A Pocket Full of Rye (14 page)

Mrs. Percival seemed to take breath.

“Oh no—of course I don't know anything. What should I know? It's just—just that I'm nervous. That man Crump—”

But it was not, Miss Marple thought, of Crump that Mrs. Percival Fortescue was thinking—watching the clenching and unclenching of Jennifer's hands. Miss Marple thought that for some reason Jennifer Fortescue was very badly frightened indeed.

I
t was growing dark. Miss Marple had taken her knitting over to the window in the library. Looking out of the glass pane she saw Pat Fortescue walking up and down the terrace outside. Miss Marple unlatched the window and called through it.

“Come in, my dear. Do come in. I'm sure it's much too cold and damp for you to be out there without a coat on.”

Pat obeyed the summons. She came in and shut the window and turned on two of the lamps.

“Yes,” she said, “it's not a very nice afternoon.” She sat down on the sofa by Miss Marple. “What are you knitting?”

“Oh, just a little matinée coat, dear. For a baby, you know. I always say young mothers can't have too many matinée coats for their babies. It's the second size. I always knit the second size. Babies so soon grow out of the first size.”

Pat stretched out long legs towards the fire.

“It's nice in here today,” she said. “With the fire and the lamps and you knitting things for babies. It all seems cosy and homely and like England ought to be.”

“It's like England is,” said Miss Marple. “There are not so many Yewtree Lodges, my dear.”

“I think that's a good thing,” said Pat. “I don't believe this was ever a happy house. I don't believe anybody was ever happy in it, in spite of all the money they spent and the things they had.”

“No,” Miss Marple agreed. “I shouldn't say it had been a happy house.”

“I suppose Adele may have been happy,” said Pat. “I never met her, of course, so I don't know, but Jennifer is pretty miserable and Elaine's been eating her heart out over a young man whom she probably knows in her heart of hearts doesn't care for her. Oh,
how
I want to get away from here!” She looked at Miss Marple and smiled suddenly. “D'you know,” she said, “that Lance told me to stick as close to you as I could. He seemed to think I should be safe that way.”

“Your husband's no fool,” said Miss Marple.

“No. Lance isn't a fool. At least, he is in someways. But I wish he'd tell me exactly what he's afraid of. One thing seems clear enough. Somebody in this house is mad, and madness is always frightening because you don't know how mad people's minds will work. You don't know what they'll do next.”

“My poor child,” said Miss Marple.

“Oh, I'm all right, really. I ought to be tough enough by now.”

Miss Marple said gently:

“You've had a good deal of unhappiness, haven't you, my dear?”

“Oh, I've had some very good times, too. I had a lovely childhood in Ireland, riding, hunting, and a great big, bare, draughty house with lots and lots of sun in it. If you've had a happy childhood, nobody can take that away from you, can they? It was afterwards—when I grew up—that things seemed always to go wrong. To begin with, I suppose, it was the war.”

“Your husband was a fighter pilot, wasn't he?”

“Yes. We'd only been married about a month when Don was shot down.” She stared ahead of her into the fire. “I thought at first I wanted to die too. It seemed so unfair, so cruel. And yet—in the end—I almost began to see that it had been the best thing. Don was wonderful in the war. Brave and reckless and gay. He had all the qualities that are needed, wanted in a war. But I don't believe, somehow, peace would have suited him. He had a kind of—oh, how shall I put it?—arrogant insubordination. He wouldn't have fitted in or settled down. He'd have fought against things. He was—well, antisocial in a way. No, he wouldn't have fitted in.”

“It's wise of you to see that, my dear.” Miss Marple bent over her knitting, picked up a stitch, counted under her breath, “Three plain, two purl, slip one, knit two together,” and then said aloud: “And your second husband, my dear?”

“Freddy? Freddy shot himself.”

“Oh dear. How very sad. What a tragedy.”

