A Pocket Full of Rye

  “Oh well—” Neele dismissed the subject and Miss Grosvenor with a wave of the hand.

  “Lovely legs she’s got,” said Constable Waite with a sigh. “And super nylons—”

  “Legs are no help to me,” said Inspector Neele. “I’m left with what I had before. A pocketful of rye—and no explanation of it.”

  Chapter Four

  Mary Dove paused on her way downstairs and looked out through the big window on the stairs. A car had just driven up from which two men were alighting. The taller of the two stood for a moment with his back to the house surveying his surroundings. Mary Dove appraised the two men thoughtfully. Inspector Neele and presumably a subordinate.

  She turned from the window and looked at herself in the full-length mirror that hung on the wall where the staircase turned . . . She saw a small demure figure with immaculate white collar and cuffs on a beige grey dress. Her dark hair was parted in the middle and drawn back in two shining waves to a knot in the back of the neck . . . The lipstick she used was a pale rose colour.

  On the whole Mary Dove was satisfied with her appearance. A very faint smile on her lips, she went on down the stairs.

  Inspector Neele, surveying the house, was saying to himself:

  Call it a lodge, indeed! Yewtree Lodge! The affectation of these rich people! The house was what he, Inspector Neele, would call a mansion. He knew what a lodge was. He’d been brought up in one! The lodge at the gates of Hartington Park, that vast unwieldy Palladian house with its twenty-nine bedrooms which had now been taken over by the National Trust. The lodge had been small and attractive from the outside, and had been damp, uncomfortable and devoid of anything but the most primitive form of sanitation within. Fortunately these facts had been accepted as quite proper and fitting by Inspector Neele’s parents. They had no rent to pay and nothing whatever to do except open and shut the gates when required, and there were always plenty of rabbits and an occasional pheasant or so for the pot. Mrs. Neele had never discovered the pleasure of electric irons, slow combustion stoves, airing cupboards, hot and cold water from taps, and the switching on of light by a mere flick of a finger. In winter the Neeles had an oil lamp and in summer they went to bed when it got dark. They were a healthy family and a happy one, all thoroughly behind the times.

  So when Inspector Neele heard the word Lodge, it was his childhood memories that stirred. But this place, this pretentiously named Yewtree Lodge was just the kind of mansion that rich people built themselves and then called it “their little place in the country.” It wasn’t in the country either, according to Inspector Neele’s idea of the country. The house was a large solid red-brick structure, sprawling lengthwise rather than upward, with rather too many gables, and a vast number of leaded paned windows. The gardens were highly artificial—all laid out in rose beds and pergolas and pools, and living up to the name of the house with large numbers of clipped yew hedges.

  Plenty of yew here for anybody with a desire to obtain the raw material of taxine. Over on the right, behind the rose pergola, there was a bit of actual nature left—a vast yew tree of the kind one associates with churchyards, its branches held up by stakes—like a kind of Moses of the forest world. That tree, the inspector thought, had been there long before the rash of newly built red-brick houses had begun to spread over the countryside. It had been there before the golf courses had been laid out and the fashionable architects had walked round with their rich clients, pointing out the advantages of the various sites. And since it was a valuable antique, the tree had been kept and incorporated in the new setup and had, perhaps, given its name to the new desirable residence. Yewtree Lodge. And possibly the berries from that very tree—

  Inspector Neele cut off these unprofitable speculations. Must get on with the job. He rang the bell.

  It was opened promptly by a middle-aged man who fitted in quite accurately with the mental image Inspector Neele had formed of him over the phone. A man with a rather spurious air of smartness, a shifty eye and a rather unsteady hand.

  Inspector Neele announced himself and his subordinate and had the pleasure of seeing an instant look of alarm come into the butler’s eye . . . Neele did not attach too much importance to that. It might easily have nothing to do with the death of Rex Fortescue. It was quite possibly a purely automatic reaction.

  “Has Mrs. Fortescue returned yet?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Nor Mr. Percival Fortescue? Nor Miss Fortescue?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then I would like to see Miss Dove, please.”

  The man turned his head slightly.

  “Here’s Miss Dove now—coming downstairs.”

  Inspector Neele took in Miss Dove as she came composedly down the wide staircase. This time the mental picture did not correspond with the reality. Unconsciously the word housekeeper had conjured up a vague impression of someone large and authoritative dressed in black with somewhere concealed about her a jingle of keys.

  The inspector was quite unprepared for the small trim figure descending towards him. The soft dove-coloured tones of her dress, the white collar and cuffs, the neat waves of hair, the faint Mona Lisa smile. It all seemed, somehow, just a little unreal, as though this young woman of under thirty was playing a part: not, he thought, the part of a housekeeper, but the part of Mary Dove. Her appearance was directed towards living up to her name.

  She greeted him composedly.

  “Inspector Neele?”

