A Pocket Full of Rye

  “Breakfast,” said Inspector Neele thoughtfully. “Yes, it looks like breakfast.”

  “Breakfast with the Borgias.” Dr. Bernsdorff laughed cheerfully. “Well, good hunting, my lad.”

  “Thanks, doctor. I’d like to speak to my sergeant before you ring off.”

  Again there were clicks and buzzes and far-off ghostly voices. And then the sound of heavy breathing came through, an inevitable prelude to Sergeant Hay’s conversation.

  “Sir,” he said urgently. “Sir.”

  “Neele here. Did the deceased say anything I ought to know?”

  “Said it was the tea. The tea he had at the office. But the M.O. says not. . . .”

  “Yes, I know about that. Nothing else?”

  “No, sir. But there’s one thing that’s odd. The suit he was wearing—I checked the contents of the pockets. The usual stuff—handkerchief, keys, change, wallet—but there was one thing that’s downright peculiar. The right-hand pocket of his jacket. It had cereal in it.”

  “Cereal?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What do you mean by cereal? Do you mean a breakfast food? Farmer’s Glory or Wheatifax. Or do you mean corn or barley—”

  “That’s right, sir. Grain it was. Looked like rye to me. Quite a lot of it.”

  “I see . . . Odd . . . But it might have been a sample—something to do with a business deal.”

  “Quite so, sir—but I thought I’d better mention it.”

  “Quite right, Hay.”

  Inspector Neele sat staring ahead of him for a few moments after he had replaced the telephone receiver. His orderly mind was moving from Phase I to Phase II of the inquiry—from suspicion of poisoning to certainty of poisoning. Professor Bernsdorff’s words may have been unofficial, but Professor Bernsdorff was not a man to be mistaken in his beliefs. Rex Fortescue had been poisoned and the poison had probably been administered one to three hours before the onset of the first symptoms. It seemed probable, therefore, that the office staff could be given a clean bill of health.

  Neele got up and went into the outer office. A little desultory work was being done but the typewriters were not going at full speed.

  “Miss Griffith? Can I have another word with you?”

  “Certainly, Mr. Neele. Could some of the girls go out to lunch? It’s long past their regular time. Or would you prefer that we get something sent in?”

  “No. They can go to lunch. But they must return afterwards.”

  “Of course.”

  Miss Griffith followed Neele back into the private office. She sat down in her composed efficient way.

  Without preamble, Inspector Neele said:

  “I have heard from St. Jude’s Hospital. Mr. Fortescue died at 12:43.”

  Miss Griffith received the news without surprise, merely shook her head.

  “I was afraid he was very ill,” she said.

  She was not, Neele noted, at all distressed.

  “Will you please give me particulars of his home and family?”

  “Certainly. I have already tried to get into communication with Mrs. Fortescue, but it seems she is out playing golf. She was not expected home to lunch. There is some uncertainty as to which course she is playing on.” She added in an explanatory manner, “They live at Baydon Heath, you know, which is a centre for three well-known golf courses.”

  Inspector Neele nodded. Baydon Heath was almost entirely inhabited by rich city men. It had an excellent train service, was only twenty miles from London and was comparatively easy to reach by car even in the rush of morning and evening traffic.

  “The exact address, please, and the telephone number?”

  “Bayden Heath 3400. The name of the house is Yewtree Lodge.”

  “What?” The sharp query slipped out before Inspector Neele could control it. “Did you say Yewtree Lodge?”

  “Yes.”

  Miss Griffith looked faintly curious, but Inspector Neele had himself in hand again.

  “Can you give me particulars of his family?”

  “Mrs. Fortescue is his second wife. She is much younger than he is. They were married about two years ago. The first Mrs. Fortescue has been dead a long time. There are two sons and a daughter of the first marriage. The daughter lives at home and so does the elder son, who is a partner in the firm. Unfortunately he is away in the North of England today on business. He is expected to return tomorrow.”

  “When did he go away?”

  “The day before yesterday.”

  “Have you tried to get in touch with him?”

