approximately 4:35 opened up certain new possibilities. That is, of course, if Mary Dove was speaking the truth. It was never Inspector Neele’s habit to assume that anyone was speaking the truth. But, examine her statement as he might, he could see no real reason why she should have lied. He was inclined to think that Mary Dove was speaking the truth when she spoke of having seen a man in the garden. It was quite clear that that man could not have been Lancelot Fortescue, although her reason for assuming that it was he was quite natural under the circumstances. It had not been Lancelot Fortescue, but it had been a man about the height and build of Lancelot Fortescue, and if there had been a man in the garden at that particular time, moreover a man moving furtively, as it seemed, to judge from the way he had crept behind the yew hedges, then that certainly opened up a line of thought.

  Added to this statement of hers, there had been the further statement that she had heard someone moving about upstairs. That, in its turn, tied up with something else. The small piece of mud he had found on the floor of Adele Fortescue’s boudoir. Inspector Neele’s mind dwelt on the small dainty desk in that room. Pretty little sham antique with a rather obvious secret drawer in it. There had been three letters in that drawer, letters written by Vivian Dubois to Adele Fortescue. A great many love letters of one kind or another had passed through Inspector Neele’s hands in the course of his career. He was acquainted with passionate letters, foolish letters, sentimental letters and nagging letters. There had also been cautious letters. Inspector Neele was inclined to classify these three as of the latter kind. Even if read in the divorce court, they could pass as inspired by a merely platonic friendship. Though in this case: “Platonic friendship my foot!” thought the inspector inelegantly. Neele, when he had found the letters, had sent them up at once to the Yard since at that time the main question was whether the Public Prosecutor’s office thought that there was sufficient evidence to proceed with the case against Adele Fortescue or Adele Fortescue and Vivian Dubois together. Everything had pointed towards Rex Fortescue having been poisoned by his wife with or without her lover’s connivance. These letters, though cautious, made it fairly clear that Vivian Dubois was her lover, but there had not been in the wording, so far as Inspector Neele could see, any signs of incitement to crime. There might have been incitement of a spoken kind, but Vivian Dubois would be far too cautious to put anything of that kind down on paper.

  Inspector Neele surmised accurately that Vivian Dubois had asked Adele Fortescue to destroy his letters and that Adele Fortescue had told him she had done so.

  Well, now they had two more deaths on their hands. And that meant, or should mean, that Adele Fortescue had not killed her husband.

  Unless, that is—Inspector Neele considered a new hypothesis—Adele Fortescue had wanted to marry Vivian Dubois and Vivian Dubois had wanted, not Adele Fortescue, but Adele Fortescue’s hundred thousand pounds which would come to her on the death of her husband. He had assumed, perhaps, that Rex Fortescue’s death would be put down to natural causes. Some kind of seizure or stroke. After all, everybody seemed to be worried over Rex Fortescue’s health during the last year. (Parenthetically, Inspector Neele said to himself that he must look into that question. He had a subconscious feeling that it might be important in someway.) To continue, Rex Fortescue’s death had not gone according to plan. It had been diagnosed without loss of time as poisoning, and the correct poison named.

  Supposing that Adele Fortescue and Vivian Dubois had been guilty, what state would they be in then? Vivian Dubois would have been scared and Adele Fortescue would have lost her head. She might have done or said foolish things. She might have rung up Dubois on the telephone, talking indiscreetly in a way that he would have realized might have been overheard in Yewtree Lodge. What would Vivian Dubois have done next?

  It was early as yet to try and answer that question, but Inspector Neele proposed very shortly to make inquiries at the Golf Hotel as to whether Dubois had been in or out of the hotel between the hours of 4:15 and 6 o’clock. Vivian Dubois was tall and dark like Lance Fortescue. He might have slipped through the garden to the side door, made his way upstairs and then what? Looked for the letters and found them gone? Waited there, perhaps, till the coast was clear, then come down into the library when tea was over and Adele Fortescue was alone?

  But all this was going too fast—

  Neele had questioned Mary Dove and Elaine Fortescue; he must see now what Percival Fortescue’s wife had to say.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I

  Inspector Neele found Mrs. Percival in her own sitting
room upstairs, writing letters. She got up rather nervously when he came in.

  “Is there anything—what—are there—”

  “Please sit down, Mrs. Fortescue. There are only just a few more questions I would like to ask you.”

  “Oh, yes. Yes, of course, Inspector. It’s all so dreadful, isn’t it? So very dreadful.”