“We were very happy together,” said Pat. “I began to realize, about two years after we were married, that Freddy wasn't—well, wasn't always straight. I began to find out the sort of things that were going on. But it didn't seem to matter, between us two, that is. Because, you see, Freddy loved me and I loved him. I tried not to know what was going on. That was cowardly of me, I suppose, but I couldn't have changed him you know. You can't change people.”

“No,” said Miss Marple, “you can't change people.”

“I'd taken him and loved him and married him for what he was, and I sort of felt that I just had to—put up with it. Then things went wrong and he couldn't face it, and he shot himself. After he died I went out to Kenya to stay with some friends there. I couldn't stop on in England and go on meeting all—all the old crowd that knew about it all. And out in Kenya I met Lance.” Her face changed and softened. She went on looking into the fire, and Miss Marple looked at her. Presently Pat turned her head and said: “Tell me, Miss
Marple
, what do you really think of Percival?”

“Well, I've not seen very much of him. Just at breakfast usually. That's all. I don't think he very much likes my being here.”

Pat laughed suddenly.

“He's mean, you know. Terribly mean about money. Lance says he always was. Jennifer complains of it, too. Goes over the housekeeping accounts with Miss Dove. Complaining of every item. But Miss Dove manages to hold her own. She's really rather a wonderful person. Don't you think so?”

“Yes, indeed. She reminds me of Mrs. Latimer in my own village, St. Mary Mead. She ran the WVS, you know, and the Girl Guides, and indeed, she ran practically everything there. It wasn't for quite five years that we discovered that—oh, but I mustn't gossip. Nothing is more boring than people talking to you about places and people whom you've never seen and know nothing about. You must forgive me, my dear.”

“Is St. Mary Mead a very nice village?”

“Well, I don't know what you would call a nice village, my dear. It's quite a
pretty
village. There are some nice people living in it and some extremely unpleasant people as well. Very curious things go on there just as in any other village. Human nature is much the same everywhere, is it not?”

“You go up and see Miss Ramsbottom a good deal, don't you?” said Pat. “Now she
really
frightens me.”

“Frightens you? Why?”

“Because I think she's crazy. I think she's got religious mania. You don't think she could be—really—
mad,
do you?”

“In what way, mad?”

“Oh, you know what I mean, Miss Marple, well enough. She sits up there and never goes out, and broods about sin. Well, she might have felt in the end that it was her mission in life to execute judgment.”

“Is that what your husband thinks?”

“I don't know what Lance thinks. He won't tell me. But I'm quite sure of one thing—that he believes that it's someone who's mad, and it's someone in the family. Well, Percival's sane enough, I should say. Jennifer's just stupid and rather pathetic. She's a bit nervy but that's all, and Elaine is one of those queer, tempestuous, tense girls. She's desperately in love with this young man of hers and she'll never admit to herself for a moment that he's marrying her for money?”

“You think he is marrying her for money?”

“Yes, I do. Don't you think so?”

“I should say quite certainly,” said Miss Marple. “Like young Ellis who married Marion Bates, the rich ironmonger's daughter. She was a very plain girl and absolutely besotted about him. However, it turned out quite well. People like young Ellis and this Gerald Wright are only really disagreeable when they've married a poor girl for love. They are so annoyed with themselves for doing it that they take it out on the girl. But if they marry a rich girl they continue to respect her.”

“I don't see,” went on Pat, frowning, “how it can be anybody from outside. And so—and so that accounts for the atmosphere that is here. Everyone watching everybody else. Only something's got to happen soon—”

“There won't be anymore deaths,” said Miss Marple. “At least, I shouldn't think so.”

“You can't be sure of that.”

“Well, as a matter of fact, I am fairly sure. The murderer's accomplished his purpose, you see.”

“His?”

“Well, his or her. One says his for convenience.”

“You say his or her purpose. What sort of purpose?”

Miss Marple shook her head—she was not yet quite sure herself.

