A Pocket Full of Rye (Miss Marple 7)

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.

The young lady was continuing composedly:

“Adele married him for his money, of course, and his son, Percival, and his daughter, Elaine, were simply livid about it. They’re as nasty as they can be to her, but very wisely she doesn’t care or even notice. She knows she’s got the old man where she wants him. Oh dear, the wrong tense again. I haven’t really grasped yet that he’s dead. . . .”

“Let’s hear about the son.”

“Dear Percival? Val, as his wife calls him. Percival is a mealy-mouthed hypocrite. He’s prim and sly and cunning. He’s terrified of his father and has always let himself be bullied, but he’s quite clever at getting his own way. Unlike his father he’s mean about money. Economy is one of his passions. That’s why he’s been so long about finding a house of his own. Having a suite of rooms here saved his pocket.”

“And his wife?”

“Jennifer’s meek and seems very stupid. But I’m not so sure. She was a hospital nurse before her marriage—nursed Percival through pneumonia to a romantic conclusion. The old man was disappointed by the marriage. He was a snob and wanted Percival to make what he called a ‘good marriage.’ He despised poor Mrs. Val and snubbed her. She dislikes—disliked him a good deal, I think. Her principal interests are shopping and the cinema; her principal grievance is that her husband keeps her short of money.”

“What about the daughter?”

“Elaine? I’m rather sorry for Elaine. She’s not a bad sort. One of those great schoolgirls who never grow up. She plays games quite well, and runs Guides and Brownies and all that sort of thing. There was some sort of affair not long ago with a disgruntled young schoolmaster, but Father discovered the young man had communistic ideas and came down on t

he romance like a ton of bricks.”

“She hadn’t got the spirit to stand up to him?”

“She had. It was the young man who ratted. A question of money yet again, I fancy. Elaine is not particularly attractive, poor dear.”

“And the other son?”

“I’ve never seen him. He’s attractive, by all accounts, and a thoroughly bad lot. Some little matter of a forged cheque in the past. He lives in East Africa.”

“And was estranged from his father.”

“Yes, Mr. Fortescue couldn’t cut him off with a shilling because he’d already made him a junior partner in the firm, but he held no communication with him for years, and in fact if Lance was ever mentioned, he used to say: ‘Don’t talk to me of that rascal. He’s no son of mine.’ All the same—”

“Yes, Miss Dove?”

Mary said slowly: “All the same, I shouldn’t be surprised if old Fortescue hadn’t been planning to get him back here.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Because, about a month ago, old Fortescue had a terrific row with Percival—he found out something that Percival had been doing behind his back—I don’t know what it was—and he was absolutely furious. Percival suddenly stopped being the white-headed boy. He’s been quite different lately, too.”

“Mr. Fortescue was quite different?”

“No. I meant Percival. He’s gone about looking worried to death.”

“Now what about servants? You’ve already described the Crumps. Who else is there?”

“Gladys Martin is the parlourmaid or waitress, as they like to call themselves nowadays. She does the downstairs rooms, lays the table, clears away and helps Crump wait at table. Quite a decent sort of girl but very nearly half-witted. The adenoidal type.”

Neele nodded.

“The housemaid is Ellen Curtis. Elderly, very crabbed, and very cross, but has been in good service and is a first-class housemaid. The rest is outside help—odd women who come in.”

“And those are the only people living here?”

“There’s old Miss Ramsbottom.”