"I thought people never died from a first one."
"Poor old boy," said Lance. "I never thought I was particularly fond of him, but somehow, now that he's dead..."
"Of course you were fond of him."
"We haven't all got your nice nature, Pat. Oh well, it looks as though my luck's out again, doesn't it."
"Yes. It's odd that it should happen just now. Just when you were on the point of coming home."
He turned his head sharply towards her.
"Odd? What do you mean by odd, Pat?"
She looked at him with slight surprise.
"Well, a sort of coincidence."
"You mean that whatever I set out to do goes wrong?"
"No, darling, I didn't mean that. But there is such a thing as a run of bad luck."
"Yes, I suppose there is."
Pat said again, "I'm so sorry."
When they arrived at Heath Row and were waiting to disembark from the plane, an official of the air company called out in a clear voice:
"Is Mr. Lancelot Fortescue aboard?"
"Here," said Lance.
"Would you just step this way, Mr. Fortescue."
Lance and Pat followed him out of the plane, preceding the other passengers. As they passed a couple in the last seat, they heard the man whisper to his wife, "Well-known smugglers, I expect. Caught in the act."
"It's fantastic," said Lance. "Quite fantastic.- He stared across the table at Detective Inspector Neele.
Inspector Neele nodded his head sympathetically.
"Taxine-yew berries-the whole thing seems like some kind of melodrama. I daresay this sort of thing seems ordinary enough to you, Inspector. All in the day's work. But poisoning, in our family, seems wildly farfetched."
"You've no idea then at all," asked Inspector Neele, "who might have poisoned your father?"
"Good Lord, no. I expect the old man's made a lot of enemies in business, lots of people who'd like to skin him alive, do him down financially-all that sort of thing. But poisoning? Anyway, I wouldn't be in the know. I've been abroad for a good many years and have known very little of what's going on at home."
'That's really what I wanted to ask you about, Mr. Fortescue. I understand from your brother that there was an estrangement between you and your father which had lasted for many years. Would you like to tell me the circumstances that led to your coming home at this time?"
"Certainly, Inspector. I heard from my father, let me see, it must be about-yes, six months ago now. It was soon after my marriage. My father wrote and hinted that he would like to let bygones be bygones. He suggested that I should come home and enter the firm. He was rather vague in his terms and I wasn't really sure that I wanted to do what he asked. Anyway, the upshot was that I came over to England last-yes, last August, just about three months ago. I went down to see him at Yewtree Lodge and he made me, I must say, a very advantageous offer. I told him that I'd have to UM about it and I'd have to consult my wife. He quite understood that. I flew back to East Africa, talked it over with Pat. The upshot was that I decided to accept the old boy's offer. I had to wind up my affairs there, but I agreed to do so before the end of last month. I told him I would wire to him the date of my actual arrival in England."
Inspector Neele coughed.
"Your arrival back seems to have caused your brother some surprise."
Lance gave a sudden grin. His rather attractive face lit up with the spirit of pure mischief.
"Don't believe old Percy knew a thing about it," he said. "He was away on his holiday in Norway at the time. If you ask me, the old man picked that particular time on purpose. He was going behind Percy's back. In fact I've a very shrewd suspicion that my father's offer to me was actuated by the fact that he had a blazing row with poor old Percy—or Val as he prefers to be called. Val, I think, had been more or less trying to ran the old man. Well, the old man would never stand for anything of that kind. What the exact row was about I don't know, but he was furious. And I think he thought it a jolly good idea to get me there and thereby spike poor old Val. For one thing he never Eked Percy's wife much and he was rather pleased, in a snobbish kind of way, with my marriage. It would be just his idea of a good joke to get me home and suddenly confront Percy with the accomplished fact."
"How long were you at Yewtree Lodge on this occasion?"
"Oh, not more than an hour or two. He didn't ask me to stay the night. The whole idea, I'm sure, was a kind of secret offensive behind Percy's back. I don't think he even wanted the servants to report upon it. As I say, things were left that I'd think it over, talk about it to Pat and then write him my decision, which I did. I wrote giving him the approximate date of my arrival, and I finally sent him a telegram yesterday from Paris."
Inspector Neele nodded.
"A telegram which surprised your brother very much."
"I bet it did. However, as usual, Percy wins. I've arrived too late.
"Yes,:, said Inspector Neele thoughtfully, "you've arrived too late." He went on briskly, "On the occasion of your visit last August, did you meet any other members of the family?"
"My stepmother was there at tea."
"You had not met her previously?"
"No." He grinned suddenly. "The old boy certainly knew how to pick them. She must be thirty years younger than he, at least."
"You will excuse my asking, but did you resent your father's remarriage, or did your brother do so?"
Lance looked surprised.
"I certainly didn't, and I shouldn't think Percy did either. After ala our own mother died when we were about-oh, ten, twelve years old. What I'm really surprised at is that the old man didn't marry again before."
