“Rex? Ill?”
“We have been trying to get in touch with you since half past eleven this morning.”
“Where is he? Here? Or in hospital?”
“He was taken to St. Jude’s Hospital. I’m afraid you must prepare yourself for a shock.”
“You don’t mean—he isn’t—dead.”
She lurched forward a little and clutched his arm. Gravely feeling like someone playing a part in a stage performance, the inspector supported her into the hall. Crump was hovering eagerly.
“Brandy she’ll be needing,” he said.
The deep voice of Mr. Dubois said:
“That’s right, Crump. Get the brandy.” To the inspector he said: “In here.”
He opened a door on the left. The procession filed in. The inspector and Adele Fortescue, Vivian Dubois, and Crump with a decanter and two glasses.
Adele Fortescue sank onto an easy chair, her eyes covered with her hand. She accepted the glass that the inspector offered and took a tiny sip, then pushed it away.
“I don’t want it,” she said. “I’m all right. But tell me, what was it? A stroke, I suppose? Poor Rex.”
“It wasn’t a stroke, Mrs. Fortescue.”
“Did you say you were an inspector?” It was Mr. Dubois who made the inquiry.
Neele turned to him. “That’s right,” he said pleasantly. “Inspector Neele of the CID.”
He saw the alarm grow in the dark eyes. Mr. Dubois did not like the appearance of an inspector of the CID. He didn’t like it at all.
“What’s up?” he said. “Something wrong—eh?”
Quite unconsciously he backed away a little towards the door. Inspector Neele noted the movement.
“I’m afraid,” he said to Mrs. Fortescue, “that there will have to be an inquest.”
“An inquest? Do you mean—what do you mean?”
“I’m afraid this is all very distressing for you, Mrs. Fortescue.” The words came smoothly. “It seemed advisable to find out as soon as possible exactly what Mr. Fortescue had to eat or drink before leaving for the office this morning.”
“Do you mean he might have been poisoned?”
“Well, yes, it would seem so.”
“I can’t believe it. Oh—you mean food poisoning.”
Her voice dropped half an octave on the last words. His face wooden, his voice still smooth, Inspector Neele said:
“Madam? What did you think I meant?”
She ignored that question, hurrying on.
“But we’ve been all right—all of us.”
“You can speak for all the members of the family?”
“Well—no—of course—I can’t really.”
Dubois said with a great show of consulting his watch:
“I’ll have to push off, Adele. Dreadfully sorry. You’ll be all right, won’t you? I mean, there are the maids, and the little Dove and all that—”
“Oh, Vivian, don’t. Don’t go.”
It was quite a wail, and it affected Mr. Dubois adversely. His retreat quickened.
“Awfully sorry, old girl. Important engagement. I’m putting up at the Dormy House, by the way, Inspector. If you—er—want me for anything.”
Inspector Neele nodded. He had no wish to detain Mr. Dubois. But he recognized Mr. Dubois’s departure for what it was. Mr. Dubois was running away from trouble.
Adele Fortescue said, in an attempt to carry off the situation:
“It’s such a shock, to come back and find the police in the house.”
“I’m sure it must be. But you see, it was necessary to act promptly in order to obtain the necessary specimens of foodstuffs, coffee, tea, etc.”
“Tea and coffee? But they’re not poisonous? I expect it’s the awful bacon we sometimes get. It’s quite uneatable sometimes.”
“We shall find out, Mrs. Fortescue. Don’t worry. You’d be surprised at some of the things that can happen. We once had a case of digitalis poisoning. It turned out that foxglove leaves had been picked in mistake for horseradish.”
“You think something like that could happen here?”
“We shall know better after the autopsy, Mrs. Fortescue.”
“The autop—oh I see.” She shivered.
The inspector went on: “You’ve got a lot of yew round the house, haven’t you, madam. There’s no possibility, I suppose, of the berries or leaves having got—mixed-up in anything?”
He was watching her closely. She stared at him.
“Yew berries? Are they poisonous?”
The wonder seemed a little too wide-eyed and innocent.
“Children have been known to eat them with unfortunate results.”
Adele clasped her hands to her head.
