"She hadn't got the spirit to stand up to him?"
"She had. It was the young man who ratted. A question of money yet again, I fancy. Elaine is not particularly attractive, poor dear."
"And the other son?"
"I've never seen him. He's attractive, by all accounts, and a thoroughly bad lot. Some little matter of a forged check in the past. He lives in East Africa."
"And is estranged from his father."
"Yes, Mr. Fortescue couldn't cut him off with a shilling because he'd already made him a junior partner in the, firm, but he's held no communication with him for years, and in fact if Lance was ever mentioned, he used to say, 'Don't talk to me of that rascal. He's no son of mine." All the same'
"Yes, Miss Dove?"
Mary said slowly, "All the same, I shouldn't be surprised if old Fortescue hadn't been planning to get him back here."
"What makes you think that?"
"Because, about a month ago, old Fortescue had a terrific row with Percival-he found out something that Percival had been doing behind his back-I don't know what it was-and he was absolutely furious. Percival suddenly stopped being the white-headed boy. He's been quite different lately, too."
"Mr. Fortescue was quite different?"
"No. I meant Percival. He's gone about looking worried to death."
"Now, what about servants? You've already described the Crumps. Who else is there?"
"Gladys Martin is the parlormaid or waitress, as they like to call themselves nowadays. She does the downstairs rooms, lays the tables, clears away and helps Crump wait at table. Quite a decent sort of girl, but very nearly half-witted. The adenoidal type."
Neele nodded.
'The housemaid is Ellen Curtis. Elderly, very crabbed, and very cross, but has been in good service and is a first class housemaid. The rest is outside held women who come in."
"And those are the oily people living here?"
"There's old Miss Ramsbottom."
"Who is she?"
"Mr. Fortescue's sister-in-law-his first wife's sister. His wife was a good deal older than he was and her sister again is a good deal older than she-which makes her well over seventy. She has a room of her own on the second floor-does her own cooking and, all that, with just a woman coming in to clean. She's rather eccentric and she never liked her brother-in-law, but she came here while her sister was alive and stayed on when she died. Adele. Fortescue never bothered about her much. She's quite a character, though, is Aunt Effie."
"And that is all."
'That's all."
"So we come to you, Miss Dove."
"You want particulars? I'm an orphan. I took a secretarial course at the St. Alfred's Secretarial College. I took a job as shorthand typist, left it and took another, decided I was in the wrong racket, and started on my present career. I have been with three different employers. After about a year or eighteen months, I get tired of a particular place and move on. I have been at Yewtree Lodge just over a year. I will type out the names and addresses of my various employers and give them, with a copy of my references, to -Sergeant-Hay, is it? Will that be satisfactory?"
"Perfectly, Miss Dove." Neele was silent for a moment, enjoying a mental image of Miss Dove tampering with Mr. Fortescue's breakfast. His mind went back further, and he saw her methodically gathering yew bellies in a little, basket. With a sigh he returned to the present and reality. "Now, I would like to see the girl—er, Gladys--and then the housemaid, Ellen." He added as he rose, "By the way, Miss Dove, can you give me any idea why Mr. Fortescue would be carrying loose grain in his pocket?"
"Grain?" She stared at him with what appeared to be genuine surprise.
"Yes, grain. Does that suggest something to you, Miss Dove?"
"Nothing at all."
:'Who looked after his clothes?"
'Crump did.’
"I see. Did Mr. Fortescue and Mrs. Fortescue occupy the same bedroom?"
"Yes. He had a dressing room and bath, of course, and so did she. . ." Mary glanced down at her wrist watch. "I really think that she ought to be back very soon now."
The Inspector had risen. He said in a pleasant voice:
"Do you know one thing, Miss Dove? It strikes me as very odd that even though there are three golf courses in the neighborhood, it has yet not been possible to find Mrs. Fortescue on one of them before now?"
"It would not be so odd, Inspector, if she did not actually happen to be playing golf at all."
Mary's voice was dry. The Inspector said sharply: :'I was distinctly informed that she was playing gaff."
'She took her golf clubs and announced her intention of doing so. She was driving her own car, of course."
He looked at her steadily, perceiving the inference.
'Whom was she playing with? Do you know?"
'I think it possible that it might be Mr. Vivian Dubois."
Neele contented himself by saying, "I see."
"I'll send Gladys in to you. She'll probably be scared to death." Mary paused for a moment by the door, then she said:
"I should hardly advise you to go too much by all I've told you. I'm a malicious creature."
She went out. Inspector Neele looked at the closed door and wondered. Whether actuated by malice or not, what she had told him could not fail to be suggestive. If Rex Fortescue had been deliberately poisoned, and it seemed almost certain that that was the case, then the setup at Yewtree Lodge seemed highly promising. Motives appeared to be lying thick on the ground.