I

O
nce again Miss Somers had just made tea in the typists' room, and once again the kettle had not been boiling when Miss Somers poured the water onto the tea. History repeats itself. Miss Griffith, accepting her cup, thought to herself: “I really
must
speak to Mr. Percival about Somers. I'm sure we can do better. But with all this terrible business going on, one doesn't like to bother him over office details.”

As so often before Miss Griffith said sharply:

“Water not boiling
again,
Somers,” and Miss Somers, going pink, replied in her usual formula:

“Oh, dear, I was sure it was boiling
this
time.”

Further developments on the same line were interrupted by the entrance of Lance Fortescue. He looked round him somewhat vaguely, and Miss Griffith jumped up, came forward to meet him.

“Mr. Lance,” she exclaimed.

He swung round towards her and his face lit up in a smile.

“Hallo. Why, it's Miss Griffith.”

Miss Griffith was delighted. Eleven years since he had seen her and he knew her name. She said in a confused voice:

“Fancy your remembering.”

And Lance said easily, with all his charm to the fore:

“Of course I remember.”

A flicker of excitement was running round the typists' room. Miss Somers's troubles over the tea were forgotten. She was gaping at Lance with her mouth slightly open. Miss Bell gazed eagerly over the top of her typewriter and Miss Chase unobtrusively drew out her compact and powdered her nose. Lance Fortescue looked round him.

“So everything's still going on just the same here,” he said.

“Not many changes, Mr. Lance. How brown you look and how well! I suppose you must have had a very interesting life abroad.”

“You could call it that,” said Lance, “but perhaps I am now going to try and have an interesting life in London.”

“You're coming back here to the office?”

“Maybe.”

“Oh, but how delightful.”

“You'll find me very rusty,” said Lance. “You'll have to show me all the ropes, Miss Griffith.”

Miss Griffith laughed delightedly.

“It will be very nice to have you back, Mr. Lance. Very nice indeed.”

Lance threw her an appreciative glance.

“That's sweet of you,” he said, “that's very sweet of you.”

“We never believed—none of us thought . . .” Miss Griffith broke off and flushed.

Lance patted her on the arm.

“You didn't believe the devil was as black as he was painted? Well, perhaps he wasn't. But that's all old history now. There's no good going back over it. The future's the thing.” He added, “Is my brother here?”

“He's in the inner office, I think.”

Lance nodded easily and passed on. In the anteroom to the inner sanctum a hard-faced woman of middle age rose behind a desk and said forbiddingly:

“Your name and business, please?”

Lance looked at her doubtfully.

“Are you—Miss Grosvenor?” he asked.

Miss Grosvenor had been described to him as a glamorous blonde. She had indeed appeared so in the pictures that had appeared in the newspapers reporting the inquest on Rex Fortescue. This, surely, could not be Miss Grosvenor.

“Miss Grosvenor left last week. I am Mrs. Hardcastle, Mr. Percival Fortescue's personal secretary.”

“How like old Percy,” thought Lance. “To get rid of a glamorous blonde and take on a Gorgon instead. I wonder why? Was it safety or was it because this one comes cheaper?” Aloud he said easily:

“I'm Lancelot Fortescue. You haven't met me yet.”

“Oh, I'm so sorry, Mr. Lancelot,” Mrs. Hardcastle apologized, “this is the first time, I think, you've been to the office?”

“The first time but not the last,” said Lance, smiling.

He crossed the room and opened the door of what had been his father's private office. Somewhat to his surprise it was not Percival who was sitting behind the desk there, but Inspector Neele. Inspector Neele looked up from a large wad of papers which he was sorting, and nodded his head.

“Good morning, Mr. Fortescue, you've come to take up your duties, I suppose.”

“So you've heard I decided to come into the firm?”

“Your brother told me so.”

“He did, did he? With enthusiasm?”

Inspector Neele endeavoured to conceal a smile.

“The enthusiasm was not marked,” he said gravely.

“Poor Percy,” commented Lance.

Inspector Neele looked at him curiously.

