A Pocket Full of Rye (Miss Marple 7)

“Really, Lance,” Percival spoke angrily, “these jokes of yours are in bad taste.”

“I do think, Lance, you might be more careful what you say,” said Jennifer.

Sitting a little way away near the window, Pat studied them one by one. If this was what Lance had meant by twisting Percival’s tail, she could see that he was achieving his object. Percival’s neat impassivity was quite ruffled. He snapped again, angrily:

“Are you serious, Lance?”

“Dead serious.”

“It won’t work, you know. You’ll soon get fed up.”

“Not me. Think what a lovely change it’ll be for me. A city office, typists coming and going. I shall have a blonde secretary like Miss Grosvenor—is it Grosvenor? I suppose you’ve snaffled her. But I shall get one just like her. ‘Yes, Mr. Lancelot; no, Mr. Lancelot. Your tea, Mr. Lancelot.’ ”

“Oh, don’t play the fool,” snapped Percival.

“Why are you so angry, my dear brother? Don’t you look forward to having me sharing your city cares?”

“You haven’t the least conception of the mess everything’s in.”

“No. You’ll have to put me wise to all that.”

“First you’ve got to understand that for the last six months—no, more, a year, Father’s not been himself. He’s done the most incredibly foolish things, financially. Sold out good stock, acquired various wildcat holdings. Sometimes he’s really thrown away money hand over fist. Just, one might say, for the fun of spending it.”

“In fact,” said Lance, “it’s just as well for the family that he had taxine in his tea.”

“That’s a very ugly way of putting it, but in essence you’re quite right. It’s about the only thing that saved us from bankruptcy. But we shall have to be extremely conservative and go very cautiously for a bit.”

Lance shook his head.

“I don’t agree with you. Caution never does anyone any good. You must take a few risks, strike out. You must go for something big.”

“I don’t agree,” said Percy. “Caution and economy. Those are our watchwords.”

“Not mine,” said Lance.

“You’re only the junior partner, remember,” said Percival.

“All right, all right. But I’ve got a little say-so all the same.”

Percival walked up and down the room agitatedly.

“It’s no good, Lance. I’m fond of you and all that—”

“Are you?” Lance interpolated. Percival did not appear to hear him.

“. . . but I really don’t think we’re going to pull together at all. Our outlooks are totally different.”

“That may be an advantage,” said Lance.

“The only sensible thing,” said Percival, “is to dissolve the partnership.”

“You’re going to buy me out—is that the idea?”

“My dear boy, it’s the only sensible thing to do, with our ideas so different.”

“If you find it hard to pay Elaine out her legacy, how are you going to manage to pay me my share?”

“Well, I didn’t mean in cash,” said Percival. “We could—er—divide up the holdings.”

“With you keeping the gilt-edged and me taking the worst of the speculative off you, I suppose?”

“They seem to be what you prefer,” said Percival.

Lance grinned suddenly.

“You’re right in a way, Percy, old boy. But I can’t indulge my own taste entirely. I’ve got Pat here to think of.”

Both men looked towards her. Pat opened her mouth, then shut it again. Whatever game Lance was playing, it was best that she should not interfere. That Lance was driving at something special, she was quite sure, but she was still a little uncertain as to what his actual object was.

“Line ’em up, Percy,” said Lance, laughing. “Bogus Diamond Mines, Inaccessible Rubies, the Oil Concessions where no oil is. Do you think I’m quite as big a fool as I look?”

Percival said:

“Of course, some of these holdings are highly speculative, but remember, they may turn out immensely valuable.”

“Changed your tune, haven’t you?” said Lance, grinning. “Going to offer me father’s latest wildcat acquisition as well as the old Blackbird Mine and things of that kind. By the way, has the inspector been asking you about this Blackbird Mine?”

Percival frowned.

“Yes, he did. I can’t imagine what he wanted to know about it. I couldn’t tell him much. You and I were children at the time. I just remember vaguely that Father went out there and came back saying the whole thing was no good.”

“What was it—a gold mine?”

“I believe so. Father came back pretty certain that there was no gold there. And, mind you, he wasn’t the sort of man to be mistaken.”