Chapter Five
The girl who entered the room with obvious unwillingness was an unattractive, frightened-looking girl, who managed to look sluttish in spite of being tall and smartly dressed in a claret-colored uniform.
She said at once, fixing imploring eyes upon him:
"I didn't do anything. I didn't really. I don't know anything about it."
'That's all right," said Neele heartily. His voice had changed slightly. It sounded more cheerful and a good deal commoner in intonation. He wanted to put the frightened rabbit, Gladys, at her ease.
"Sit down here," he went on. "I just want to know about breakfast this morning."
:'l didn't do anything at all."
'Well, you laid the breakfast, didn't you?"
" Yes, I did that." Even that admission came unwillingly.
She looked both guilty and terrified, but Inspector Neele was used to witnesses who looked like that. He went on cheerfully, trying to put her at her ease, asking questions: Who had come down first? And who next?
Elaine Fortescue had been the fast down to breakfast. She'd come in just as Cramp was bringing in the coffeepot. Mrs. Fortescue was down next, and then Mrs. Val, and the master last. They waited on themselves, The tea and coffee and the hot dishes were all on hot plates on the sideboard.
He learnt little of importance from her that he did not know already. The food and drink were as Mary Dove had described them. The master and Mrs. Fortescue and Miss Elaine took coffee and Mr. Val took tea. Everything had been quite as usual.
Neele questioned her about herself and here she answered more readily. She'd been in the NAAFI, a sort of USO called Navy, Army, and Air Forces Institute, and after that in a café at Eastbourne. Then she thought she'd like to try private service and had come to Yewtree, Lodge last September. She'd been there two months.
"And you like it?"
"Well, it's all right, I suppose." She added, "It's not so hard on your feet, but you don't get so much freedom. . ."
"Tell me about Mr. Fortescue's clothes-his suits. Who looked after them? Brushed them and all that?"
Gladys looked faintly resentful. "Mr. Crump's supposed to. But half the time he makes me do it."
"Who brushed and pressed the suit Mr. Fortescue had on today?"
"I don't remember which one he wore. He's got ever so many."
"Have you ever found grain in the pocket of one of his suits?"
"Grain?" She looked puzzled.
"Rye, to be exact."
"Rye? That's bread, isn't it? A sort of black bread-got a nasty taste, I always think."
"That's bread made from rye. Rye is the grain itself.
There was some found in the pocket of your master's coat."
"In his coat pocket?"
"Yes. Do you know how it got there?"
"Couldn't say, I'm sure. I never saw any."
He could get no more from her. For a moment or two he wondered if she knew more about the matter than she was willing to admit. She certainly seemed embarrassed and on the defensive, but on the whole he put it down to a natural fear of the police.
When he finally dismissed her, she asked:
"It's really true, is it? He's dead?"
"Yes, he's dead."
"Very sudden, wasn't it? They said when they rang up from the office that he'd had a kind of fit."
"Yes-it was a kind of fit."
Gladys said, "A girl I used to know had fits. Come on any time, they did. Used to scare me."
For the moment this reminiscence seemed to overcome her suspicions.
Inspector Neele made his way to the kitchen.
His reception was immediate and alarming. A woman of vast proportions, with a red face and armed with a rolling pin, stepped towards him in a menacing fashion.
"Police, indeed," she said. "Coming here and saying my cooking's poisoned the master. Nothing of the kind, I'd have you know. Anything I've sent in to the dining room has been just what it should be. Coming here and saying I poisoned the master. I'll have the law on you, police or no police. No bad food's ever been served in this house."
It was some time before Inspector Neele could appease the irate artist. Sergeant Hay looked in grinning from the pantry, and Inspector Neele gathered that he had already run the gantlet of Mrs. Crump's wrath.
The scene was terminated by the ringing of the telephone.
Neele went out into the hall to find Mary Dove taking the call. She was writing down a message on a pad. Turning her head over her shoulder, she said, "It's a telegram."
The call concluded, she replaced the receiver and handed the pad on which she had been writing to the Inspector. The place of origin was Paris and the message ran as follows:
Fortescue Yewtree Lodge Baydon Heath Surrey. Sorry your letter delayed. Will be with you tomorrow about teatime. Shall expect roast veal for dinner. Lance.
Inspector Neele raised his eyebrows.
"So the Prodigal Son had been summoned home," he said.
Chapter Six
AT THE MOMENT when Rex Fortescue had been g his last cup of tea, Lance Fortescue and his wife had been sitting under the trees on the Champs Elysees watching the people walking past.
"It's all very well to say 'describe him,' Pat. I'm a rotten hand at descriptions. What do you want to know? The Guvnor's a bit of an old crook, you know. But you wouldn’t mind that? You must be used to that more or less."
