A Pocket Full of Rye (11 page)

“You don't know what became of the family, ma'am?”

“No idea,” said Miss Ramsbottom. “Mind you, I don't think Rex would have actually murdered MacKenzie, but he might have left him to die. The same thing before the Lord, but not the same thing before the law. If he did, retribution's caught up with him. The mills of God grind slowly, but they grind exceeding small—you'd better go away now, I can't tell you anymore and it's no good your asking.”

“Thank you very much for what you have told me,” said Inspector Neele.

“Send that Marple woman back,” Miss Ramsbottom called after him. “She's frivolous, like all Church of England people, but she knows how to run a charity in a sensible way.”

Inspector Neele made a couple of telephone calls, the first to Ansell and Worrall and the second to the Golf Hotel, then he summoned Sergeant Hay and told him that he was leaving the house for a short period.

“I've a call to pay at a solicitor's office—after that, you can get me at the Golf Hotel if anything urgent turns up.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And find out anything you can about blackbirds,” added Neele over his shoulder.

“Blackbirds, sir?” Sergeant Hay repeated, thoroughly mystified.

“That's what I said—not blackberry jelly—blackbirds.”

“Very good, sir,” said Sergeant Hay bewilderedly.

I

I
nspector Neele found Mr. Ansell the type of solicitor who was more easily intimidated than intimidating. A member of a small and not very prosperous firm, he was anxious not to stand upon his rights but instead to assist the police in every way possible.

Yes, he said, he had made a will for the late Mrs. Adele Fortescue. She had called at his office about five weeks previously. It had seemed to him rather a peculiar business but naturally he had not said anything. Peculiar things did happen in a solicitor's business, and of course the inspector would understand that discretion, etc., etc. The inspector nodded to show he understood. He had already discovered Mr. Ansell had not transacted any legal business previously for Mrs. Fortescue or for any of the Fortescue family.

“Naturally,” said Mr. Ansell, “she didn't want to go to her husband's firm of lawyers about this.”

Shorn of verbiage, the facts were simple. Adele Fortescue had made a will leaving everything of which she died possessed to
Vivian
Dubois.

“But I gathered,” said Mr. Ansell, looking at Neele in an interrogating manner, “that she hadn't actually much to leave.”

Inspector Neele nodded. At the time Adele Fortescue made her will that was true enough. But since then Rex Fortescue had died, and Adele Fortescue had inherited £100,000 and presumably that £100,000 (less death duties) now belonged to Vivian Edward Dubois.

II

At the Golf Hotel, Inspector Neele found Vivian Dubois nervously awaiting his arrival. Dubois had been on the point of leaving, indeed his bags were packed, when he had received over the telephone a civil request from Inspector Neele to remain. Inspector Neele had been very pleasant about it, quite apologetic. But behind the conventional words the request had been an order. Vivian Dubois had demurred, but not too much.

He said now:

“I do hope you realize, Inspector Neele, that it is very inconvenient for me to have to stay on. I really have urgent business that needs attending to.”

“I didn't know you were in business, Mr. Dubois,” said Inspector Neele, genially.

“I'm afraid none of us can be as leisured as we would like to appear to be nowadays.”

“Mrs. Fortescue's death must have been a great shock to you, Mr. Dubois. You were great friends, were you not?”

“Yes,” said Dubois, “she was a charming woman. We played golf quite often together.”

“I expect you'll miss her very much.”

“Yes, indeed.” Dubois sighed. “The whole thing is really quite, quite terrible.”

“You actually telephoned her, I believe, on the afternoon of her death?”

“Did I? I really cannot remember now.”

“About four o'clock, I understand.”

“Yes, I believe I did.”

“Don't you remember what your conversation was about, Mr. Dubois?”

“It wasn't of any significance. I think I asked her how she was feeling and if there was any further news about her husband's death—a more or less conventional inquiry.”

“
I
see,” said Inspector Neele. He added: “And then you went out for a walk?”

“Er—yes—yes, I—I did, I think. At least, not a walk, I played a few holes of golf.”

Inspector Neele said gently:

“I think not, Mr. Dubois . . . Not that particular day . . . The porter here noticed you walking down the road towards Yewtree Lodge.”

Dubois's eyes met his, then shied away again nervously.

“I'm afraid I can't remember, Inspector.”