  She sat down rather nervously in an armchair. Inspector Neele sat down in the small, straight chair near her. He studied her rather more carefully than he had done heretofore. In someways a mediocre type of woman, he thought—and thought also that she was not very happy. Restless, unsatisfied, limited in mental outlook, yet he thought she might have been efficient and skilled in her own profession of hospital nurse. Though she had achieved leisure by her marriage with a well-to-do man, leisure had not satisfied her. She bought clothes, read novels and ate sweets, but he remembered her avid excitement on the night of Rex Fortescue’s death, and he saw in it not so much a ghoulish satisfaction but rather a revelation of the arid deserts of boredom which encompassed her life. Her eyelids fluttered and fell before his searching glance. They gave her the appearance of being both nervous and guilty, but he could not be sure that that was really the case.

  “I’m afraid,” he said soothingly, “we have to ask people questions again and again. It must be very tiresome for you all. I do appreciate that, but so much hangs, you understand, on the exact timing of events. You came down to tea rather late, I understand? In fact, Miss Dove came up and fetched you.”

  “Yes. Yes, she did. She came and said tea was in. I had no idea it was so late. I’d been writing letters.”

  Inspector Neele just glanced over at the writing desk.

  “I see,” he said. “Somehow or other, I thought you’d been out for a walk.”

  “Did she say so? Yes—now I believe you’re right. I had been writing letters; then it was so stuffy and my head ached so I went out and—er—went for a walk. Only round the garden.”

  “I see. You didn’t meet anyone?”

  “Meet anyone?” She stared at him. “What do you mean?”

  “I just wondered if you’d seen anybody or anybody had seen you during this walk of yours.”

  “I saw the gardener in the distance, that’s all.” She was looking at him suspiciously.

  “Then you came in, came up here to your room and you were just taking your things off when Miss Dove came to tell you that tea was ready?”

  “Yes. Yes, and so I came down.”

  “And who was there?”

  “Adele and Elaine, and a minute or two later Lance arrived. My brother-in-law, you know. The one who’s come back from Kenya.”

  “And then you all had tea?”

  “Yes, we had tea. Then Lance went up to see Aunt Effie and I came up here to finish my letters. I left Elaine there with Adele.”

  He nodded reassuringly.

  “Yes. Miss Fortescue seems to have been with Mrs. Fortescue for quite five or ten minutes after you left. Your husband hadn’t come home yet?”

  “Oh no. Percy—Val—didn’t get home until about half past six or seven. He’d been kept up in town.”

  “He came back by train?”

  “Yes. He took a taxi from the station.”

  “Was it unusual for him to come back by train?”

  “He does sometimes. Not very often. I think he’d been to places in the city where it’s rather difficult to park the car. It was easier for him to take a train home from Cannon Street.”

  “I see,” said Inspector Neele. He went on: “I asked your husband if Mrs. Fortescue had made a will before she died. He said he thought not. I suppose you don’t happen to have any idea?”

  To his surprise Jennifer Fortescue nodded vigorously.

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “Adele made a will. She told me so.”

  “Indeed! When was this?”

  “Oh, it wasn’t very long ago. About a month ago, I think.”

  “That’s very interesting,” said Inspector Neele.

  Mrs. Percival leant forward eagerly. Her face now was all animation. She clearly enjoyed exhibiting her superior knowledge.

  “Val didn’t know about it,” she said. “Nobody knew. It just happened that I found out about it. I was in the street. I had just come out of the stationer’s, then I saw Adele coming out of the solicitor’s office. Ansell and Worrall’s, you know. In the High Street.”

  “Ah,” said Neele, “the local solicitors?”

  “Yes. And I said to Adele: ‘Whatever have you been doing there?’ I said. And she laughed and said: ‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ And then as we walked along together she said: ‘I’ll tell you, Jennifer. I’ve been making my will.’ ‘Well,’ I said, ‘why are you doing that, Adele, you’re not ill or anything, are you?’ And she said no, of course she wasn’t ill. She’d never felt better. But everyone ought to make a will. She said she wasn’t going to those stuck-up family solicitors in London, Mr. Billingsley. She said the old sneak would go round and tell the family. ‘No,’ she said, ‘my will’s my own business, Jennifer, and I’ll make it my own way and nobody’s going to know about it.’ ‘Well, Adele,’ I said, ‘I shan’t tell anybody.’ She said: ‘It doesn’t matter if you do. You won’t know what’s in it.’ But I didn’t tell anyone. No, not even Percy. I do think women ought to stick together, don’t you, Inspector Neele?”

  “I’m sure that’s a very nice feeling on your part, Mrs. Fortescue,” said Inspector Neele diplomatically.

