A Pocket Full of Rye (Miss Marple 7)

“Frightens you? Why?”

“Because I think she’s crazy. I think she’s got religious mania. You don’t think she could be—really—mad, do you?”

“In what way, mad?”

“Oh, you know what I mean, Miss Marple, well enough. She sits up there and never goes out, and broods about sin. Well, she might have felt in the end that it was her mission in life to execute judgment.”

“Is that what your husband thinks?”

“I don’t know what Lance thinks. He won’t tell me. But I’m quite sure of one thing—that he believes that it’s someone who’s mad, and it’s someone in the family. Well, Percival’s sane enough, I should say. Jennifer’s just stupid and rather pathetic. She’s a bit nervy but that’s all, and Elaine is one of those queer, tempestuous, tense girls. She’s desperately in love with this young man of hers and she’ll never admit to herself for a moment that he’s marrying her for money?”

“You think he is marrying her for money?”

“Yes, I do. Don’t you think so?”

“I should say quite certainly,” said Miss Marple. “Like young Ellis who married Marion Bates, the rich ironmonger’s daughter. She was a very plain girl and absolutely besotted about him. However, it turned out quite well. People like young Ellis and this Gerald Wright are only really disagreeable when they’ve married a poor girl for love. They are so annoyed with themselves for doing it that they take it out on the girl. But if they marry a rich girl they continue to respect her.”

“I don’t see,” went on Pat, frowning, “how it can be anybody from outside. And so—and so that accounts for the atmosphere that is here. Everyone watching everybody else. Only something’s got to happen soon—”

“There won’t be anymore deaths,” said Miss Marple. “At least, I shouldn’t think so.”

“You can’t be sure of that.”

“Well, as a matter of fact, I am fairly sure. The murderer’s accomplished his purpose, you see.”

“His?”

“Well, his or her. One says his for convenience.”

“You say his or her purpose. What sort of purpose?”

Miss Marple shook her head—she was not yet quite sure herself.

Chapter Twenty-Three

I

Once again Miss Somers had just made tea in the typists’ room, and once again the kettle had not been boiling when Miss Somers poured the water onto the tea. History repeats itself. Miss Griffith, accepting her cup, thought to herself: “I really must speak to Mr. Percival about Somers. I’m sure we can do better. But with all this terrible business going on, one doesn’t like to bother him over office details.”

As so often before Miss Griffith said sharply:

“Water not boiling again, Somers,” and Miss Somers, going pink, replied in her usual formula:

“Oh, dear, I was sure it was boiling this time.”

Further developments on the same line were interrupted by the entrance of Lance Fortescue. He looked round him somewhat vaguely, and Miss Griffith jumped up, came forward to meet him.

“Mr. Lance,” she exclaimed.

He swung round towards her and his face lit up in a smile.

“Hallo. Why, it’s Miss Griffith.”

Miss Griffith was delighted. Eleven years since he had seen her and he knew her name. She said in a confused voice:

“Fancy your remembering.”

And Lance said easily, with all his charm to the fore:

“Of course I remember.”

A flicker of excitement was running round the typists’ room. Miss Somers’s troubles over the tea were forgotten. She was gaping at Lance with her mouth slightly open. Miss Bell gazed eagerly over the top of her typewriter and Miss Chase unobtrusively drew out her compact and powdered her nose. Lance Fortescue looked round him.

“So everything’s still going on just the same here,” he said.

“Not many changes, Mr. Lance. How brown you look and how well! I suppose you must have had a very interesting life abroad.”

“You could call it that,” said Lance, “but perhaps I am now going to try and have an interesting life in London.”

“You’re coming back here to the office?”

“Maybe.”

“Oh, but how delightful.”

“You’ll find me very rusty,” said Lance. “You’ll have to show me all the ropes, Miss Griffith.”

Miss Griffith laughed delightedly.

“It will be very nice to have you back, Mr. Lance. Very nice indeed.”

Lance threw her an appreciative glance.

“That’s sweet of you,” he said, “that’s very sweet of you.”

“We never believed—none of us thought . . .” Miss Griffith broke off and flushed.

Lance patted her on the arm.

“You didn’t believe the devil was as black as he was painted? Well, perhaps he wasn’t. But that’s all old history now. There’s no good going back over it. The future’s the thing.” He added, “Is my brother here?”

“He’s in the inner office, I think.”

Lance nodded easily and passed on. In the anteroom to the inner sanctum a hard-faced woman of middle age rose behind a desk and said forbiddingly:

“Your name and business, please?”

Lance looked at her doubtfully.

“Are you—Miss Grosvenor?” he asked.

Miss Grosvenor had been described to him as a glamorous blonde. She had indeed appeared so in the pictures that had appeared in the newspapers reporting the inquest on Rex Fortescue. This, surely, could not be Miss Grosvenor.

“Miss Grosvenor left last week. I am Mrs. Hardcastle, Mr. Percival Fortescue’s personal secretary.”

“How like old Percy,” thought Lance. “To get rid of a glamorous blonde and take on a Gorgon instead. I wonder why? Was it safety or was it because this one comes cheaper?” Aloud he said easily:

“I’m Lancelot Fortescue. You haven’t met me yet.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Mr. Lancelot,” Mrs. Hardcastle apologized, “this is the first time, I think, you’ve been to the office?”

“The first time but not the last,” said Lance, smiling.

He crossed the room and opened the door of what had been his father’s private office. Somewhat to his surprise it was not Percival who was sitting behind the desk there, but Inspector Neele. Inspector Neele looked up from a large wad of papers which he was sorting, and nodded his head.

“Good morning, Mr. Fortescue, you’ve come to take up your duties, I suppose.”

“So you’ve heard I decided to come into the firm?”

“Your brother told me so.”

“He did, did he? With enthusiasm?”

Inspector Neele endeavoured to conceal a smile.

“The enthusiasm was not marked,” he said gravely.

“Poor Percy,” commented Lance.

Inspector Neele looked at him curiously.

“Are you really going to become a City man?”

“You don’t think it’s likely, Inspector Neele?”

“It doesn’t seem quite in character, Mr. Fortescue.”

“Why not? I’m my father’s son.”

“And your mother’s.”

Lance shook his head.

“You haven’t got anything there, Inspector. My mother was a Victorian romantic. Her favourite reading was the Idylls of the King, as indeed you may have deduced from our curious Christian names. She was an invalid and always, I should imagine, out of touch with reality. I’m not like that at all. I have no sentiment, very little sense of romance and I’m a realist first and last.”

“People aren’t always what they think themselves to be,” Inspector Neele pointed out.

“No, I suppose that’s true,” said Lance.

He sat down in a chair and stretched his long legs out in his own characteristic fashion. He was smiling to himself. Then he said unexpectedly:

“You’re shrewder than my brother, Inspector.”

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; “In what way, Mr. Fortescue?”

“I’ve put the wind up Percy all right. He thinks I’m all set for the City life. He thinks he’s going to have my fingers fiddling about his pie. He thinks I’ll launch out and spend the firm’s money and try and embroil him in wildcat schemes. It would be almost worth doing just for the fun of it! Almost, but not quite. I couldn’t really stand an office life, Inspector. I like the open air and some possibilities of adventure. I’d stifle in a place like this.” He added quickly: “This is off the record, mind. Don’t give me away to Percy, will you?”