Inspector Neele murmured, "It may be considered taking rather a risk to marry a woman very much younger than yourself."
"Did my dear brother say that to you? It sounds rather like him. Percy is a great master of the art of insinuation. Is that the setup, Inspector? Is my stepmother suspected of poisoning my father?"
Inspector Neele's face became blank.
"It's early days to have any definite ideas about anything, Mr. Fortescue," he said pleasantly. "Now, may I ask you what your plans are?"
"Plans?" Lance considered. "I shall have to make new plans, I suppose. Where is the family? All down at Yewtree Lodge?"
"Yes.
"I'd better go down there straightaway." He turned to his wife. "You'd better go to a hotel, Pat."
She protested quickly. "No, no, Lance, I'll come with you."
"No, darling."
"But I want to."
"Really, I'd rather you didn't. Go and stay at the-oh, it's so long since I stayed in London-Barnes'. Barnes' Hotel used to be a nice, quiet sort of place. That's still going, I suppose?"
"Oh, yes, Mr. Fortescue."
"Right, Pat, I'll settle you in there if they've got a room, then I'll go on down to Yewtree Lodge."
,,But why can't I come with you, Lance?"
Lance's face took suddenly a rather grim line.
"Frankly, Pat, I'm not sure of my welcome. It was Father who invited me there, but Father's dead. I don't know whom the place belongs to now. Percy, I suppose, or perhaps Adele. Anyway, I'd like to see what reception I get before I bring you there. Besides-"
"Besides what?"
"I don't want to take you to a house where there's a poisoner at large."
"Oh, what nonsense."
Lance said firmly, "Where you're concerned, Pat, I'm taking no risks."
Chapter Eleven
MR. Dubois was annoyed. He tore Adele Fortescue's letter angrily across and threw it into the wastepaper basket. Then, with a sudden caution, he fished out the various pieces, struck a match and watched them burn to ashes. He muttered under his breath, "Why have women got to be such damned fools? Surely common prudence. . . ."
But then, Mr. Dubois reflected gloomily, women never had any prudence. Though he, had profited by this lack many a time, it annoyed him now. He himself had taken every precaution. If Mrs. Fortescue
rang up, they had instructions to say that he was out. Already Adele Fortescue had rung him up three times, and now she had written. On the whole, writing was far worse. He reflected for a moment or two, then went to the telephone.
"Can I speak to Mrs. Fortescue, please? Yes, Mr. Dubois." A minute or two later he heard her voice.
"Vivian, at last."
"Yes, yes, Adele, but be careful. Where are you speaking from?"
"From the library."
"Sure nobody's listening in, in the hall?"
"Why should they?"
"Well, you never know. Are the police still about the house?"
"No, they've gone for the moment, anyhow. Oh, Vivian dear, it's been awful."
"Yes, yes, it must have, I'm sure. But look here, Adele, we've got to be careful."
"Oh, of course, darling."
"Don't call me darling through the phone. It isn't safe."
"Aren't you being a little bit panicky, Vivian? After all, everybody says darling nowadays."
"Yes, yes, that's true enough. But listen. Don't telephone to me, and don't write."
"But Vivian-"
"It's just for the present, you understand. We must be careful."
"Oh. All right." Her voice sounded offended.
"Adele, listen. My letters to you. You did burn them, didn't you?"
There was a momentary hesitation before Adele Fortescue said, "Of course. I told you I was going to do so."
"That's all right, then. Well, I'll ring off now. Don't phone and don't write. You'll hear from me in good time."
He put the receiver back on its hook. He stroked his cheek thoughtfully. He didn't like that moment's hesitation. Had Adele burnt his letters? Women were all the same. They promised to burn things and then didn't.
Letters, Mr. Dubois thought to himself. Women always wanted you to write them letters. He himself tried to be careful, but sometimes one could not get out of it. What bad he said exactly in the few letters he had written to Adele Fortescue? It was the usual sort of gup, he thought, gloomily. But were there any special words-special phrases that the police could twist to make them say what they wanted them to say? He remembered the Edith Thompson case. His letters were innocent enough, he thought, but he could not be sure. His uneasiness grew. Even if Adele had not already burnt his letters, would she have the sense to burn them now? Or had the police already got hold of them? Where did she keep them, he wondered. Probably in the sitting-room of hers upstairs. That gimcrack little desk, probably. Sham antique Louis XIV. She had said something to him once about there being a secret drawer in it. Secret drawer! That would not fool the police long. But there were no police about the house now. She had said so. They had been there that morning, and now they had all gone away.
Up to now they had probably been busy looking for possible sources of poison in the food. They would not, he hoped, have got round to a room-by-room search of the house. Perhaps they would have to ask permission or get a search warrant to do that. It was possible that if he acted now, at once He visualized the house clearly in his mind's eye. It would be getting towards dusk. Tea would be brought in, either into the library or into the drawing-room. Everyone would be assembled downstairs with the servants would be having tea in the ' servants' hall. There would be no one upstairs on the first floor. Easy to walk up through the garden, skirting the yew hedges that provided such admirable cover. Then there was the little door at the side onto the terrace. That was never locked until just before bedtime. One could slip through there and, choosing one's moment, slip upstairs.