  “Yes. After Mr. Fortescue was removed to hospital I rang up the Midland Hotel in Manchester where I thought he might be staying, but he had left early this morning. I believe he was also going to Sheffield and Leicester, but I am not sure about that. I can give you the names of certain firms in those cities whom he might be visiting.”

  Certainly an efficient woman, thought the inspector, and if she murdered a man she would probably murder him very efficiently, too. But he forced himself to abandon these speculations and concentrate once more on Mr. Fortescue’s home front.

  “There is a second son you said?”

  “Yes. But owing to a disagreement with his father he lives abroad.”

  “Are both sons married?”

  “Yes. Mr. Percival has been married for three years. He and his wife occupy a self-contained flat in Yewtree Lodge, though they are moving into their own house at Baydon Heath very shortly.”

  “You were not able to get in touch with Mrs. Percival Fortescue when you rang up this morning?”

  “She had gone to London for the day.” Miss Griffith went on, “Mr. Lancelot got married less than a year ago. To the widow of Lord Frederick Anstice. I expect you’ve seen pictures of her. In the Tatler—with horses, you know. And at point-to-points.”

  Miss Griffith sounded a little breathless and her cheeks were faintly flushed. Neele, who was quick to catch the moods of human beings, realized that this marriage had thrilled the snob and the romantic in Miss Griffith. The aristocracy was the aristocracy to Miss Griffith and the fact that the late Lord Frederick Anstice had had a somewhat unsavoury reputation in sporting circles was almost certainly not known to her. Freddie Anstice had blown his brains out just before an inquiry by the Stewards into the running of one of his horses. Neele remembered something vaguely about his wife. She had been the daughter of an Irish Peer and had been married before to an airman who had been killed in the Battle of Britain.

  And now, it seemed, she was married to the black sheep of the Fortescue family, for Neele assumed that the disagreement with his father, referred to primly by Miss Griffith, stood for some disgraceful incident in young Lancelot Fortescue’s career.

  Lancelot Fortescue! What a name! And what was the other son—Percival? He wondered what the first Mrs. Fortescue had been like? She’d had a curious taste in Christian names. . . .

  He drew the phone towards him and dialled TOL. He asked for Baydon Heath 3400.

  Presently a man’s voice said:

  “Baydon Heath 3400.”

  “I want to speak to Mrs. Fortescue or Miss Fortescue.”

  “Sorry. They aren’t in, either of ’em.”

  The voice struck Inspector Neele as slightly alcoholic.

  “Are you the butler?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Mr. Fortescue has been taken seriously ill.”

  “I know. They rung up and said so. But there’s nothing I can do about it. Mr. Val’s away up North and Mrs. Fortescue’s out playing golf. Mrs. Val’s gone up to London but she’ll be back for dinner and Miss Elaine’s out with her Brownies.”

  “Is there no one in the house I can speak to about Mr. Fortescue’s illness? It’s important.”

  “Well—I don’t know.” The man sounded doubtful. “There’s Miss Ramsbottom—but she don’t ever speak over the phone. Or there’s Miss Dove—she’s what you might call the ’ousekeeper.”

  “I’ll speak to Miss Dov
e, please.”

  “I’ll try and get hold of her.”

  His retreating footsteps were audible through the phone. Inspector Neele heard no approaching footsteps but a minute or two later a woman’s voice spoke.

  “This is Miss Dove speaking.”

  The voice was low and well poised, with clear-cut enunciation. Inspector Neele formed a favourable picture of Miss Dove.

  “I am sorry to have to tell you, Miss Dove, that Mr. Fortescue died in St. Jude’s Hospital a short time ago. He was taken suddenly ill in his office. I am anxious to get in touch with his relatives—”

  “Of course. I had no idea—” She broke off. Her voice held no agitation, but it was shocked. She went on: “It is all most unfortunate. The person you really want to get in touch with is Mr. Percival Fortescue. He would be the one to see to all the necessary arrangements. You might be able to get in touch with him at the Midland in Manchester or possibly at the Grand in Leicester. Or you might try Shearer and Bonds of Leicester. I don’t know their telephone number, I’m afraid, but I know they are a firm on whom he was going to call and they might be able to inform you where he would be likely to be today. Mrs. Fortescue will certainly be in to dinner and she may be in to tea. It will be a great shock to her. It must have been very sudden? Mr. Fortescue was quite well when he left here this morning.”