“Perhaps you actually went to call upon Mrs. Fortescue?”

Dubois said sharply:

“No. No, I didn't do that. I never went near the house.”

“Where did you go, then?”

“Oh, I—went on down the road, down as far as the Three Pigeons and then I turned around and came back by the links.”

“You're quite sure you didn't go to Yewtree Lodge?”

“Quite sure, Inspector.”

The inspector shook his head.

“Come, now, Mr. Dubois,” he said, “it's much better to be frank with us, you know. You may have had some quite innocent reason for going there.”

“I tell you I never went to see Mrs. Fortescue that day.”

The inspector stood up.

“You know, Mr. Dubois,” he said pleasantly, “I think we'll have to ask you for a statement and you'll be well-advised and quite within your rights in having a solicitor present when you are making that statement.”

The colour fled from Mr. Dubois's face, leaving it a sickly greenish colour.

“You're threatening me,” he said. “You're threatening me.”

“No, no, nothing of the kind.” Inspector Neele spoke in a shocked voice. “We're not allowed to do anything of that sort. Quite the contrary. I'm actually pointing out to you that you have certain rights.”

“I had nothing to do with it at all, I tell you! Nothing to do with it.”

“Come now, Mr. Dubois, you were at Yewtree Lodge round about half past four on that day. Somebody looked out of the window, you know, and saw you.”

“I was only in the garden. I didn't go into the house.”

“Didn't you?” said Inspector Neele. “Are you sure? Didn't you go in by the side door and up the stairs to Mrs. Fortescue's sitting room on the first floor? You were looking for something, weren't you, in the desk there?”

“
You've
got them, I suppose,” said Dubois sullenly. “That fool Adele kept them, then—she swore she burnt them—But they don't mean what you think they mean.”

“You're not denying, are you, Mr. Dubois, that you were a very
close
friend of Mrs. Fortescue's?”

“No, of course I'm not. How can I when you've got the letters? All I say is, there's no need to go reading any sinister meaning into them. Don't think for a moment that we—that she—ever thought of getting rid of Rex Fortescue. Good God, I'm not
that
kind of man!”

“But perhaps she was that kind of woman?”

“Nonsense,” cried Vivian Dubois, “wasn't she killed too?”

“Oh yes, yes.”

“Well, isn't it natural to believe that the same person who killed her husband killed her?”

“It might be. It certainly might be. But there are other solutions. For instance—(this is quite a hypothetical case, Mr. Dubois) it's possible that Mrs. Fortescue got rid of her husband, and that after his death she became somewhat of a danger to someone else. Someone who had, perhaps, not helped her in what she had done but who had at least encouraged her and provided, shall we say, the
motive
for the deed. She might be, you know, a danger to that particular person.”

Dubois stammered:

“You c-c-can't build up a case against me. You can't.”

“She made a will, you know,” said Inspector Neele. “She left all her money to you. Everything she possessed.”

“I don't want the money. I don't want a penny of it.”

“Of course, it isn't very much really,” said Inspector Neele. “There's jewellery and some furs, but I imagine very little actual cash.”

Dubois stared at him, his jaw dropping.

“But I thought her husband—”

He stopped dead.

“Did you, Mr. Dubois?” said Inspector Neele, and there was steel now in his voice. “That's very interesting. I wondered if you knew the terms of Rex Fortescue's will—”

III

Inspector Neele's second interview at the Golf Hotel was with Mr. Gerald Wright. Mr. Gerald Wright was a thin, intellectual and very superior young man. He was, Inspector Neele noted, not unlike Vivian Dubois in build.

“What can I do for you, Inspector Neele?” he asked.

“I thought you might be able to help us with a little information, Mr. Wright.”

“Information? Really? It seems very unlikely.”

“It's in connection with the recent events at Yewtree Lodge. You've heard of them, of course?”

Inspector Neele put a little irony into the question. Mr. Wright smiled patronisingly.

“Heard of them,” he said, “is hardly the right word. The newspapers appear to be full of nothing else. How incredibly bloodthirsty our public press is! What an age we live in! On one side the manufacture of atom bombs, on the other our newspapers delight in reporting brutal murders! But you said you had some questions to ask. Really, I cannot see what they can be. I know nothing about this Yewtree Lodge affair. I was actually in the Isle of Man when Mr. Rex Fortescue was killed.”

