A Pocket Full of Rye

  “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.”

  “That seems fairly certain,” said Inspector Neele. “She’ll never tell it now, poor girl.”

  “No. It seems Aunt Effie had given her good advice as to spilling anything she knew. Pity the girl didn’t take it.”

  Inspector Neele nodded. Bracing himself for the encounter he penetrated to Miss Ramsbottom’s fortress. Rather to his surprise, he found Miss Marple there. The two ladies appeared to be discussing foreign missions.

  “I’ll go away, Inspector.” Miss Marple rose hurriedly to her feet.

  “No need, madam,” said Inspector Neele.

  “I’ve asked Miss Marple to come and stay in the house,” said Miss Ramsbottom. “No sense in spending money in that ridiculous Golf Hotel. A wicked nest of profiteers, that is. Drinking and card playing all the evening. She’d better come and stay in a decent Christian household. There’s a room next door to mine. Dr. Mary Peters, the missionary, had it last.”

  “It’s very, very kind of you,” said Miss Marple, “but I really think I mustn’t intrude in a house of mourning.”

  “Mourning? Fiddlesticks,” said Miss Ramsbottom. “Who’ll weep for Rex in this house? Or Adele either? Or is it the police you’re worried about? Any objections, Inspector?”

  “None from me, madam.”

  “There you are,” said Miss Ramsbottom.

  “It’s very kind of you,” said Miss Marple gratefully. “I’ll go and telephone to the hotel to cancel my booking.” She left the room and Miss Ramsbottom said sharply to the inspector:

  “Well, and what do you want?”

  “I wondered if you could tell me anything about the Blackbird Mine, ma’am.”

  Miss Ramsbottom uttered a sudden, shrill cackle of laughter.

  “Ha. You’ve got on to that, have you! Took the hint I gave you the other day. Well, what do you want to know about it?”

  “Anything you can tell me, madam.”

  “I can’t tell you much. It’s a long time ago now—oh, twenty to twenty-five years maybe. Some concession or other in East Africa. My brother-in-law went into it with a man called MacKenzie. They went out there to investigate the mine together and MacKenzie died out there of fever. Rex came home and said the claim or the concession or whatever you call it was worthless. That’s all I know.”

  “I think you know a little more than that, ma’am,” said Neele persuasively.

  “Anything else is hearsay. You don’t like hearsay in the law, so I’ve been told.”

  “We’re not in court yet, ma’am.”

  “Well, I can’t tell you anything. The MacKenzies kicked up a fuss. That’s all I know. They insisted that Rex had swindled MacKenzie. I daresay he did. He was a clever, unscrupulous fellow, but I’ve no doubt whatever he did it was all legal. They couldn’t prove anything. Mrs. MacKenzie was an unbalanced sort of woman. She came here and made a lot of threats of revenge. Said Rex had murdered her husband. Silly, melodramatic fuss! I think she was a bit off her head—in fact, I believe she went into an asylum not long after. Came here dragging along a couple of young children who looked scared to death. Said she’d bring up her children to have revenge. Something like that. Tomfoolery, all of it. Well, that’s all I can tell you. And mind you, the Blackbird Mine wasn’t the only swindle that Rex put over in his lifetime. You’ll find a good many more if you look for them. What put you on to the Blackbird? Did you come across some trail leading to the MacKenzies?”

  “You don’t know what became of the family, ma’am?”

  “No idea,” said Miss Ramsbottom. “Mind you, I don’t think Rex would have actually murdered MacKenzie, but he might have left him to die. The same thing before the Lord, but not the same thing before the law. If he did, retribution’s caught up with him. The mills of God grind slowly, but they grind exceeding small—you’d better go away now, I can’t tell you anymore and it’s no good your asking.”

  “Thank you very much for what you have told me,” said Inspector Neele.

  “Send that Marple woman back,” Miss Ramsbottom called after him. “She’s frivolous, like all Church of England people, but she knows how to run a charity in a sensible way.”

  Inspector Neele made a couple of telephone calls, the first to Ansell and Worrall and the second to the Golf Hotel, then he summoned Sergeant Hay and told him that he was leaving the house for a short period.

  “I’ve a call to pay at a solicitor’s office—after that, you can get me at the Golf Hotel if anything urgent turns up.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And find out anything you can about blackbirds,” added Neele over his shoulder.

  “Blackbirds, sir?” Sergeant Hay repeated, thoroughly mystified.

  “That’s what I said—not blackberry jelly—blackbirds.”

  “Very good, sir,” said Sergeant Hay bewilderedly.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I

  Inspector Neele found Mr. Ansell the type of solicitor who was more easily intimidated than intimidating. A member of a small and not very prosperous firm, he was anxious not to stand upon his rights but instead to assist the police in every way possible.

