A Pocket Full of Rye: A Miss Marple Mystery (Miss Marple Mysteries)

by Agatha Christie

Miss Ramsbottom gave him a sharp glance over the top of her spectacles and said:

  “If you mean I am not distressed, that is quite right. Rex Fortescue was always a sinful man and I never liked him.”

  “His death was very sudden—”

  “As befits the ungodly,” said the old lady with satisfaction.

  “It seems possible that he may have been poisoned—”

  The inspector paused to observe the effect he had made.

  He did not seem to have made any. Miss Ramsbottom merely murmured: “Red seven on black eight. Now I can move up the King.”

  Struck apparently by the inspector’s silence, she stopped with a card poised in her hand and said sharply:

  “Well, what did you expect me to say? I didn’t poison him if that’s what you want to know.”

  “Have you any idea who might have done so?”

  “That’s a very improper question,” said the old lady sharply. “Living in this house are two of my dead sister’s children. I decline to believe that anybody with Ramsbottom blood in them could be guilty of murder. Because it’s murder you’re meaning, isn’t it?”

  “I didn’t say so, madam.”

  “Of course it’s murder. Plenty of people have wanted to murder Rex in their time. A very unscrupulous man. And old sins have long shadows, as the saying goes.”

  “Have you anyone in particular in mind?”

  Miss Ramsbottom swept up the cards and rose to her feet. She was a tall woman.

  “I think you’d better go now,” she said.

  She spoke without anger but with a kind of cold finality.

  “If you want my opinion,” she went on, “it was probably one of the servants. The butler looks to me a bit of a rascal, and that parlourmaid is definitely subnormal. Good evening.”

  Inspector Neele found himself meekly walking out. Certainly a remarkable old lady. Nothing to be got out of her.

  He came down the stairs into the square hall to find himself suddenly face to face with a tall dark girl. She was wearing a damp mackintosh and she stared into his face with a curious blankness.

  “I’ve just come back,” she said. “And they told me—about Father—that he’s dead.”

  “I’m afraid that’s true.”

  She pushed out a hand behind her as though blindly seeking for support. She touched an oak chest and slowly, stiffly, she sat down on it.

  “Oh no,” she said. “No. . . .”

  Slowly two tears ran down her cheeks.

  “It’s awful,” she said. “I didn’t think that I even liked him . . . I thought I hated him . . . But that can’t be so, or I wouldn’t mind. I do mind.”

  She sat there, staring in front of her, and again tears forced themselves from her eyes and down her cheeks.

  Presently she spoke again, rather breathlessly:

  “The awful thing is that it makes everything come right. I mean, Gerald and I can get married now. I can do everything that I want to do. But I hate it happening this way. I don’t want Father to be dead . . . Oh I don’t. Oh Daddy—Daddy. . . .”

  For the first time since he had come to Yewtree Lodge, Inspector Neele was startled by what seemed to be genuine grief for the dead man.

  Chapter Nine

  “Sounds like the wife to me,” said the assistant commissioner. He had been listening attentively to Inspector Neele’s report.

  It had been an admirable précis of the case. Short, but with no relevant detail left out.

  “Yes,” said the AC. “It looks like the wife. What do you think yourself, Neele, eh?”

  Inspector Neele said that it looked like the wife to him too. He reflected cynically that it usually was the wife—or the husband as the case might be.

  “She had the opportunity all right. And motive?” The AC paused. “There is motive?”

  “Oh, I think so, sir. This Mr. Dubois, you know.”

  “Think he was in it, too?”

  “No, I shouldn’t say that, sir.” Inspector Neele weighed the idea. “A bit too fond of his own skin for that. He may have guessed what was in her mind, but I shouldn’t imagine that he instigated it.”

  “No, too careful.”

  “Much too careful.”

  “Well, we mustn’t jump to conclusions, but it seems a good working hypothesis. What about the other two who had opportunity?”