  “I’m sure I’m never ill-natured,” said Jennifer. “I didn’t particularly care for Adele, if you know what I mean. I always thought she was the kind of woman who would stick at nothing in order to get what she wanted. Now she’s dead, perhaps I misjudged her, poor soul.”

  “Well, thank you very much, Mrs. Fortescue, for being so helpful to me.”

  “You’re welcome, I’m sure. I’m only too glad to do anything I can. It’s all so very terrible, isn’t it? Who is the old lady who’s arrived this morning?”

  “She’s a Miss Marple. She very kindly came here to give us what information she could about the girl Gladys. It seems Gladys Martin was once in service with her.”

  “Really? How interesting.”

  “There’s one other thing, Mrs. Percival. Do you know anything about blackbirds?”

  Jennifer Fortescue started violently. She dropped her handbag on the floor and bent to pick it up.

  “Blackbirds, Inspector? Blackbirds? What kind of blackbirds?”

  Her voice was rather breathless. Smiling a little, Inspector, Neele said:

  “Just blackbirds. Alive or dead or even, shall we say, symbolical?”

  Jennifer Fortescue said sharply:

  “I don’t know what you mean. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You don’t know anything about blackbirds, then, Mrs. Fortescue?”

  She said slowly:

  “I suppose you mean the ones last summer in the pie. All very silly.”

  “There were some left on the library table, too, weren’t there?”

  “It was all a very silly practical joke. I don’t know who’s been talking to you about it. Mr. Fortescue, my father-in-law, was very much annoyed by it.”

  “Just annoyed? Nothing more?”

  “Oh. I see what you mean. Yes, I suppose—yes, it’s true. He asked us if there were any strangers about the place.”

  “Strangers!” Inspector Neele raised his eyebrows.

  “Well, that’s what he said,” said Mrs. Percival defensively.

  “Strangers,” repeated Inspector Neele thoughtfully. Then he asked: “Did he seem afraid in any way?”

  “Afraid? I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Nervous. About strangers, I mean.”

  “Yes. Yes, he did, rather. Of course I don’t remember very well. It was several months ago, you know. I don’t think it was anything except a silly practical joke. Crump perhaps. I really do think that Crump is a very unbalanced man, and I’
m perfectly certain that he drinks. He’s really very insolent in his manner sometimes. I’ve sometimes wondered if he could have had a grudge against Mr. Fortescue. Do you think that’s possible, Inspector?”

  “Anything’s possible,” said Inspector Neele and went away.

  II

  Percival Fortescue was in London, but Inspector Neele found Lancelot sitting with his wife in the library. They were playing chess together.

  “I don’t want to interrupt you,” said Neele, apologetically.

  “We’re only killing time, Inspector, aren’t we, Pat?”

  Pat nodded.

  “I expect you’ll think it’s rather a foolish question I’m asking you,” said Neele. “Do you know anything about blackbirds, Mr. Fortescue?”

  “Blackbirds?” Lance looked amused. “What kind of blackbirds? Do you mean genuine birds, or the slave trade?”

  Inspector Neele said with a sudden, disarming smile:

  “I’m not sure what I mean, Mr. Fortescue. It’s just that a mention of blackbirds has turned up.”

  “Good Lord.” Lancelot looked suddenly alert. “Not the old Blackbird Mine, I suppose?”

  Inspector Neele said sharply:

  “The Blackbird Mine? What was that?”

  Lance frowned in a puzzled fashion.

  “The trouble is, Inspector, that I can’t really remember much myself. I just have a vague idea about some shady transaction in my papa’s past. Something on the West Coast of Africa. Aunt Effie, I believe, once threw it in his teeth, but I can’t remember anything definite about it.”

  “Aunt Effie? That will be Miss Ramsbottom, won’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll go and ask her about it,” said Inspector Neele. He added ruefully: “She’s rather a formidable old lady, Mr. Fortescue. Always makes me feel quite nervous.”

  Lance laughed.

  “Yes. Aunt Effie is certainly a character, but she may be helpful to you, Inspector, if you get on the right side of her. Especially if you’re delving into the past. She’s got an excellent memory, she takes a positive pleasure in remembering anything that’s detrimental in any way.” He added thoughtfully: “There’s something else. I went up to see her, you know, soon after I got back here. Immediately after tea that day, as a matter of fact. And she was talking about Gladys. The maid who got killed. Not that we knew she was dead then, of course. But Aunt Effie was saying she was quite convinced that Gladys knew something that she hadn’t told the police.”