  Yes, he said, he had made a will for the late Mrs. Adele Fortescue. She had called at his office about five weeks previously. It had seemed to him rather a peculiar business but naturally he had not said anything. Peculiar things did happen in a solicitor’s business, and of course the inspector would understand that discretion, etc., etc. The inspector nodded to show he understood. He had already discovered Mr. Ansell had not transacted any legal business previously for Mrs. Fortescue or for any of the Fortescue family.

  “Naturally,” said Mr. Ansell, “she didn’t want to go to her husband’s firm of lawyer
s about this.”

  Shorn of verbiage, the facts were simple. Adele Fortescue had made a will leaving everything of which she died possessed to Vivian Dubois.

  “But I gathered,” said Mr. Ansell, looking at Neele in an interrogating manner, “that she hadn’t actually much to leave.”

  Inspector Neele nodded. At the time Adele Fortescue made her will that was true enough. But since then Rex Fortescue had died, and Adele Fortescue had inherited £100,000 and presumably that £100,000 (less death duties) now belonged to Vivian Edward Dubois.

  II

  At the Golf Hotel, Inspector Neele found Vivian Dubois nervously awaiting his arrival. Dubois had been on the point of leaving, indeed his bags were packed, when he had received over the telephone a civil request from Inspector Neele to remain. Inspector Neele had been very pleasant about it, quite apologetic. But behind the conventional words the request had been an order. Vivian Dubois had demurred, but not too much.

  He said now:

  “I do hope you realize, Inspector Neele, that it is very inconvenient for me to have to stay on. I really have urgent business that needs attending to.”

  “I didn’t know you were in business, Mr. Dubois,” said Inspector Neele, genially.

  “I’m afraid none of us can be as leisured as we would like to appear to be nowadays.”

  “Mrs. Fortescue’s death must have been a great shock to you, Mr. Dubois. You were great friends, were you not?”

  “Yes,” said Dubois, “she was a charming woman. We played golf quite often together.”

  “I expect you’ll miss her very much.”

  “Yes, indeed.” Dubois sighed. “The whole thing is really quite, quite terrible.”

  “You actually telephoned her, I believe, on the afternoon of her death?”

  “Did I? I really cannot remember now.”

  “About four o’clock, I understand.”

  “Yes, I believe I did.”

  “Don’t you remember what your conversation was about, Mr. Dubois?”

  “It wasn’t of any significance. I think I asked her how she was feeling and if there was any further news about her husband’s death—a more or less conventional inquiry.”

  “I see,” said Inspector Neele. He added: “And then you went out for a walk?”

  “Er—yes—yes, I—I did, I think. At least, not a walk, I played a few holes of golf.”

  Inspector Neele said gently:

  “I think not, Mr. Dubois . . . Not that particular day . . . The porter here noticed you walking down the road towards Yewtree Lodge.”

  Dubois’s eyes met his, then shied away again nervously.

  “I’m afraid I can’t remember, Inspector.”

  “Perhaps you actually went to call upon Mrs. Fortescue?”

  Dubois said sharply:

  “No. No, I didn’t do that. I never went near the house.”

  “Where did you go, then?”

  “Oh, I—went on down the road, down as far as the Three Pigeons and then I turned around and came back by the links.”

  “You’re quite sure you didn’t go to Yewtree Lodge?”

  “Quite sure, Inspector.”

  The inspector shook his head.

  “Come, now, Mr. Dubois,” he said, “it’s much better to be frank with us, you know. You may have had some quite innocent reason for going there.”

  “I tell you I never went to see Mrs. Fortescue that day.”

  The inspector stood up.

  “You know, Mr. Dubois,” he said pleasantly, “I think we’ll have to ask you for a statement and you’ll be well-advised and quite within your rights in having a solicitor present when you are making that statement.”

  The colour fled from Mr. Dubois’s face, leaving it a sickly greenish colour.

  “You’re threatening me,” he said. “You’re threatening me.”

  “No, no, nothing of the kind.” Inspector Neele spoke in a shocked voice. “We’re not allowed to do anything of that sort. Quite the contrary. I’m actually pointing out to you that you have certain rights.”

  “I had nothing to do with it at all, I tell you! Nothing to do with it.”

  “Come now, Mr. Dubois, you were at Yewtree Lodge round about half past four on that day. Somebody looked out of the window, you know, and saw you.”

  “I was only in the garden. I didn’t go into the house.”

  “Didn’t you?” said Inspector Neele. “Are you sure? Didn’t you go in by the side door and up the stairs to Mrs. Fortescue’s sitting room on the first floor? You were looking for something, weren’t you, in the desk there?”

  “You’ve got them, I suppose,” said Dubois sullenly. “That fool Adele kept them, then—she swore she burnt them—But they don’t mean what you think they mean.”

  “You’re not denying, are you, Mr. Dubois, that you were a very close friend of Mrs. Fortescue’s?”