“Are you really going to become a City man?”

“You don't think it's likely, Inspector Neele?”

“It doesn't seem quite in character, Mr. Fortescue.”

“Why not? I'm my father's son.”

“And your mother's.”

Lance shook his head.

“You haven't got anything there, Inspector. My mother was a Victorian romantic. Her favourite reading was the
Idylls of the King,
as indeed you may have deduced from our curious Christian names. She was an invalid and always, I should imagine, out of touch with reality. I'm not like that at all. I have no sentiment, very little sense of romance and I'm a realist first and last.”

“People aren't always what they think themselves to be,” Inspector Neele pointed out.

“No, I suppose that's true,” said Lance.

He sat down in a chair and stretched his long legs out in his own characteristic fashion. He was smiling to himself. Then he said unexpectedly:

“You're shrewder than my brother, Inspector.”

“In what way, Mr. Fortescue?”

“I've put the wind up Percy all right. He thinks I'm all set for the City life. He thinks he's going to have my fingers fiddling about his pie. He thinks I'll launch out and spend the firm's money and try and embroil him in wildcat schemes. It would be almost worth doing just for the fun of it! Almost, but not quite. I couldn't really stand an office life, Inspector. I like the open air and some possibilities of adventure. I'd stifle in a place like this.” He added quickly: “This is off the record, mind. Don't give me away to Percy, will you?”

“I don't suppose the subject will arise, Mr. Fortescue.”

“I must have my bit of fun with Percy,” said Lance. “I want to make him sweat a bit. I've got to get a bit of my own back.”

“That's rather a curious phrase, Mr. Fortescue,” said Neele. “Your own back—for what?”

Lance shrugged his shoulders.

“Oh, it's old history now. Not worth going back over.”

“There was a little matter of a cheque, I understand, in the past. Would that be what you're referring to?”

“How much you know, Inspector!”

“There was no question of prosecution, I understand,” said Neele. “Your father wouldn't have done that.”

“No. He just kicked me out, that's all.”

Inspector Neele eyed him speculatively, but it was not Lance Fortescue of whom he was thinking, but of Percival. The honest, industrious, parsimonious Percival. It seemed to him that wherever he got in the case he was always coming up against the enigma of Percival Fortescue, a man of whom everybody knew the outer aspects, but whose inner personality was much harder to gauge. One would have said from observing him a somewhat colourless and insignificant character, a man who had been very much under his father's thumb. Percy Prim in fact, as the AC had once said. Neele was trying now, through Lance, to get at a closer appreciation of Percival's personality. He murmured in a tentative manner:

“Your brother seems always to have been very much—well, how shall I put it—under your father's thumb.”

“I wonder.” Lance seemed definitely to be considering the point. “I wonder. Yes, that would be the effect, I think, given. But I'm not sure that it was really the truth. It's astonishing, you know, when I look back through life, to see how Percy always got his own way without seeming to do so, if you know what I mean.”

Yes, Inspector Neele thought, it was indeed astonishing. He sorted through the papers in front of him, fished out a letter and shoved it across the desk towards Lance.

“This is a letter you wrote last August, isn't it, Mr. Fortescue?”

Lance took it, glanced at it and returned it.

“Yes,” he said, “I wrote it after I got back to Kenya last summer. Dad kept it, did he? Where was it—here in the office?”

“No, Mr. Fortescue, it was among your father's papers in Yewtree Lodge.”

The inspector considered it speculatively as it lay on the desk in front of him. It was not a long letter.

Dear Dad,

I've talked things over with Pat and I agree to your proposition. It will take me a little time to get things fixed up here, say about the end of October or beginning of November. I'll let you know nearer the time. I hope we'll pull together better than we used to do. Anyway, I'll do my best. I can't say more. Look after yourself.

         Yours, Lance.

“Where did you address this letter, Mr. Fortescue. To the office or Yewtree Lodge?”

Lance frowned in an effort of recollection.