  “That’s the daughter and the daughter-in-law. The daughter was mixed-up with a young man whom her father didn’t want her to marry. And he definitely wasn’t marrying her unless she had the money. That gives her a motive. As to the daughter-in-law, I wouldn’t like to say. Don’t know enough about her yet. But any of the three of them could have poisoned him, and I don’t see how anyone else could have done so. The parlourmaid, the butler, the cook, they all handled the breakfast or brought it in, but I don’t see how any of them could have been sure of Fortescue himself getting the taxine and nobody else. That is, if it was taxine.”

  The AC said: “It was taxine all right. I’ve just got the preliminary report.”

  “That settles that, then,” said Inspector Neele. “We can go ahead.”

  “Servants seem all right?”

  “The butler and the parlourmaid both seem nervous. There’s nothing uncommon about that. Often happens. The cook’s fighting mad and the housemaid was grimly pleased. In fact all quite natural and normal.”

  “There’s nobody else whom you consider suspicious in any way?”

  “No, I don’t think so, sir.” Involuntarily, Inspector Neele’s mind went back to Mary Dove and her enigmatic smile. There had surely been a faint yet definite look of antagonism. Aloud he said, “Now that we know it’s taxine, there ought to be some evidence to be got as to how it was obtained or prepared.”

  “Just so. Well, go ahead, Neele. By the way, Mr. Percival Fortescue is here now. I’ve had a word or two with him and he’s waiting to see you. We’ve located the other son, too. He’s in Paris at the Bristol, leaving today. You’ll have him met at the airport, I suppose?”

  “Yes, sir. That was my idea. . . .”

  “Well, you’d better see Percival Fortescue now.” The AC chuckled. “Percy Prim, that’s what he is.”

  Mr. Percival Fortescue was a neat fair man of thirty odd, with pale hair and eyelashes and a slightly pedantic way of speech.

  “This has been a terrible shock to me, Inspector Neele, as you can well imagine.”

  “It must have been, Mr. Fortescue,” said Inspector Neele.

  “I can only say that my father was perfectly well when I left home the day before yesterday. This food poisoning, or whatever it was, must have been very sudden?”

  “It was very sudden, yes. But it wasn’t food poisoning, Mr. Fortescue.”

  Percival stared and frowned.

  “No? So that’s why—” he broke off.

  “Your father,” said Inspector Neele, “was poisoned by the administration of taxine.”

  “Taxine? I’ve never heard of it.”

  “Very few people have, I should imagine. It is a poison that takes effect very suddenly and drastically.”

  The frown deepened.

  “Are you telling me, Inspector, that my father was deliberately poisoned by someone?”

  “It would seem so, yes, sir.”

  “That’s terrible!”

  “Yes indeed, Mr. Fortescue.”

  Percival murmured: “I understand now their attitude in the hospital—their referring me here.” He broke off. After a pause he went on, “The funeral?” He spoke interrogatively.

  “The inquest is fixed for tomorrow after the postmortem. The proceedings at the inquest will be purely formal and the inquest will be adjourned.”

  “I understand. That is usually the case?”

  “Yes, sir. Nowadays.”

  “May I ask, have you formed any ideas, any suspicions of who could—Really, I—” again he broke off.

  “It’s rather early days for that, Mr. Fortescue,” murmured Neele.

  �
��Yes, I suppose so.”

  “All the same it would be helpful to us, Mr. Fortescue, if you could give us some idea of your father’s testamentary dispositions. Or perhaps you could put me in touch with his solicitor.”

  “His solicitors are Billingsby, Horsethorpe & Walters of Bedford Square. As far as his will goes, I think I can more or less tell you its main dispositions.”

  “If you will be kind enough to do so, Mr. Fortescue. It’s a routine that has to be gone through, I’m afraid.”

  “My father made a new will on the occasion of his marriage two years ago,” said Percival precisely. “My father left the sum of £100,000 to his wife absolutely and £50,000 to my sister, Elaine. I am his residuary legatee. I am already, of course, a partner in the firm.”

  “There was no bequest to your brother, Lancelot Fortescue?”

  “No, there is an estrangement of long standing between my father and my brother.”

  Neele threw a sharp glance at him—but Percival seemed quite sure of his statement.