  “Yes. This is Sergeant Hay. Mr. Fortescue, as I told you through the phone, died in St. Jude’s Hospital at 12:43. It seems likely that his death was the result of something he ate at breakfast this morning. I should be glad therefore if Sergeant Hay could be taken to the kitchen where he can make inquiries as to the food served.”

  Her eyes met his for a moment, thoughtfully, then she nodded.

  “Of course,” she said. She turned to the uneasily hovering butler. “Crump, will you take Sergeant Hay out and show him whatever he wants to see.”

  The two men departed together. Mary Dove said to Neele:

  “Will you come in here?”

  She opened the door of a room and preceded him into it. It was a characterless apartment, clearly labelled “Smoking Room,” with panelling, rich upholstery, large stuffed chairs, and a suitable set of sporting prints on the walls.

  “Please sit down.”

  He sat and Mary Dove sat opposite him. She chose, he noticed, to face the light. An unusual preference for a woman. Still more unusual if a woman had anything to hide. But perhaps Mary Dove had nothing to hide.

  “It is very unfortunate,” she said, “that none of the family is available. Mrs. Fortescue may return at any minute. And so may Mrs. Val. I have sent wires to Mr. Percival Fortescue at various places.”

  “Thank you, Miss Dove.”

  “You say that Mr. Fortescue’s death was caused by something he may have eaten for breakfast? Food poisoning, you mean?”

  “Possibly.” He watched her.

  She said composedly, “It seems unlikely. For breakfast this morning there were bacon and scrambled eggs, coffee, toast and marmalade. There was also a cold ham on the sideboard, but that had been cut yesterday, and no one felt any ill effects. No fish of any kind was served, no sausages—nothing like that.”

  “I see you know exactly what was served.”

  “Naturally. I order the meals. For dinner last night—”

  “No.” Inspector Neele interrupted her. “It would not be a question of dinner last night.”

  “I thought the onset of food poisoning could sometimes be delayed as much as twenty-four hours.”

  “Not in this case . . . Will you tell me exactly what Mr. Fortescue ate and drank before leaving the house this morning?”

  “He had early tea brought to his room at eight o’clock. Breakfast was at a quarter past nine. Mr. Fortescue, as I have told you, had scrambled eggs, bacon, coffee, toast and marmalade.”

  “Any cereal?”

 
“No, he didn’t like cereals.”

  “The sugar for the coffee—it is lump sugar or granulated?”

  “Lump. But Mr. Fortescue did not take sugar in his coffee.”

  “Was he in the habit of taking any medicines in the morning? Salts? A tonic? Some digestive remedy?”

  “No, nothing of that kind.”

  “Did you have breakfast with him also?”

  “No. I do not take meals with the family.”

  “Who was at breakfast?”

  “Mrs. Fortescue. Miss Fortescue. Mrs. Val Fortescue. Mr. Percival Fortescue, of course, was away.”

  “And Mrs. and Miss Fortescue ate the same things for breakfast?”

  “Mrs. Fortescue has only coffee, orange juice and toast, Mrs. Val and Miss Fortescue always eat a hearty breakfast. Besides eating scrambled eggs and cold ham, they would probably have a cereal as well. Mrs. Val drinks tea, not coffee.”

  Inspector Neele reflected for a moment. The opportunities seemed at least to be narrowing down. Three people and three people only had had breakfast with the deceased, his wife, his daughter and his daughter-in-law. Either of them might have seized an opportunity to add taxine to his cup of coffee. The bitterness of the coffee would have masked the bitter taste of the taxine. There was the early morning tea, of course, but Bernsdorff had intimated that the taste would be noticeable in tea. But perhaps, first thing in the morning, before the senses were alert . . . He looked up to find Mary Dove watching him.

  “Your questions about tonic and medicines seem to me rather odd, Inspector,” she said. “It seems to imply that either there was something wrong with a medicine, or that something had been added to it. Surely neither of those processes could be described as food poisoning.”

  Neele eyed her steadily.

  “I did not say—definitely—that Mr. Fortescue died of food poisoning. But some kind of poisoning. In fact—just poisoning.”

  She repeated softly: “Poisoning. . . .”

  She appeared neither startled nor dismayed, merely interested. Her attitude was of one sampling a new experience.

  In fact she said as much, remarking after a moment’s reflection: “I have never had anything to do with a poisoning case before.”

  “It’s not very pleasant,” Neele informed her dryly.

  “No—I suppose not. . . .”

  She thought about it for a moment and then looked up at him with a sudden smile.

  “I didn’t do it,” she said. “But I suppose everybody will tell you that!”

  “Have you any idea who did do it, Miss Dove?”

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  “Frankly, he was an odious man. Anybody might have done it.”

  “But people aren’t poisoned just for being ‘odious,’ Miss Dove. There usually has to be a pretty solid motive.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  She was thoughtful.