“You arrived here very shortly afterwards, didn't you, Mr. Wright? You had a telegram, I believe, from Miss Elaine Fortescue.”

“Our police know everything, do they not? Yes, Elaine sent for me. I came, of course, at once.”

“And you are, I understand, shortly to be married?”

“Quite right, Inspector Neele. You have no objections, I hope.”

“It is entirely Miss Fortescue's business. I understand the attachment between you dates from sometime back? Six or seven months ago, in fact?”

“Quite correct.”

“You and Miss Fortescue became engaged to be married. Mr. Fortescue refused to give his consent, informed you that if his daughter married against his wishes he did not propose to give her an income of any kind. Whereupon, I understand, you broke off the engagement and departed.”

Gerald Wright smiled rather pityingly.

“A very crude way of putting things, Inspector Neele. Actually, I was victimized for my political opinions. Rex Fortescue was the worst type of capitalist. Naturally I could not sacrifice my political beliefs and convictions for money.”

“But you have no objections to marrying a wife who has just inherited £50,000?”

Gerald Wright gave a thin satisfied smile.

“Not at all, Inspector Neele. The money will be used for the benefit of the community. But surely you did not come here to discuss with me either my financial circumstances—or my political convictions?”

“No, Mr. Wright. I wanted to talk to you about a simple question of fact. As you are aware, Mrs. Adele Fortescue died as a result of cyanide poisoning on the afternoon of November the 5th.

“Since you were in the neighbourhood of Yewtree Lodge on that afternoon I thought it possible that you might have seen or heard something that had a bearing on the case.”

“And what leads you to believe that I was, as you call it, in the neighbourhood of Yewtree Lodge at the time?”

“You left this hotel at a quarter past four on that particular afternoon, Mr. Wright. On leaving the hotel you walked down the road in the direction of Yewtree Lodge. It seems natural to suppose that you were going there.”

“I thought of it,” said Gerald Wright, “but I considered that it would be a rather pointless thing to do. I already had an arrangement to meet Miss Fortescue—Elaine—at the hotel at six o'clock. I went for a walk along a lane that branches off from the main road and returned to the Golf Hotel just before six o'clock. Elaine did not keep her appointment. Quite naturally, under the circumstances.”

“Anybody see you on this walk of yours, Mr. Wright?”

“A few cars passed me, I think, on the road. I did not see anyone I knew, if that's what you mean. The lane was little more than a cart-track and too muddy for cars.”

“So between the time you left the hotel at a quarter past four until six o'clock when you arrived back again, I've only your word for it as to where you were?”

Gerald Wright continued to smile in a superior fashion.

“Very distressing for us both, Inspector, but there it is.”

Inspector Neele said softly:

“Then if someone said they looked out of a landing window and saw you in the garden of Yewtree Lodge at about 4:35—” he paused and left the sentence unfinished.

Gerald Wright raised his eyebrows and shook his head.

“Visibility must have been very bad by then,” he said. “I think it would be difficult for anyone to be sure.”

“Are you acquainted with Mr. Vivian Dubois, who is also staying here?”

“Dubois. Dubois? No, I don't think so. Is that the tall, dark man with a pretty taste in suede shoes?”

“Yes. He also was out for a walk that afternoon, and he also left the hotel and walked past Yewtree Lodge. You did not notice him in the road by any chance?”

“No. No. I can't say I did.”

Gerald Wright looked for the first time faintly worried. Inspector Neele said thoughtfully:

“It wasn't really a very nice afternoon for walking, especially after dark in a muddy lane. Curious how energetic everyone seems to have felt.”

IV

On Inspector Neele's return to the house he was greeted by Sergeant Hay with an air of satisfaction.

“I've found out about the blackbirds for you, sir,” he said.

“You have, have you?”

“Yes, sir, in a pie they were. Cold pie was left out for Sunday night's supper. Somebody got at that pie in the larder or somewhere. They'd taken off the crust and they'd taken out the veal and 'am what was inside it, and what d'you think they put in instead? Some stinkin' blackbirds they got out of the gardener's shed. Nasty sort of trick to play, wasn't it?”

“ ‘Wasn't that a dainty dish to set before the king?' ”
said Inspector Neele.

He left Sergeant Hay staring after him.