A Pocket Full of Rye (Miss Marple 7)

Lance Fortescue nodded.

“What did you reply to it?”

Lance’s grin widened.

“I told Percy to go and boil his head and to let the old man alone. I said the old man probably knew what he was doing quite well.”

Inspector Neele’s gaze went back again to Percival.

“Were those the terms of your brother’s answer?”

“I—I—well, I suppose roughly, yes. Far more offensively couched, however.”

“I thought the inspector had better have a bowdlerized version,” said Lance. He went on, “Frankly, Inspector Neele, that is one of the reasons why, when I got a letter from my father, I came home to see for myself what I thought. In the short interview I had with my father, frankly I couldn’t see anything much wrong with him. He was slightly excitable, that was all. He appeared to me perfectly capable of managing his own affairs. Anyway, after I got back to Africa and had talked things over with Pat, I decided that I’d come home and—what shall we say—see fair play.”

He shot a glance at Percival as he spoke.

“I object,” said Percival Fortescue. “I object strongly to what you are suggesting. I was not intending to victimize my father, I was concerned for his health. I admit that I was also concerned . . .” he paused.

Lance filled the pause quickly.

“You were also concerned for your pocket, eh? For Percy’s little pocket.” He got up and all of a sudden his manner changed. “All right, Percy, I’m through. I was going to string you along a bit by pretending to work here. I wasn’t going to let you have things all your own sweet way, but I’m damned if I’m going on with it. Frankly, it makes me sick to be in the same room with you. You’ve always been a dirty, mean little skunk all your life. Prying and snooping and lying and making trouble. I’ll tell you another thing. I can’t prove it, but I’ve always believed it was you who forged that cheque there was all the row about, that got me shot out of here. For one thing it was a damn bad forgery, a forgery that drew attention to itself in letters a foot high. My record was too bad for me to be able to protest effectively, but I often wondered that the old boy didn’t realize that if I had forged his name I could have made a much better job of it than that.”

Lance swept on, his voice rising. “Well, Percy, I’m not going on with this silly game. I’m sick of this country, and of the City. I’m sick of little men like you with their pinstripe trousers and their black coats and their mincing voices and their mean, shoddy financial deals. We’ll share out as you suggested, and I’ll get back with Pat to a different country—a country where there’s room to breathe and move about. You can make your own division of securities. Keep the gilt-edged and the conservative ones, keep the safe two percent and three percent and three and a half percent. Give me father’s latest wildcat speculations as you call them. Most of them are probably duds. But I’ll bet that one or two of them will pay better in the end than all your playing safe with three percent Trustee Stocks will do. Father was a shrewd old devil. He took chances, plenty of them. Some of those chances paid five and six and seven hundred percent. I’ll back his judgment and his luck. As for you, you little worm. . . .”

Lance advanced towards his brother, who retreated rapidly, round the end of the desk towards Inspector Neele.

“All right,” said Lance, “I’m not going to touch you. You wanted me out of here, you’re getting me out of here. You ought to be satisfied.”

He added as he strode towards the door:

“You can throw in the old Blackbird Mine concession too, if you like. If we’ve got the murdering MacKenzies on our trail, I’ll draw them off to Africa.”

He added as he swung through the doorway:

“Revenge—after all these years—scarcely seems credible. But Inspector Neele seems to take it seriously, don’t you, Inspector?”

“Nonsense,” said Percival. “Such a thing is impossible!”

“Ask him,” said Lance. “Ask him why he’s making all these inquiries into blackbirds and rye in father’s pocket.”

Gently stroking his upper lip, Inspector Neele said:

“You remember the blackbirds last summer, Mr. Fortescue. There are certain grounds for inquiry.”

“Nonsense,” said Percival again. “Nobody’s heard of the MacKenzies for years.”

“And yet,” said Lance, “I’d almost dare to swear that there’s a MacKenzie in our midst. I rather imagine the inspector thinks so, too.”

II

Inspector Neele caught up Lancelot Fortescue as the latter emerged into the street below.

Lance grinned at him rather sheepishly.

“I didn’t mean to do that,” he said. “But I suddenly lost my temper. Oh! well—it would have come to the same before long. I’m meeting Pat at the Savoy—are you coming my way, Inspector?”

“No, I’m returning to Baydon Heath. But there’s just something I’d like to ask you, Mr. Fortescue.”

“Yes!”

“When you came into the inner office and saw me there—you were surprised. Why?”

“Because I didn’t expect to see you, I suppose. I thought I’d find Percy there.”

“You weren’t told that he’d gone out?”

Lance looked at him curiously.

“No. They said he was in his office.”

“I see—nobody knew he’d gone out. There’s no second door out of the inner office—but there is a door leading straight into the corridor from the little antechamber—I suppose your brother went out that way—but I’m surprised Mrs. Hardcastle didn’t tell you so.”

Lance laughed.

“She’d probably been to collect her cup of tea.”

“Yes—yes—quite so.”

Lance looked at him.

“What’s the idea, Inspector?”

“Just puzzling over a few little things, that’s all, Mr. Fortescue—”

Chapter Twenty-Four

I

In the train on the way down to Baydon Heath, Inspector Neele had singularly little success doing The Times crossword. His mind was distracted by various possibilities. In the same way he read the news with only half his brain taking it in. He read of an earthquake in Japan, of the discovery of uranium deposits in Tanganyika, of the body of a merchant seaman washed up near Southampton, and of the imminent strike among the dockers. He read of the latest victims of the cosh and of a new drug that had achieved wonders in advanced cases of tuberculosis.

All these items made a queer kind of pattern in the back of his mind. Presently he returned to the crossword puzzle and was able to put down three clues in rapid succession.

When he reached Yewtree Lodge he had come to a certain decision. He said to Sergeant Hay:

“Where’s that old lady? Is she still there?”

“Miss Marple? Oh, yes, she’s here still. Great buddies with the old lady upstairs.”

“I see.” Neele paused for a moment and then said: “Where is she now? I’d like to see her.”

Miss Marple arrived in a few minutes’ time, looking rather flushed and breathing fast.

“You want to see me, Inspector Neele? I do hope I haven’t kept you waiting. Sergeant Hay couldn’t find me at first. I was in the kitchen, talking to Mrs. Crump. I was congratulating her on her pastry and how light her hand is, and telling her how delicious the soufflé was last night. I always think, you know, it’s better to approach a subject gradually, don’t you? At least, I suppose it isn’t so easy for you. You more or less have to come almost straight away to the questions you want to ask. But of course for an old lady like me who has all the time in the world, as you might say, it’s really expected of her that there should be a great deal of unnecessary talk. And the way to a cook’s heart, as they say, is through her pastry.”

“What you really wanted to talk to her about,” said Inspector Neele, “was Gladys Martin?”

Miss Marple nodded.

“Yes. Gladys. You see, Mrs. Crump could really tell me a lot about the