"Oh yes," said Pat. "Yes, as you say, I'm acclimatized."
She tried to keep a certain forlornness out of her voice. Perhaps, she reflected, the whole world was really crooked, or was it just that she herself had been unfortunate?
She was a tall, long-legged girl, not beautiful but with a charm that was made up of vitality and a warm-hearted personality. She moved welt and bad lovely, gleaming chestnut-brown hair. Perhaps, from a long association with horses, she had acquired the look of a thoroughbred filly.
Crookedness in the racing world she knew about. Now, it seemed she was to encounter crookedness in the financial world. Though for all that, it seemed that her father-in-law whom she had not yet met, was, as far as the law was concerned, a pillar of rectitude. All these people who went about boasting of "smart work" were the same: technically they always managed to be within the law. Yet it seemed to her that her Lance, whom she loved, and who had admittedly strayed outside the ringed fence in earlier days, bad an honesty that these successful practitioners of the crooked lacked.
"I don't mean," said Lance, "that he's a swindler, not anything like that. But he knows how to put over a fast one."
"Sometimes," said Pat, "I feel I hate people who put over fast ones." She added, "You're fond of him." It was a statement, not a question.
Lance considered it for a moment, and then said in a surprised kind of voice:
"Do you know, darling, I believe I am."
Pat laughed. He turned his head to look at her. His eyes narrowed. What a darling she was! He loved her. The whole thing was worth it for her sake.
"In a way, you know," he said, "it's hell going back. City life. Home on the 5:18. It's not my kind of life. I'm far more at home among the down-and-outs. But one's got to settle down sometime, I suppose. And with you to hold my hand, the process may even be quite a pleasant one. And since the old boy has come round, one ought to take advantage of it. I must say I was surprised when I got his letter. . . . Percival, of all people, blotting his copybook. Percival, the good little boy. Mind you, Percy was always sly. Yes, he was always sly."
"I don't think," said Patricia Fortescue, "that I'm going to like your brother Percival."
"Don't let me put you against him. Percy and I never got on-that's all there is to it. I blew my pocket money, he saved his. I had disreputable but entertaining friends, Percy made what's called 'worthwhile contacts." Poles apart we were, he and I. I always thought him a poor fish, and sometimes, you know, I think he almost hated me. I don't know why, exactly . . ."
"I think I can see why."
"Can you, darling? You're so brainy. You know, I've always wondered-it's a fantastic thing to say-but-"
"Well? Say it."
"I've wondered if it wasn't Percival who was behind that check business-you know, when the old man lucked me out-and was mad that he'd given me a share in the firm and so couldn't disinherit me! Because the queer thing was that I never forged that check-though of course nobody would believe that after that time I swiped funds out of the till and put it on a horse. I was dead sure I could put it back, and anyway it was my own cash, in a manner of speaking. But that check business-no. I don't know why I've got the ridiculous idea that Percival did that, but I have, somehow."
"But it wouldn't have done him any good. It was paid into your account."
"I know. So it doesn't make sense, does it?"
Pat tamed sharply towards him. "You mean, he did it to get you chucked out of the firm?"
"I wondered. Oh well, it's a rotten thing to say. Forget it. I wonder what old Percy will say when he sees the Prodigal returned. Those pale, boiled-gooseberry eyes of his WW pop right out of his head!"
"Does he know you are coming?"
"I shouldn't be surprised if he didn't know a damned thing! The old man's got rather a funny sense of humor, you know."
"But what has your brother done to upset your father so much?"
"That's what I'd like to know. Something must have made the old man livid. Writing off to me the way he did."
"When was it you got his first letter.?"
"Must be four-no, five months ago. A cagey letter, but a distinct holding out of the olive branch. 'Your elder brother has proved himself unsatisfactory in many ways." 'You seem to have sown your wild oats and settled down." 'I can promise you that it will be well worth your while financially." 'Shall welcome you and your wife." You know, darling, I think my marrying you had a lot to do with it. The old boy was impressed that I'd married into a class above me."
Pat laughed.
"What? Into the aristocratic riffraff?"
He grinned. "That's right. But riffraff didn't register and aristocracy did. You should see Percival's wife. She's the kind who says 'Pass the preserves, please' and talks about a postage stamp."
Pat did not laugh. She was considering the women of the family into which she had married. It was a point of view which Lance had not taken into account.
"And your sister?" she asked.
"Elaine? Oh, she's all right. She was pretty young when I left home. Sort of an earnest girl, but proba
bly she's grown out of that. Very intense over things."
It did not sound very reassuring. Pat said, "She never wrote to you-after you went away?"
A Pocket Full of Rye Page 4