Agatha Christie - A Pocket Full of Rye

"But it wouldn't have done him any good? It was paid into your account."

"I know. So it doesn't make sense, does it?"

Pat turned sharply towards him.

"You mean – he did it to get you chucked out of the firm?"

"I wondered. Oh well – it's a rotten thing to say. Forget it. I wonder what old Percy will say when he sees the Prodigal returned. Those pale, boiled gooseberry eyes of his will pop right out of his head!"

"Does he know you are coming?"

"I shouldn't be surprised if he didn't know a damned thing! The old man's got rather a funny sense of humour, you know."

"But what has your brother done to upset your father so much?"

"That's what I'd like to know. Something must have made the old man livid. Writing off to me the way he did."

"When was it you got his first letter?"

"Must be four – no five months ago. A cagey letter, but a distinct holding out of the olive branch. 'Your elder brother has proved himself unsatisfactory in many ways.' 'You seem to have sown your wild oats and settled down.' 'I can promise you that it will be well worth your while financially.' 'Shall welcome you and your wife.' You know, darling, I think my marrying you had a lot to do with it. The old boy was impressed that I'd married into a class above me."

Pat laughed.

"What? Into the aristocratic riff-raff?"

He grinned. "That's right. But riff-raff didn't register and aristocracy did. You should see Percival's wife. She's the kind who says 'Pass the preserves, please' and talks about a postage stamp."

Pat did not laugh. She was considering the women of the family into which she had married. It was a point of view which Lance had not taken into account.

"And your sister?" she asked.

"Elaine? Oh she's all right. She was pretty young when I left home. Sort of an earnest girl – but probably she's grown out of that. Very intense over things."

It did not sound very reassuring. Pat said:

"She never wrote to you – after you went away?"

"I didn't leave an address. But she wouldn't have, anyway. We're not a devoted family."

"No."

He shot a quick look at her.

"Got the wind up? About my family? You needn't. We're not going to live with them, or anything like that. We'll have our own little place somewhere. Horses, dogs, anything you like."

"But there will still be the 5:18."

"For me, yes. To and fro to the city, all logged up. But don't worry, sweet – there are rural pockets, even round London . And lately I've felt the sap of financial affairs rising in me. After all, it's in my blood – from both sides of the family."

"You hardly remember your mother, do you?"

"She always seemed to me incredibly old. She was old, of course. Nearly fifty when Elaine was born. She wore lots of clinking things and lay on a sofa and used to read me stories about knights and ladies which bored me stiff. Tennyson's 'Idylls of the King.' I suppose I was fond other… She was very colourless, you know. I realise that, looking back."

"You don't seem to have been particularly fond of anybody," said Pat disapprovingly.

Lance grasped and squeezed her arm.

"I'm fond of you," he said.

Inspector Neele was still holding the telegraph message in his hand when he heard a car drive up to the front door and stop with a careless scrunching of brakes.

Mary Dove said, "That will be Mrs Fortescue now."

Inspector Neele moved forwards to the front door. Out of the tail of his eye, he saw Mary Dove melt unobtrusively into the background and disappear. Clearly she intended to take no part in the forthcoming scene. A remarkable display of tact and discretion – and also a rather remarkable lack of curiosity. Most women, Inspector Neele decided, would have remained…

As he reached the front door he was aware of the butler. Crump, coming forward from the back of the hall. So he had heard the car.

The car was a Rolls Bentley sports model coupe. Two people got out of it and came towards the house. As they reached the door, it opened. Surprised, Adele Fortescue stared at Inspector Neele.

He realised at once that she was a very beautiful woman, and he realised too, the force of Mary Dove's comment which had so shocked him at the time. Adele Fortescue was a sexy piece. In figure and type she resembled the blonde Miss Grosvenor, but whereas Miss Grosvenor was all glamour without and all respectability within, Adele Fortescue was glamour all through. Her appeal was obvious, not subtle. It said simply to every man "Here am I. I'm a woman." She spoke and moved and breathed sex – and yet, within it all, her eyes had a shrewd appraising quality. Adele Fortescue, he thought, liked men – but she would always like money even better.

His eyes went on to the figure behind her who carried her golf clubs. He knew the type very well. It was the type that specialised in the young wives of rich and elderly men. Mr Vivian Dubois, if this was he, had that rather forced masculinity which is, in reality, nothing of the kind. He was the type of man who "understands" women.

"Mrs Fortescue?"

"Yes." It was a wide blue-eyed gaze. "But I don't know –"

"I am Inspector Neele. I'm afraid I have bad news for you."

"Do you mean – a burglary – something of that kind?"

"No, nothing of that kind. It is about your husband. He was taken seriously ill this morning."

"Rex? Ill ?"

"We have been trying to get in touch with you since half-past eleven this morning."

"Where is he? Here? Or in hospital?"

"He was taken to St Jude's Hospital. I'm afraid you must prepare yourself for a shock."

"You don't mean – he isn't – dead."

She lurched forward a little and clutched his arm. Gravely feeling like someone playing a part in a stage performance, the Inspector supported her into the hall. Crump was hovering eagerly.

"Brandy she'll be needing," he said.

The deep voice of Mr Dubois said:

"That's right, Crump. Get the brandy." To the Inspector he said: "In here."

He opened a door on the left. The procession filed in. The Inspector and Adele Fortescue, Vivian Dubois, and Crump with a decanter and two glasses.

Adele Fortescue sank on to an easy chair, her eyes covered with her hand. She accepted the glass that the Inspector offered and took a tiny sip, then pushed it away.

"I don't want it," she said. "I'm all right. But tell me, what was it? A stroke, I suppose? Poor Rex."

"It wasn't a stroke, Mrs Fortescue."

"Did you say you were an Inspector?" It was Mr Dubois who made the inquiry.

Neele turned to him. "That's right," he said pleasantly. "Inspector Neele of the C.I.D."

He saw the alarm grow in the dark eyes. Mr Dubois did not like the appearance of an Inspector of the C.I.D. He didn't like it at all.

"What's up?" he said. "Something wrong – eh?"

Quite unconsciously he backed away a little towards the door. Inspector Neele noted the movement.

"I'm afraid," he said to Mrs Fortescue, "that there will have to be an inquest."

"An inquest? Do you mean – what do you mean?"

"I'm afraid this is all very distressing for you, Mrs Fortescue." The words came smoothly. "It seemed advisable to find out as soon as possible exactly what Mr Fortescue had to eat or drink before leaving for the office this morning."

"Do you mean he might have been poisoned?"

"Well, yes, it would seem so."

"I can't believe it. Oh – you mean food poisoning."

Her voice dropped half an octave on the last words. His face wooden, his voice still smooth. Inspector Neele said:

"Madam? What did you think I meant?"

She ignored that question, hurrying on.

"But we've been all right – all of us."

"You can speak for all the members of the family?"