  “So as the will stands,” said Inspector Neele, “the three people who stand to gain are Mrs. Fortescue, Miss Elaine Fortescue and yourself?”

  “I don’t think I shall be much of a gainer.” Percival sighed. “There are death duties, you know, Inspector. And of late my father has been—well, all I can say is, highly injudicious in some of his financial dealings.”

  “You and your father have not seen eye to eye lately about the conduct of the business?” Inspector Neele threw out the question in a genial manner.

  “I put my point of view to him, but alas—” Percival shrugged his shoulders.

  “Put it rather forcibly, didn’t you?” Neele inquired. “In fact, not to put too fine a point on it, there was quite a row about it, wasn’t there?”

  “I should hardly say that, Inspector.” A red flush of annoyance mounted to Percival’s forehead.

  “Perhaps the dispute you had was about some other matter then, Mr. Fortescue?”

  “There was no dispute, Inspector.”

  “Quite sure of that, Mr. Fortescue? Well, no matter. Did I understand that your father and brother are still estranged?”

  “That is so.”

  “Then perhaps you can tell me what this means?”

  Neele handed him the telephone message Mary Dove had jotted down.

  Percival read it and uttered an exclamation of surprise and annoyance. He seemed both incredulous and angry.

  “I can’t understand it, I really can’t. I can hardly believe it.”

  “It seems to be true, though, Mr. Fortescue. Your brother is arriving from Paris today.”

  “But it’s extraordinary, quite extraordinary. No, I really can’t understand it.”

  “Your father said nothing to you about it?”

  “He certainly did not. How outrageous of him. To go behind my back and send for Lance.”

  “You’ve no idea, I suppose, why he did such a thing?”

  “Of course I haven’t. It’s all on a par with his behaviour lately—Crazy! Unaccountable. It’s got to be stopped—I—”

  Percival came to an abrupt stop. The colour ebbed away again from his pale face.

  “I’d forgotten—” he said. “For the moment I’d forgotten that my father was dead—”

  Inspector Neele shook his head sympathetically.

  Percival Fortescue prepared to take his departure—as he picked up his hat he said:

  “Call upon me if there is anything I can do. But I suppose—” he paused—“you will be coming down to Yewtree Lodge?”

  “Yes, Mr. Fortescue—I’ve got a man in charge there now.”

  Percival shuddered in a fastidious way.

  “It will all be most unpleasant. To think such a thing should happen to us—”

  He sighed and moved towards the door.

  “I shall be at the office most of the day. There is a lot to be seen to here. But I shall get down to Yewtree Lodge this evening.”

  “Quite so, sir.”

  Percival Fortescue went out.

  “Percy Prim,” murmured Neele.

  Sergeant Hay who was sitting unobtrusively by the wall looked up and said “Sir?” interrogatively.

  Then as Neele did not reply, he asked, “What do you make of it all, sir?”

  “I don’t know,” said Neele. He quoted softly, “ ‘They’re all very unpleasant people.’ ”

  Sergeant Hay looked somewhat puzzled.

  “Alice in Wonderland,” said Neele. “Don’t you know your Alice, Hay?”

  “It’s a classic, isn’t it, sir?” said Hay. “Third Programme stuff. I don’t listen to the Third Programme.”

  Chapter Ten

  I

  It was about five minutes after leaving Le Bourget that Lance Fortescue opened his copy of the continental Daily Mail. A minute or two later he uttered a startled exclamation. Pat, in the seat beside him, turned her head inquiringly.

  “It’s the old man,” said Lance. “He’s dead.”

  “Dead! Your father?”

  “Yes, he seems to have been taken suddenly ill at the office, was taken to St. Jude’s Hospital and died there soon after arrival.”

  “Darling, I’m so sorry. What was it, a stroke?”

  “I suppose so. Sounds like it.”

  “Had he ever had a stroke before?”

  “No. Not that I know of.”

  “I thought people never died from a first one.”

  “Poor old boy,” said Lance. “I never thought I was particularly fond of him, but somehow, now that he’s dead. . . .”

  “Of course you were fond of him.”

  “We haven’t all got your nice nature, Pat. Oh well, it looks as though my luck’s out again, doesn’t it.”