  “Do you care to tell me something about the household here?”

  She looked up at him. He was a little startled to find her eyes cool and amused.

  “This isn’t exactly a statement you’re asking me to make, is it? No, it couldn’t be, because your sergeant is busy upsetting the domestic staff. I shouldn’t like to have what I say read out in court—but all the same I should rather like to say it—unofficially. Off the record, so to speak?”

  “Go ahead then, Miss Dove. I’ve no witness, as you’ve already observed.”

  She leaned back, swinging one slim foot and narrowing her eyes.

  “Let me start by saying that I’ve no feeling of loyalty to my employers. I work for them because it’s a job that pays well and I insist that it should pay well.”

  “I was a little surprised to find you doing this type of job. It struck me that with your brains and education—”

  “I ought to be confined in an office? Or compiling files in a Ministry? My dear Inspector Neele, this is the perfect racket. People will pay anything—anything—to be spared domestic worries. To find and engage a staff is a thoroughly tedious job. Writing to agencies, putting in advertisements, interviewing people, making arrangements for interviews, and finally keeping the whole thing running smoothly—it takes a certain capacity which most of these people haven’t got.”

  “And suppose your staff, when you’ve assembled it, runs out on you? I’ve heard of such things.”

  Mary smiled.

  “If necessary, I can make the beds, dust the rooms, cook a meal and serve it without anyone noticing the difference. Of course I don’t advertise that fact. It might give rise to ideas. But I can always be sure of tiding over any little gap. But there aren’t often gaps. I work only for the extremely rich who will pay anything to be comfortable. I pay top prices and so I get the best of what’s going.”

  “Such as the butler?”

  She threw him an amused, appreciative glance.

  “There’s always that trouble with a couple. Crump stays because of Mrs. Crump, who is one of the best cooks I’ve ever come across. She’s a jewel and one would put up with a good deal to keep her. Our Mr. Fortescue likes his food—liked, I should say. In this household nobody has any scruples and they have plenty of money. Butter, eggs, cream, Mrs. Crump can command what she likes. As for Crump, he just makes the grade. His silver’s all right, and his waiting at table is not too bad. I keep the key of the wine cellar and a sharp eye on the whisky, and gin, and supervise his valeting.”

  Inspector Neele raised his eyebrows.

  “The admirable Miss Crichton.”

  “I find one must know how to do everything oneself. Then—one need never do it. But you wanted to know my impressions of the family.”

  “If you don’t mind.”

  “They are really all quite odious. The late Mr. Fortescue was the kind of crook who is always careful to play safe. He boasted a great deal of his various smart dealings. He was rude and overbearing in manner and was a definite bully. Mrs. Fortescue, Adele—was his second wife and about thirty years younger than he was. He came across her at Brighton. She was a manicurist on the look out for big money. She is very good-looking—a real sexy piece, if you know what I mean.”

  Inspector Neele was shocked but managed not to show it. A girl like Mary Dove ought not to say such things, he felt.

  The young lady was continuing composedly:

  “Adele married him for his money, of course, and his son, Percival, and his daughter, Elaine, were simply livid about it. They’re as nasty as they can be to her, but very wisely she doesn’t care or even notice. She knows she’s got the old man where she wants him. Oh dear, the wrong tense again. I haven’t really grasped yet that he’s dead. . . .”

  “Let’s hear about the son.”

  “Dear Percival? Val, as his wife calls him. Percival is a mealy-mouthed hypocrite. He’s prim and sly and cunning. He’s terrified of his father and has always let himself be bullied, but he’s quite clever at getting his own way. Unlike his father he’s mean about money. Economy is one of his passions. That’s why he’s been so long about finding a house of his own. Having a suite of rooms here saved his pocket.”

  “And his wife?”

  “Jennifer’s meek and seems very stupid. But I’m not so sure. She was a hospital nurse before her marriage—nursed Percival through pneumonia to a romantic conclusion. The old man was disappointed by the marriage. He was a snob and wanted Percival to make what he called a ‘good marriage.’ He despised poor Mrs. Val and snubbed her. She dislikes—disliked him a good deal, I think. Her principal interests are shopping and the cinema; her principal grievance is that her husband keeps her short of money.”

  “What about the daughter?”

  “Elaine? I’m rather sorry for Elaine. She’s not a bad sort. One of those great schoolgirls who never grow up. She plays games quite well, and runs Guides and Brownies and all that sort of thing. There was some sort of affair not long ago with a disgruntled young schoolmaster, but Father discovered the young man had communistic ideas and came down on t
he romance like a ton of bricks.”

  “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 cheque in the past. He lives in East Africa.”

  “And was 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 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 parlourmaid or waitress, as they like to call themselves nowadays. She does the downstairs rooms, lays the table, 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 help—odd women who come in.”

  “And those are the only people living here?”

  “There’s old Miss Ramsbottom.”