  “You saw him before he left?”

  “Oh yes. What was it? Heart?”

  “Did he suffer from heart trouble?”

  “No—no—I don’t think so—But I thought as it was so sudden—” She broke off. “Are you speaking from St. Jude’s Hospital? Are you a doctor?”

  “No, Miss Dove, I’m not a doctor. I’m speaking from Mr. Fortescue’s office in the city. I am Detective Inspector Neele of the CID and I shall be coming down to see you as soon as I can get there.”

  “Detective Inspector? Do you mean—what do you mean?”

  “It was a case of sudden death, Miss Dove; and when there is a sudden death we get called to the scene, especially when the deceased man hasn’t seen a doctor lately—which I gather was the case?”

  It was only the faintest suspicion of a question mark but the young woman responded.

  “I know. Percival made an appointment twice for him, but he wouldn’t keep it. He was quite unreasonable—they’ve all been worried—”

  She broke off and then resumed in her former assured manner.

  “If Mrs. Fortescue returns to the house before you arrive, what do you want me to tell her?”

  Practical as they make ’em, thought Inspector Neele.

  Aloud he said:

  “Just tell her that in a case of sudden death we have to make a few inquiries. Routine inquiries.”

  He hung up.

  Chapter Three

  Neele pushed the telephone away and looked sharply at Miss Griffith.

  “So they’ve been worried about him lately,” he said. “Wanted him to see a doctor. You didn’t tell me that.”

  “I didn’t think of it,” said Miss Griffith, and added: “He never seemed to me really ill—”

  “Not ill—but what?”

  “Well, just off. Unlike himself. Peculiar in his manner.”

  “Worried about something?”

  “Oh no, not worried. It’s we who were worried—”

  Inspector Neele waited patiently.

  “It’s difficult to say, really,” said Miss Griffith. “He had moods, you know. Sometimes he was quite boisterous. Once or twice, frankly, I thought he had been drinking . . . He boasted and told the most extraordinary stories which I’m sure couldn’t possibly have been true. For most of the time I’ve been here he was always very close about his affairs—not giving anything away, you know. But lately he’s been quite different, expansive, and positively—well—flinging money about. Most unlike his usual manner. Why, when the office boy had to go to his grandmother’s funeral, Mr. Fortescue called him in and gave him a five pound note and told him to put it on the second favourite and then roared with laughter. He wasn’t—well, he just wasn’t like himself. That’s all I can say.”

  “As though, perhaps, he had something on his mind?”

  “Not in the usual meaning of the term. It was as though he were looking forward to something pleasurable—exciting—”

  “Possibly a big deal that he was going to pull off?”

  Miss Griffith agreed with more conviction.

  “Yes—yes, that’s much more what I mean. As though everyday things didn’t matter anymore. He was excited. And some very odd-looking people came to see him on business. People who’d never been here before. It worried Mr. Percival dreadfully.”

  “Oh, it worried him, did it?”

  “Yes. Mr. Percival’s always been very much in his father’s confidence, you see. His father relied on him. But lately—”

  “Lately they weren’t getting along so well.”

  “Well, Mr. Fortescue was doing a lot of things that Mr. Percival thought unwise. Mr. Percival is always very careful and prudent. But suddenly his father didn’t listen to him anymore and Mr. Percival was very upset.”

  “And they had a real row about it all?”

  Inspector Neele was still probing.

  “I don’t know about a row . . . Of course, I realize now Mr. Fortescue can’t have been himself—shouting like that.”

  “Shouted, did he? What did he say?”

  “He came right out in the typists’ room—”

  “So that you all heard?”

  “Well—yes.”

  “And he called Percival names—abused him—swore at him.”

  “What did he say Percival had done?”