Vivian Dubois considered very carefully what it behooved him to do next. If Fortescue's death had been put down to a seizure or to a stroke, as surely it ought to have been, the position would be very different. As it was-Dubois murmured under his breath, "Better be safe than sorry."
Mary Dove came slowly down the big staircase. She paused a moment at the window on the half landing, from which she had seen Inspector Neele arrive on the preceding day. Now, as she looked out in the half-light, she noticed a man's figure just disappearing round the yew hedge. She wondered if it was Lancelot Fortescue, the prodigal son. He had, perhaps, dismissed his car at the gate and was wandering round the garden, recollecting old nines there before tackling a possibly hostile family. Mary Dove felt rather sympathetic towards Lance. A half smile on her lips, she went on downstairs. In the hall she encountered Gladys, the maid, who jumped nervously at the sight of her.
"Was that the telephone I heard just now?" Mary asked. "Who was it?"
"Oh, that Was a wrong number. Thought we were the laundry." Gladys sounded breathless and rather hurried. "And before that, it was Mr. Dubois. He wanted to speak to the mistress."
"I see."
Mary went on across the ball. Turning her head, she said, "It's teatime, I think. Haven't you brought it in yet?"
Gladys said, "I don't think it's half-past four yet, is it, miss?"
"It's twenty minutes to five. Bring it in now, will you?"
Mary Dove went on into the library where Adele Fortescue, sitting on the sofa, was staring at the fire, picking with her fingers at a small lace handkerchief. Adele said fretfully, "Where's tea?"
Mary Dove said, "It's just coming in."
A log had fallen out of the fireplace, and Mary Dove knelt down at the grate and replaced it with the tongs, adding another piece of wood and a little coal.
Gladys went out into the kitchen where Mrs. Cramp raised a red and wrathful face from the kitchen table where she was mixing pastry in a large bowl.
"The library bell's been ringing and ringing. Time you took in the tea, my girl."
"AN right, all right, Mrs. Crump."
"What I'll say to Crump tonight," muttered Mrs. Cramp. "I'll tell him off."
Gladys went on into the pantry. She had not cut any sandwiches. Well, she jolly well wasn't going to cut sandwiches. They'd got plenty to eat without that, hadn't they? Two cakes, biscuits, and scones and honey. Fresh, black-market far-fn butter. Plenty without her bothering to cut tomato or foie gras sandwiches. She'd got other things to think about. Fair temper Mrs. Crump was in, all because Mr. Crump had gone out this afternoon. Well, it was his day out, wasn't it? Quite right of him, Gladys thought.
Mrs. Crump called out from the kitchen, "The kettle's boiling its head off. Aren't you ever going to make that tea?"
“Coming"
She jerked some tea without measuring it into the big silver pot, carried the pot into the kitchen and poured the boiling water into it. She added the teapot and the kettle to the big silver tray and carried the whole thing through to the library where she set it on the small table near the sofa. She went back hurriedly for the other tray with the eatables on it. She carried the latter as far as the hall when the sudden jarring noise of the grandfather clock preparing itself to strike made her jump.
In the library, Adele Fortescue said querulously to Mary Dove, "Whore is everybody this afternoon?"
"I really don't know, Mrs. Fortescue. Miss Fortescue came in some time ago. I think Mrs. Percival's writing letters in her room."
Adele said pettishly, "Writing letters, writing letters. That woman never stops writing letters. She's like all people of her class. She takes an absolute delight in death and misfortune. Ghoulish, that's what I call it. Absolutely ghoulish."
Mary murmured tactfully, "I'll tell her that tea is ready."
Going towards the door, she drew back a little in the doorway as Elaine Fortescue came into the room.
Elaine said, "It's cold," and dropped down by the fireplace, rubbing her hands before the blaze.
Mary stood for a moment- n the ball. A large tray with cakes on it was standing on one of the hall chests. Since it was getting dark in the hall, Mary switched on the light. As she did so, she thought she heard Jennifer Fortescue walking along the passage upstairs. Nobody, however, came down the stairs, and Mary went up the staircase and along the corridor.
Percival Fortescue and his wife occupied a self-contained
suite in one wing of the house. Mary tapped on the sitting-room door. Mrs. Percival liked you to tap on doors, a fact which always roused Crump's scorn of her. Her voice said briskly, "Come in."
Mary opened the door and murmured, "Tea is just coming in, Mr. Percival."
She was rather surprised to see Jennifer Fortescue with her outdoor clothes on. She was just divesting herself of a long, camel-hair coat.
"I didn't know you'd been out," said Mary.
Mrs. Percival sounded slightly out of breath.
A Pocket Full of Rye Page 7