“Who got him into it? A man called MacKenzie, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. MacKenzie died out there.”

“MacKenzie died out there,” said Lance thoughtfully. “Wasn’t there a terrific scene? I seem to remember . . . Mrs. MacKenzie, wasn’t it? Came here. Ranted and stormed at Father. Hurled down curses on his head. She accused him, if I remember rightly, of murdering her husband.”

“Really,” said Percival repressively. “I can’t recollect anything of the kind.”

“I remember it, though,” said Lance. “I was a good bit younger than you, of course. Perhaps that’s why it appealed to me. As a child it struck me as full of drama. Where was Blackbird? West Africa wasn’t it?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“I must look up the concession sometime,” said Lance, “when I’m at the office.”

“You can be quite sure,” said Percival, “that Father made no mistake. If he came back saying there was no gold, there was no gold.”

“You’re probably right there,” said Lance. “Poor Mrs. MacKenzie. I wonder what happened to her and to those two kids she brought along. Funny—they must be grown-up by now.”

Chapter Twenty

At the Pinewood Private Sanatorium, Inspector Neele, sitting in the visitors’ parlour, was facing a grey-haired, elderly lady. Helen MacKenzie was sixty-three, though she looked younger. She had pale blue, rather vacant-looking eyes, and a weak, indeterminate chin. She had a long upper lip which occasionally twitched. She held a large book in her lap and was looking down at it as Inspector Neele talked to her. In Inspector Neele’s mind was the conversation he had just had with Dr. Crosbie, the head of the establishment.

“She’s a voluntary patient, of course,” said Dr. Crosbie, “not certified.”

“She’s not dangerous, then?”

“Oh, no. Most of the time she’s as sane to talk to as you or me. It’s one of her good periods now so that you’ll be able to have a perfectly normal conversation with her.”

Bearing this in mind, Inspector Neele started his first conversational essay.

“It’s very kind of you to see me, madam,” he said. “My name is Neele. I’ve come to see you about a Mr. Fortescue who has recently died. A Mr. Rex Fortescue. I expect you know the name.”

Mrs. MacKenzie’s eyes were fixed on her book. She said:

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Mr. Fortescue, madam. Mr. Rex Fortescue.”

“No,” said Mrs. MacKenzie. “No. Certainly not.”

Inspector Neele was slightly taken aback. He wondered whether this was what Dr. Crosbie called being completely normal.

“I think, Mrs. MacKenzie, you knew him a good many years ago.”

“Not really,” said Mrs. MacKenzie. “It was yesterday.”

“I see,” said Inspector Neele, falling back upon this formula rather uncertainly. “I believe,” he went on, “that you paid him a visit many years ago at his residence, Yewtree Lodge.”

“A very ostentatious house,” said Mrs. MacKenzie.

“Yes. Yes, you might call it that. He had been connected with your husband, I believe, over a certain mine in Africa. The Blackbird Mine, I believe it

was called.”

“I have to read my book,” said Mrs. MacKenzie. “There’s not much time and I have to read my book.”

“Yes, madam. Yes, I quite see that.” There was a pause, then Inspector Neele went on, “Mr. MacKenzie and Mr. Fortescue went out together to Africa to survey the mine.”

“It was my husband’s mine,” said Mrs. MacKenzie. “He found it and staked a claim to it. He wanted money to capitalize it. He went to Rex Fortescue. If I’d been wiser, if I’d known more, I wouldn’t have let him do it.”

“No, I see that. As it was, they went out together to Africa, and there your husband died of fever.”

“I must read my book,” said Mrs. MacKenzie.

“Do you think Mr. Fortescue swindled your husband over the Blackbird Mine, Mrs. MacKenzie?”

Without raising her eyes from the book, Mrs. MacKenzie said:

“How stupid you are.”

“Yes, yes, I dare say . . . But you see it’s all a long time ago and making inquiries about a thing that is over a long time ago is rather difficult.”

“Who said it was over?”

“I see. You don’t think it is over?”

“No question is ever settled until it is settled right. Kipling said that. Nobody reads Kipling nowadays, but he was a great man.”

“Do you think the question will be settled right one of these days?”

“Rex Fortescue is dead, isn’t he? You said so.”