  “Yes. It’s odd that it should happen now. Just when you were on the point of coming home.”

  He turned his head sharply towards her.

  “Odd? What do you mean by odd, Pat?”

  She looked at him with slight surprise.

  “Well, a sort of coincidence.”

  “You mean that whatever I set out to do goes wrong?”

  “No, darling, I didn’t mean that. But there is such a thing as a run of bad luck.”

  “Yes, I suppose there is.”

  Pat said again: “I’m so sorry.”

  When they arrived at Heathrow and were waiting to disembark from the plane, an official of the air company called out in a clear voice:

  “Is Mr. Lancelot Fortescue abroad?”

  “Here,” said Lance.

  “Would you just step this way, Mr. Fortescue.”

  Lance and Pat followed him out of the plane, preceding the other passengers. As they passed a couple in the last seat, they heard the man whisper to his wife:

  “Well-known smugglers, I expect. Caught in the act.”

  II

  “It’s fantastic,” said Lance. “Quite fantastic.” He stared across the table at Detective Inspector Neele.

  Inspector Neele nodded his head sympathetically.

  “Taxine—yewberries—the whole thing seems like some kind of melodrama. I dare say this sort of thing seems ordinary enough to you, Inspector. All in the day’s work. But poisoning, in our family, seems wildly far-fetched.”

  “You’ve no idea then at all,” asked Inspector Neele, “who might have poisoned your father?”

  “Good lord, no. I expect the old man’s made a lot of enemies in business, lots of people who’d like to skin him alive, do him down financially—all that sort of thing. But poisoning? Anyway I wouldn’t be in the know. I’ve been abroad for a good many years and have known very little of what’s going on at home.”

  “That’s really what I wanted to ask you about, Mr. Fortescue. I understand from your brother that there was an estrangement between you and your father which had lasted for many years. Would you like to tell me the circumstances that led to your coming home at this time?”

  “Certainly, Inspector. I heard from my father, let
me see it must be about—yes, six months ago now. It was soon after my marriage. My father wrote and hinted that he would like to let bygones be bygones. He suggested that I should come home and enter the firm. He was rather vague in his terms and I wasn’t really sure that I wanted to do what he asked. Anyway, the upshot was that I came over to England last—yes, last August, just about three months ago. I went down to see him at Yewtree Lodge and he made me, I must say, a very advantageous offer. I told him that I’d have to think about it and I’d have to consult my wife. He quite understood that. I flew back to East Africa, talked it over with Pat. The upshot was that I decided to accept the old boy’s offer. I had to wind up my affairs there, but I agreed to do so before the end of last month. I told him I would wire to him the date of my actual arrival in England.”

  Inspector Neele coughed.

  “Your arrival back seems to have caused your brother some surprise.”

  Lance gave a sudden grin. His rather attractive face lit up with the spirit of pure mischief.

  “Don’t believe old Percy knew a thing about it,” he said. “He was away on his holiday in Norway at the time. If you ask me, the old man picked that particular time on purpose. He was going behind Percy’s back. In fact I’ve a very shrewd suspicion that my father’s offer to me was actuated by the fact that he had a blazing row with poor old Percy—or Val as he prefers to be called. Val, I think, had been more or less trying to run the old man. Well, the old man would never stand for anything of that kind. What the exact row was about I don’t know, but he was furious. And I think he thought it a jolly good idea to get me there and thereby spike poor old Val’s guns. For one thing he never liked Percy’s wife much and he was rather pleased, in a snobbish way, with my marriage. It would be just his idea of a good joke to get me home and suddenly confront Percy with the accomplished fact.”

  “How long were you at Yewtree Lodge on this occasion?”

  “Oh, not more than an hour or two. He didn’t ask me to stay the night. The whole idea, I’m sure, was a kind of secret offensive behind Percy’s back. I don’t think he even wanted the servants to report upon it. As I say, things were left that I’d think it over, talk about it to Pat and then write him my decision, which I did. I wrote giving him the approximate date of my arrival, and I finally sent him a telegram yesterday from Paris.”