Agatha Christie - A Pocket Full of Rye

"Sit down here," he went on. "I just want to know about breakfast this morning."

"I 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 first down to breakfast. She'd come in just as Crump was bringing in the coffee pot. 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 was as Mary Dove had described it. The master and Mrs Fortescue and Miss Elaine took coffee and Mrs Val took tea. Everything had been quite as usual.

Neele questioned her about herself and here she answered more readily. She'd been in private service first and after that in various cafes. Then she thought she'd like to go back to 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?"

"I 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 armed with a rolling-pin stepped towards him in a menacing fashion.

"Police, indeed," she said. "Coming here and saying things like that! 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 gauntlet 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.

At the moment when Rex Fortescue had been drinking 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 won't mind that? You must be used to that more or less."

"Oh yes," said Pat. "Yes – as you say – I'm acclimatised."

She tried to keep a certain forlornness out other 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 well, and had 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, had 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 blued my pocket money, he saved his. I had disreputable but entertaining friends, Percy made what's called 'worth while contacts.' Poles apart we were, he and I. I always thought him a poor fish, and he – 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 cheque business – you know, when the old man kicked me out – and was he mad that he'd given me a share in the firm and so he couldn't disinherit me! Because the queer thing was that I never forged that cheque – 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 cheque business – no. I don't know why I've got the ridiculous idea that Percival did that – but I have, somehow."