A Pocket Full of Rye (Miss Marple 7)

“I know. But I also told them that Mr. Percival Fortescue would be more likely to be—well—generous—to those who had spared him inconvenience.”

“And Ellen?”

“Ellen does not wish to leave.”

“Ellen does not wish to leave,” Neele repeated. “She has good nerves.”

“She enjoys disasters,” said Mary Dove. “Like Mrs. Percival, she finds in disaster a kind of pleasurable drama.”

“Interesting. Do you think Mrs. Percival has—enjoyed the tragedies?”

“No—of course not. That is going too far. I would merely say that it has enabled her to—well—stand up to them—”

“And how have you yourself been affected, Miss Dove?”

Mary Dove shrugged her shoulders.

“It has not been a pleasant experience,” she said dryly.

Inspector Neele felt again a longing to break down this cool young woman’s defences—to find out what was really going on behind the careful and efficient understatement of her whole attitude.

He merely said brusquely:

“Now—to recapitulate times and places: the last time you saw Gladys Martin was in the hall before tea, and that was at twenty minutes to five?”

“Yes—I told her to bring in tea.”

“You yourself were coming from where?”

“From upstairs—I thought I had heard the telephone a few minutes before.”

“Gladys, presumably, had answered the telephone?”

“Yes. It was a wrong number. Someone who wanted the Baydon Heath Laundry.”

“And that was the last time you saw her?”

“She brought the tea tray into the library about ten minutes or so later.”

“After that Miss Elaine Fortescue came in?”

“Yes, about three or four minutes later. Then I went up to tell Mrs. Percival tea was ready.”

“Did you usually do that?”

“Oh no—people came in to tea when they pleased—but Mrs. Fortescue asked where everybody was. I thought I heard Mrs. Percival coming—but that was a mistake—”

Neele interrupted. Here was something new.

“You mean you heard someone upstairs moving about?”

“Yes—at the head of the stairs, I thought. But no one came down so I went up. Mrs. Percival was in her bedroom. She had just come in. She had been out for a walk—”

“Out for a walk—I see. The time being then—”

“Oh—nearly five o’clock, I think—”

“And Mr. Lancelot Fortescue arrived—when?”

“A few minutes after I came downstairs again—I thought he had arrived earlier—but—”

Inspector Neele interrupted:

“Why did you think he had arrived earlier?”

“Because I thought I had caught sight of him through the landing window.”

“In the garden, you mean?”

“Yes—I caught a glimpse of someone through the yew hedge—and I thought it would probably be him.”

“This was when you were coming down after telling Mrs. Percival Fortescue tea was ready?”

Mary corrected him.

“No—not then—it was earlier—when I came down the first time.”

Inspector Neele stared.

“Are you sure about that, Miss Dove?”

“Yes, I’m perfectly sure. That’s why I was surprised to see him—when he actually did ring the bell.”

Inspector Neele shook his head. He kept his inner excitement out of his voice as he said:

“It couldn’t have been Lancelot Fortescue you saw in the garden. His train—which was due at 4:28, was nine minutes late. He arrived at Baydon Heath Station at 4:37. He had to wait a few minutes for a taxi—that train is always very full. It was actually nearly a quarter to five (five minutes after you had seen the man in the garden) when he left the station and it is a ten-minute drive. He paid off the taxi at the gate here at about five minutes to five at the earliest. No—it wasn’t Lancelot Fortescue you saw.”

“I’m sure I did see someone.”

“Yes, you saw someone. It was getting dark. You couldn’t have seen the man clearly?”

“Oh no—I couldn’t see his face or anything like that—just his build—tall and slender. We were expecting Lancelot Fortescue—so I jumped to the conclusion that that’s who it was.”

“He was going—which way?”

“Along behind the yew hedge towards the east side of the house.”

“There is a side door there. Is it kept locked?”

“Not until the house is locked up for the night.”

“Anyone could have come in by that side door without being observed by any of the household.”

Mary Dove considered.

“I think so. Yes.” She added quickly: “You mean—the person I heard later upstairs could have come in that way? Could have been hiding—upstairs?”

“Something of the kind.”

“But who—?”

“That remains to be seen. Thank you, Miss Dove.”

As she turned to go away Inspector Neele said in a casual voice: “By the way, you can’t tell me anything about blackbirds, I suppose?”

For the first time, so it seemed, Mary Dove was taken aback. She turned back sharply.

“I—what did you say?”

“I was just asking you about blackbirds.”

“Do you mean—”

“Blackbirds,” said Inspector Neele.

He had on his most stupid expression.

“You mean that silly business last summer? But surely that can’t . . .” She broke off.

Inspector Neele said pleasantly:

“There’s been a bit of talk about it, but I was sure I’d get a clear account from you.”

Mary Dove was her calm, practical self again.

“It must, I think, have been some silly, spiteful joke,” she said. “Four dead blackbirds were on Mr. Fortescue’s desk in his study here. It was summer and the windows were open, and we rather thought it must have been the gardener’s boy, though he insisted he’d never done anything of the kind. But they were actually blackbirds the gardener had shot which had been hanging up by the fruit bushes.”

“And somebody had cut them down and put them on Mr. Fortescue’s desk?”

“Yes.”

“Any sort of reason behind it—any association with blackbirds?”

Mary shook her head.

“I don’t think so.”

“How did Mr. Fortescue take it? Was he annoyed?”

“Naturally he was annoyed.”

“But not upset in any way?”

“I really can’t remember.”

“I see,” said Inspector Neele.

He said no more. Mary Dove once more turned away, but this time, he thought, she went rather unwillingly as though she would have liked to know more of what was in his mind. Ungratefully, all that Inspector Neele felt was annoyance with Miss Marple. She had suggested to him that there would be blackbirds and, sure enough, there the blackbirds were! Not four and twenty of them, that was true. What might be called a token consignment.

That had been as long ago as last summer and where it fitted in Inspector Neele could not imagine. He was not going to let this blackbird bogey divert him from the logical and sober investigation of murder by a sane murderer for a sane reason, but he would be forced from now on to keep the crazier possibilities of the case in mind.

Chapter Fifteen

I

“I’m sorry, Miss Fortescue, to bother you again, but I want to be quite, quite clear about this. As far as we know you were the last person—or rather the last person but one—to see Mrs. Fortescue alive. It was about twenty past five when you left the drawing room?”

“About then,” said Elaine, “I can’t say exactly.” She added defensively: “One doesn’t look at clocks the whole time.”

“No, of course not. During the time that you were alone with Mrs. Fortescue after the others had left, what did you talk about?”

“Does it matter what we talked about?”

“Probably not,” said Inspector Neele, “but it might give me some clue as to what was in Mrs. Fortescue’s mind.”

“You mean—you think she might have done it herself?”

Inspector Neele noticed the brightening on her face. It would certainly be a very convenient solution as far as the family was concerned. Inspector Neele did not think it was true for a moment. Adele Fortescue was not to his mind a suicidal type. Even if she had poisoned her husband and was convinced the crime was about to be brought home to her, she would not, he thought, have ever thought of killing herself. She would have been sure optimistically that even if she were tried for murder she would be sure to be acquitted. He was not, however, averse to Elaine Fortescue’s entertaining the hypothesis. He said, therefore, quite truthfully: