A Pocket Full of Rye (Miss Marple 7)

“About four o’clock, I understand.”

“Yes, I believe I did.”

“Don’t you remember what your conversation was about, Mr. Dubois?”

“It wasn’t of any significance. I think I asked her how she was feeling and if there was any further news about her husband’s death—a more or less conventional inquiry.”

“I see,” said Inspector Neele. He added: “And then you went out for a walk?”

“Er—yes—yes, I—I did, I think. At least, not a walk, I played a few holes of golf.”

Inspector Neele said gently:

“I think not, Mr. Dubois . . . Not that particular day . . . The porter here noticed you walking down the road towards Yewtree Lodge.”

Dubois’s eyes met his, then shied away again nervously.

“I’m afraid I can’t remember, Inspector.”

“Perhaps you actually went to call upon Mrs. Fortescue?”

Dubois said sharply:

“No. No, I didn’t do that. I never went near the house.”

“Where did you go, then?”

“Oh, I—went on down the road, down as far as the Three Pigeons and then I turned around and came back by the links.”

“You’re quite sure you didn’t go to Yewtree Lodge?”

“Quite sure, Inspector.”

The inspector shook his head.

“Come, now, Mr. Dubois,” he said, “it’s much better to be frank with us, you know. You may have had some quite innocent reason for going there.”

“I tell you I never went to see Mrs. Fortescue that day.”

The inspector stood up.

“You know, Mr. Dubois,” he said pleasantly, “I think we’ll have to ask you for a statement and you’ll be well-advised and quite within your rights in having a solicitor present when you are making that statement.”

The colour fled from Mr. Dubois’s face, leaving it a sickly greenish colour.

“You’re threatening me,” he said. “You’re threatening me.”

“No, no, nothing of the kind.” Inspector Neele spoke in a shocked voice. “We’re not allowed to do anything of that sort. Quite the contrary. I’m actually pointing out to you that you have certain rights.”

“I had nothing to do with it at all, I tell you! Nothing to do with it.”

“Come now, Mr. Dubois, you were at Yewtree Lodge round about half past four on that day. Somebody looked out of the window, you know, and saw you.”

“I was only in the garden. I didn’t go into the house.”

“Didn’t you?” said Inspector Neele. “Are you sure? Didn’t you go in by the side door and up the stairs to Mrs. Fortescue’s sitting room on the first floor? You were looking for something, weren’t you, in the desk there?”

“You’ve got them, I suppose,” said Dubois sullenly. “That fool Adele kept them, then—she swore she burnt them—But they don’t mean what you think they mean.”

“You’re not denying, are you, Mr. Dubois, that you were a very close friend of Mrs. Fortescue’s?”

“No, of course I’m not. How can I when you’ve got the letters? All I say is, there’s no need to go reading any sinister meaning into them. Don’t think for a moment that we—that she—ever thought of getting rid of Rex Fortescue. Good God, I’m not that kind of man!”

“But perhaps she was that kind of woman?”

“Nonsense,” cried Vivian Dubois, “wasn’t she killed too?”

“Oh yes, yes.”

“Well, isn’t it natural to believe that the same person who killed her husband killed her?”

“It might be. It certainly might be. But there are other solutions. For instance—(this is quite a hypothetical case, Mr. Dubois) it’s possible that Mrs. Fortescue got rid of her husband, and that after his death she became somewhat of a danger to someone else. Someone who had, perhaps, not helped her in what she had done but who had at least encouraged her and provided, shall we say, the motive for the deed. She might be, you know, a danger to that particular person.”

Dubois stammered:

“You c-c-can’t build up a case against me. You can’t.”

“She made a will, you know,” said Inspector Neele. “She left all her money to you. Everything she possessed.”

“I don’t want the money. I don’t want a penny of it.”

“Of course, it isn’t very much really,” said Inspector Neele. “There’s jewellery and some furs, but I imagine very little actual cash.”

Dubois stared at him, his jaw dropping.

“But I thought her husband—”

He stopped dead.

“Did you, Mr. Dubois?” said Inspector Neele, and there was steel now in his voice. “That’s very interesting. I wondered if you knew the terms of Rex Fortescue’s will—”

III

Inspector Neele’s second interview at the Golf Hotel was with Mr. Gerald Wright. Mr. Gerald Wright was a thin, intellectual and very superior young man. He was, Inspector Neele noted, not unlike Vivian Dubois in build.

“What can I do for you, Inspector Neele?” he asked.

“I thought you might be able to help us with a little information, Mr. Wright.”

“Information? Really? It seems very unlikely.”

“It’s in connection with the recent events at Yewtree Lodge. You’ve heard of them, of course?”

Inspector Neele put a little irony into the question. Mr. Wright smiled patronisingly.

“Heard of them,” he said, “is hardly the right word. The newspapers appear to be full of nothing else. How incredibly bloodthirsty our public press is! What an age we live in! On one side the manufacture of atom bombs, on the other our newspapers delight in reporting brutal murders! But you said you had some questions to ask. Really, I cannot see what they can be. I know nothing about this Yewtree Lodge affair. I was actually in the Isle of Man when Mr. Rex Fortescue was killed.”

“You arrived here very shortly afterwards, didn’t you, Mr. Wright? You had a telegram, I believe, from Miss Elaine Fortescue.”

“Our police know everything, do they not? Yes, Elaine sent for me. I came, of course, at once.”

“And you are, I understand, shortly to be married?”

“Quite right, Inspector Neele. You have no objections, I hope.”

“It is entirely Miss Fortescue’s business. I understand the attachment between you dates from sometime back? Six or seven months ago, in fact?”

“Quite correct.”

“You and Miss Fortescue became engaged to be married. Mr. Fortescue refused to give his consent, informed you that if his daughter married against his wishes he did not propose to give her an income of any kind. Whereupon, I understand, you broke off the engagement and departed.”

Gerald Wright smiled rather pityingly.

“A very crude way of putting things, Inspector Neele. Actually, I was victimized for my political opinions. Rex Fortescue was the worst type of capitalist. Naturally I could not sacrifice my political beliefs and convictions for money.”

“But you have no objections to marrying a wife who has just inherited £50,000?”

Gerald Wright gave a thin satisfied smile.

“Not at all, Inspector Neele. The money will be used for the benefit of the community. But surely you did not come here to discuss with me either my financial circumstances—or my political convictions?”

“No, Mr. Wright. I wanted to talk to you about a simple question of fact. As you are aware, Mrs. Adele Fortescue died as a result of cyanide poisoning on the afternoon of November the 5th.

“Since you were in the neighbourhood of Yewtree Lodge on that afternoon I thought it possible that you might have seen or heard something that had a bearing on the case.”

“And what leads you to believe that I was, as you call it, in the neighbourhood of Yewtree Lodge at the time?”

“You left this hotel at a quarter past four on that particular afternoon, Mr. Wright. On leaving the hotel you walked down the road in the direction of Yewtree Lodge. It seems natural to suppose that you were going there.”

“I thought of it,” said Gerald Wright, “but I considered that it would be a rather pointless thing to do. I already had an arrangement to meet Miss Fortescue—Elaine—at the hotel at six o’clock. I went for a walk along a lane that branches off from the main road and returned to the Golf Hotel just before six o’clock. Elaine did not keep her appointment. Quite naturally, under the circumstances.”