“It's difficult. I can't remember. You see it's almost three months now. The office, I think. Yes, I'm almost sure. Here to the office.” He paused a moment before asking with frank curiosity: “Why?”

“I wondered,” said Inspector Neele. “Your father did not put it on the file here among his private papers. He took it back with him to Yewtree Lodge, and I found it in his desk there. I wondered why he should have done that.”

Lance laughed.

“To keep it out of Percy's way, I suppose.”

“Yes,” said Inspector Neele, “it would seem so. Your brother, then, had access to your father's private papers here?”

“Well,” Lance hesitated and frowned, “not exactly. I mean, I suppose he could have looked through them at any time if he liked, but he wouldn't be. . . .”

Inspector Neele finished the sentence for him.

“Wouldn't be supposed to do so?”

Lance grinned broadly. “That's right. Frankly, it would have been snooping. But Percy, I should imagine, always did snoop.”

Inspector Neele nodded. He also thought it probable that Percival Fortescue snooped. It would be in keeping with what the inspector was beginning to learn of his character.

“And talk of the devil,” murmured Lance, as at that moment the door opened and Percival Fortescue came in. About to speak to the inspector he stopped, frowning, as he saw Lance.

“Hallo,” he said. “You here? You didn't tell me you were coming here today.”

“I felt a kind of zeal for work coming over me,” said Lance, “so here I am ready to make myself useful. What do you want me to do?”

Percival said testily:

“Nothing at present. Nothing at all. We shall have to come to some kind of arrangement as to what side of the business you're going to look after. We shall have to arrange for an office for you.”

Lance inquired with a grin:

“By the way, why did you get rid of glamorous Grosvenor, old boy, and replace her by Horsefaced Hetty out there?”

“Really, Lance,” Percival protested sharply.

“Definitely a change for the worse,” said Lance. “I've been looking forward to the glamorous Grosvenor. Why did you sack her? Thought she knew a bit too much?”

“Of course not. What an ideal!” Percy spoke angrily, a flush mounting his pale face. He turned to the inspector. “You mustn't pay any attention to my brother,” he said coldly. “He has a rather peculiar sense of humour.” He added: “I never had a very high opinion of Miss Grosvenor's intelligence. Mrs. Hardcastle has excellent references and is most capable besides being very moderate in her terms.”

“Very moderate in her terms,” murmured Lance, casting his eyes towards the ceiling. “You know, Percy, I don't really approve of skimping over the office personnel. By the way, considering how loyalty the staff has stood by us during these last tragic weeks, don't you think we ought to raise their salaries all round?”

“Certainly not,” snapped Percival Fortescue. “Quite uncalled for and unnecessary.”

Inspector Neele noticed the gleam of devilry in Lance's eyes. Percival, however, was far too much upset to notice it.

“You always had the most extraordinary extravagant ideas,” he stuttered. “In the state in which this firm has been left, economy is our only hope.”

Inspector Neele coughed apologetically.

“That's one of the things I wanted to talk to you about, Mr. Fortescue,” he said to Percival.

“Yes, Inspector?” Percival switched his attention to Neele.

“I want to put certain suggestions before you, Mr. Fortescue. I understand that for the past six months or longer, possibly a year, your father's general behaviour and conduct has been a source of increasing anxiety to you.”

“He wasn't well,” said Percival, with finality. “He certainly wasn't at all well.”

“You tried to induce him to see a doctor but you failed. He refused categorically?”

“That is so.”

“May I ask you if you suspected that your father was suffering from what is familiarly referred to as GPI, General Paralysis of the Insane, a condition with signs of megalomania and irritability which terminates sooner or later in hopeless insanity?”

Percival looked surprised. “It is remarkably astute of you, Inspector. That is exactly what I did fear. That is why I was so anxious for my father to submit to medical treatment.”

Neele went on:

“In the meantime, until you could persuade your father to do that, he was capable of causing a great deal of havoc to the business?”

“He certainly was,” Percival agreed.