A Pocket Full of Rye (2 page)

“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 Dove, 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.

N
eele 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 financial 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.”

“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.”

M
ary 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.