“I can’t bear to talk about it anymore. Must I? I want to go and lie down. I can’t stand anymore. Mr. Percival Fortescue will arrange everything—I can’t—I can’t—it isn’t fair to ask me.”
“We are getting in touch with Mr. Percival Fortescue as soon as possible. Unfortunately he is away in the North of England.”
“Oh yes, I forgot.”
“There’s just one thing, Mrs. Fortescue. There was a small quantity of grain in your husband’s pocket. Could you give me some explanation of that?”
She shook her head. She appeared quite bewildered.
“Would anyone have slipped it in there as a joke?”
“I don’t see why it would be a joke?”
Inspector Neele did not see either. He said:
“I won’t trouble you any further at present, Mrs. Fortescue. Shall I send one of the maids to you? Or Miss Dove?”
“What?” The word came abstractedly. He wondered what she had been thinking about.
She fumbled with her bag and pulled out a handkerchief. Her voice trembled.
“It’s so awful,” she said unsteadily. “I’m only just beginning to take it in. I’ve really been numbed up to now. Poor Rex. Poor dear Rex.”
She sobbed in a manner that was almost convincing.
Inspector Neele watched her respectfully for a moment or two.
“It’s been very sudden, I know,” he said. “I’ll send someone to you.”
He went towards the door, opened it and passed through. He paused for a moment before looking back into the room.
Adele Fortescue still held the handkerchief to her eyes. The ends of it hung down but did not quite obscure her mouth. On her lips was a very faint smile.
Chapter Eight
I
“I’ve got what I could, sir.” So Sergeant Hay reported. “The marmalade, bit of the ham. Samples of tea, coffee and sugar, for what they’re worth. Actual brews have been thrown out by now, of course, but there’s one point. There was a good lot of coffee left over and they had it in the servants’ hall at elevenses—that’s important, I should say.”
“Yes, that’s important. Shows that if he took it in his coffee, it must have been slipped into the actual cup.”
“By one of those present. Exactly. I’ve inquired, cautious like, about the yew stuff—berries or leaves—there’s been none of it seen about the house. Nobody seems to know anything about the cereal in his pocket, either . . . It just seems daft to them. Seems daft to me, too. He doesn’t seem to have been one of those food faddists who’ll eat any mortal thing so long as it isn’t cooked. My sister’s husband’s like that. Raw carrots, raw peas, raw turnips. But even he doesn’t eat raw grain. Why, I should say it would swell up in your inside something awful.”
The telephone rang and, on a nod from the inspector, Sergeant Hay sprinted off to answer it. Following him, Neele found that it was headquarters on the line. Contact had been made with Mr. Percival Fortescue, who was returning to London immediately.
As the inspector replaced the telephone, a car drew up at the front door. Crump went to the door and opened it. The woman who stood there had her arms full of parcels. Crump took them from her.
“Thanks, Crump. Pay the taxi, will you? I’ll have tea now. Is Mrs. Fortes
cue or Miss Elaine in?”
The butler hesitated, looking back over his shoulder.
“We’ve had bad news, ma’am,” he said. “About the master.”
“About Mr. Fortescue?”
Neele came forward. Crump said: “This is Mrs. Percival, sir.”
“What is it? What’s happened? An accident?”
The inspector looked her over as he replied. Mrs. Percival Fortescue was a plump woman with a discontented mouth. Her age he judged to be about thirty. Her questions came with a kind of eagerness. The thought flashed across his mind that she must be very bored.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you that Mr. Fortescue was taken to St. Jude’s Hospital this morning seriously ill and has since died.”
“Died? You mean he’s dead?” The news was clearly even more sensational than she had hoped for. “Dear me—this is a surprise. My husband’s away. You’ll have to get in touch with him. He’s in the North somewhere. I dare say they’ll know at the office. He’ll have to see to everything. Things always happen at the most awkward moment, don’t they.”
She paused for a moment, turning things over in her mind.
“It all depends, I suppose,” she said, “where they’ll have the funeral. Down here, I suppose. Or will it be in London?”
“That will be for the family to say.”
“Of course. I only just wondered.” For the first time she took direct cognisance of the man who was speaking to her.
“Are you from the office?” she asked. “You’re not a doctor, are you?”