  “It was more that he hadn’t done anything . . . he called him a miserable pettifogging little clerk. He said he had no large outlook, no conception of doing business in a big way. He said: ‘I shall get Lance home again. He’s worth ten of you—and he’s married well. Lance has got guts even if he did risk a criminal prosecution once—’ Oh dear, I oughtn’t to have said that!” Miss Griffith, carried away as others before her had been under Inspector Neele’s expert handling, was suddenly overcome with confusion.

  “Don’t worry,” said Inspector Neele comfortingly. “What’s past is past.”

  “Oh yes, it was a long time ago. Mr. Lance was just young and high-spirited and didn’t really realize what he was doing.”

  Inspector Neele had heard that view before and didn’t agree with it. But he passed on to fresh questions.

  “Tell me a little more about the staff here.”

  Miss Griffith, hurrying to get away from her indiscretion, poured out information about the various personalities in the firm. Inspector Neele thanked her and then said he would like to see Miss Grosvenor again.

  Detective Constable Waite sharpened his pencil. He remarked wistfully that this was a Ritzy joint. His glance wandered appreciatively over the huge chairs, the big desk and the indirect lighting.

  “All these people have got Ritzy names, too,” he said. “Grosvenor—that’s something to do with a Duke. And Fortescue—that’s a classy name, too.”

  Inspector Neele smiled.

  “His father’s name wasn’t Fortescue. Fontescu—and he came from somewhere in Central Europe. I suppose this man thought Fortescue sounded better.”

  Detective Constable Waite looked at his superior officer with awe.

  “So you know all about him?”

  “I just looked up a few things before coming along on the call.”

  “Not got a record, had he?”

  “Oh no. Mr. Fortescue was much too clever for that. He’s had certain connections with the black market and put through one or two deals that are questionable to say the least of it, but they’ve always been just within the law.”

  “I see,” said Waite. “Not a nice man.”

  “A twister,” said Neele. “But we’ve got nothing on him. The Inland Revenue have been after him for a long time but he’s been too clever for them. Quite a f
inancial genius, the late Mr. Fortescue.”

  “The sort of man,” said Constable Waite, “who might have enemies?”

  He spoke hopefully.

  “Oh yes—certainly enemies. But he was poisoned at home, remember. Or so it would seem. You know, Waite, I see a kind of pattern emerging. An old-fashioned familiar kind of pattern. The good boy, Percival. The bad boy, Lance—attractive to women. The wife who’s younger than her husband and who’s vague about which course she’s going to play golf on. It’s all very familiar. But there’s one thing that sticks out in a most incongruous way.”

  Constable Waite asked “What’s that?” just as the door opened and Miss Grosvenor, her poise restored, and once more her glamorous self, inquired haughtily:

  “You wished to see me?”

  “I wanted to ask you a few questions about your employer—your late employer, perhaps I should say.”

  “Poor soul,” said Miss Grosvenor unconvincingly.

  “I want to know if you had noticed any difference in him lately.”

  “Well, yes. I did, as a matter of fact.”

  “In what way?”

  “I couldn’t really say . . . He seemed to talk a lot of nonsense. I couldn’t really believe half of what he said. And then he lost his temper very easily—especially with Mr. Percival. Not with me, because of course I never argue. I just say, ‘Yes, Mr. Fortescue,’ whatever peculiar thing he says—said, I mean.”

  “Did he—ever—well—make any passes at you?”

  Miss Grosvenor replied rather regretfully:

  “Well, no, I couldn’t exactly say that.”

  “There’s just one other thing, Miss Grosvenor. Was Mr. Fortescue in the habit of carrying grain about in his pocket?”

  Miss Grosvenor displayed a lively surprise.

  “Grain? In his pocket? Do you mean to feed pigeons or something?”

  “It could have been for that purpose.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he didn’t. Mr. Fortescue? Feed pigeons? Oh no.”

  “Could he have had barley—or rye—in his pocket today for any special reason? A sample, perhaps? Some deal in grain?”

  “Oh no. He was expecting the Asiatic Oil people this afternoon. And the President of the Atticus Building Society . . . No one else.”