  “No, of course I’m not. How can I when you’ve got the letters? All I say is, there’s no need to go reading any sinister meaning into them. Don’t think for a moment that we—that she—ever thought of getting rid of Rex Fortescue. Good God, I’m not that kind of man!”

  “But perhaps she was that kind of woman?”

  “Nonsense,” cried Vivian Dubois, “wasn’t she killed too?”

  “Oh yes, yes.”

  “Well, isn’t it natural to believe that the same person who killed her husband killed her?”

  “It might be. It certainly might be. But there are other solutions. For instance—(this is quite a hypothetical case, Mr. Dubois) it’s possible that Mrs. Fortescue got rid of her husband, and that after his death she became somewhat of a danger to someone else. Someone who had, perhaps, not helped her in what she had done but who had at least encouraged her and provided, shall we say, the motive for the deed. She might be, you know, a danger to that particular person.”

  Dubois stammered:

  “You c-c-can’t build up a case against me. You can’t.”

  “She made a will, you know,” said Inspector Neele. “She left all her money to you. Everything she possessed.”

  “I don’t want the money. I don’t want a penny of it.”

  “Of course, it isn’t very much really,” said Inspector Neele. “There’s jewellery and some furs, but I imagine very little actual cash.”

  Dubois stared at him, his jaw dropping.

  “But I thought her husband—”

  He stopped dead.

  “Did you, Mr. Dubois?” said Inspector Neele, and there was steel now in his voice. “That’s very interesting. I wondered if you knew the terms of Rex Fortescue’s will—”

  III

  Inspector Neele’s second interview at the Golf Hotel was with Mr. Gerald Wright. Mr. Gerald Wright was a thin, intellectual and very superior young man. He was, Inspector Neele noted, not unlike Vivian Dubois in build.

  “What can I do for you, Inspector Neele?” he asked.

  “I thought you might be able to help us with a little information, Mr. Wright.”

  “Information? Really? It seems very unlikely.”

  “It’s in connection with the recent events at Yewtree Lodge. You’ve heard of them, of course?”

  Inspector Neele put a little irony into the question. Mr. Wright smiled patronisingly.

  “Heard of them,” he said, “is hardly the right word. The newspapers appear to be full of nothing else. How incredibly bloodthirsty our public press is! What an age we live in! On one side the manufacture of atom bombs, on the other our newspapers delight in reporting brutal murders! But you said you had some questions to ask. Really, I cannot see what they can be. I know nothing about this Yewtree Lodge affair. I was actually in the Isle of Man when Mr. Rex Fortescue was killed.”

  “You arrived here very shortly afterwards, didn’t you, Mr. Wright? You had a telegram, I believe, from Miss Elaine Fortescue.”

  “Our police know everything, do they not? Yes, Elaine sent for me. I came, of course, at once.”

 
“And you are, I understand, shortly to be married?”

  “Quite right, Inspector Neele. You have no objections, I hope.”

  “It is entirely Miss Fortescue’s business. I understand the attachment between you dates from sometime back? Six or seven months ago, in fact?”

  “Quite correct.”

  “You and Miss Fortescue became engaged to be married. Mr. Fortescue refused to give his consent, informed you that if his daughter married against his wishes he did not propose to give her an income of any kind. Whereupon, I understand, you broke off the engagement and departed.”

  Gerald Wright smiled rather pityingly.

  “A very crude way of putting things, Inspector Neele. Actually, I was victimized for my political opinions. Rex Fortescue was the worst type of capitalist. Naturally I could not sacrifice my political beliefs and convictions for money.”

  “But you have no objections to marrying a wife who has just inherited £50,000?”

  Gerald Wright gave a thin satisfied smile.

  “Not at all, Inspector Neele. The money will be used for the benefit of the community. But surely you did not come here to discuss with me either my financial circumstances—or my political convictions?”

  “No, Mr. Wright. I wanted to talk to you about a simple question of fact. As you are aware, Mrs. Adele Fortescue died as a result of cyanide poisoning on the afternoon of November the 5th.

  “Since you were in the neighbourhood of Yewtree Lodge on that afternoon I thought it possible that you might have seen or heard something that had a bearing on the case.”

  “And what leads you to believe that I was, as you call it, in the neighbourhood of Yewtree Lodge at the time?”

  “You left this hotel at a quarter past four on that particular afternoon, Mr. Wright. On leaving the hotel you walked down the road in the direction of Yewtree Lodge. It seems natural to suppose that you were going there.”

  “I thought of it,” said Gerald Wright, “but I considered that it would be a rather pointless thing to do. I already had an arrangement to meet Miss Fortescue—Elaine—at the hotel at six o’clock. I went for a walk along a lane that branches off from the main road and returned to the Golf Hotel just before six o’clock. Elaine did not keep her appointment. Quite naturally, under the circumstances.”