A Pocket Full of Rye (Miss Marple 7)

“Anybody see you on this walk of yours, Mr. Wright?”

“A few cars passed me, I think, on the road. I did not see anyone I knew, if that’s what you mean. The lane was little more than a cart-track and too muddy for cars.”

“So between the time you left the hotel at a quarter past four until six o’clock when you arrived back again, I’ve only your word for it as to where you were?”

Gerald Wright continued to smile in a superior fashion.

“Very distressing for us both, Inspector, but there it is.”

Inspector Neele said softly:

“Then if someone said they looked out of a landing window and saw you in the garden of Yewtree Lodge at about 4:35—” he paused and left the sentence unfinished.

Gerald Wright raised his eyebrows and shook his head.

“Visibility must have been very bad by then,” he said. “I think it would be difficult for anyone to be sure.”

“Are you acquainted with Mr. Vivian Dubois, who is also staying here?”

“Dubois. Dubois? No, I don’t think so. Is that the tall, dark man with a pretty taste in suede shoes?”

“Yes. He also was out for a walk that afternoon, and he also left the hotel and walked past Yewtree Lodge. You did not notice him in the road by any chance?”

“No. No. I can’t say I did.”

Gerald Wright looked for the first time faintly worried. Inspector Neele said thoughtfully:

“It wasn’t really a very nice afternoon for walking, especially after dark in a muddy lane. Curious how energetic everyone seems to have felt.”

IV

On Inspector Neele’s return to the house he was greeted by Sergeant Hay with an air of satisfaction.

“I’ve found out about the blackbirds for you, sir,” he said.

“You have, have you?”

“Yes, sir, in a pie they were. Cold pie was left out for Sunday night’s supper. Somebody got at that pie in the larder or somewhere. They’d taken off the crust and they’d taken out the veal and ’am what was inside it, and what d’you think they put in instead? Some stinkin’ blackbirds they got out of the gardener’s shed. Nasty sort of trick to play, wasn’t it?”

“ ‘Wasn’t that a dainty dish to set before the king?’ ” said Inspector Neele.

He left Sergeant Hay staring after him.

Chapter Eighteen

I

“Just wait a minute,” said Miss Ramsbottom. “This patience is going to come out.”

She transferred a king and his various impedimenta into an empty space, put a red seven on a black eight, built up the four, five and six of spades on her foundation heap, made a few more rapid transfers of cards and then leaned back with a sign of satisfaction.

“That’s the Double Jester,” she said. “It doesn’t often come out.”

She leaned back in a satisfied fashion, then raised her eyes at the girl standing by the fireplace.

“So you’re Lance’s wife,” she said.

Pat, who had been summoned upstairs to Miss Ramsbottom’s presence, nodded her head.

“Yes,” she said.

“You’re a tall girl,” said Miss Ramsbottom, “and you look healthy.”

“I’m very healthy.”

Miss Ramsbottom nodded in a satisfied manner.

“Percival’s wife is pasty,” she said. “Eats too many sweets and doesn’t take enough exercise. Well, sit down, child, sit down. Where did you meet my nephew?”

“I met him out in Kenya when I was staying there with some friends.”

“You’ve been married before, I understand.”

“Yes. Twice.”

Miss Ramsbottom gave a profound sniff.

“Divorce, I suppose.”

“No,” said Pat. Her voice trembled a little. “They both—died. My first husband was a fighter pilot. He was killed in the war.”

“And your second husband? Let me see—somebody told me. Shot himself, didn’t he?”

Pat nodded.

“Your fault?”

“No,” said Pat. “It wasn’t my fault.”

“Racing man, wasn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve never been on a race course in my life,” said Miss Ramsbottom. “Betting and card playing—all devices of the devil!”

Pat did not reply.

“I wouldn’t go inside a theatre or a cinema,” said Miss Ramsbottom. “Ah, well, it’s a wicked world nowadays. A lot of wickedness was going on in this house, but the Lord struck them down.”

Pat still found it difficult to say anything. She wondered if Lance’s Aunt Effie was really quite all there. She was, however, a trifle disconcerted by the old lady’s shrewd glance at her.

“How much,” demanded Aunt Effie, “do you know about the family you’ve married into?”

“I suppose,” said Pat, “as much as one ever knows of the family one marries into.”

“H’m, something in that, something in that. Well, I’ll tell you this. My sister was a fool, my brother-in-law was a rogue, Percival is a sneak, and your Lance was always the bad boy of the family.”

“I think that’s all nonsense,” said Pat robustly.

“Maybe you’re right,” said Miss Ramsbottom, unexpectedly. “You can’t just stick labels on people. But don’t underestimate Percival. There’s a tendency to believe that those who are labelled good are also stupid. Percival isn’t the least bit stupid. He’s quite clever in a sanctimonious kind of way. I’ve never cared for him. Mind you, I don’t trust Lance and I don’t approve of him, but I can’t help being fond of him . . . He’s a reckless sort of fellow—always has been. You’ve got to look after him and see he doesn’t go too far. Tell him not to underestimate Percival, my dear. Tell him not to believe everything that Percival says. They’re all liars in this house.” The old lady added with satisfaction: “Fire and brimstone shall be their portion.”

II

Inspector Neele was finishing a telephone conversation with Scotland Yard.

The assistant commissioner at the other end said:

“We ought to be able to get that information for you—by circularizing the various private sanatoriums. Of course she may be dead.”

“Probably is. It’s a long time ago.”

Old sins cast long shadows. Miss Ramsbottom had said that—said it with a significance, too—as though she was giving him a hint.

“It’s a fantastic theory,” said the AC.

“Don’t I know it, sir. But I don’t feel we can ignore it altogether. Too much fits in—”

“Yes—yes—rye—blackbirds—the man’s Christian name—”

Neele said:

“I’m concentrating on the other lines too—Dubois is a possibility—so is Wright—the girl Gladys could have caught sight of either of them outside the side door—she could have left the tea tray in the hall and gone out to see who it was and what they were doing—whoever it was could have strangled her then and there and then carried her body round to the clothesline and put the peg on her nose—”

“A crazy thing to do in all conscience! A nasty one too.”

“Yes, sir. That’s what upset the old lady—Miss Marple, I mean. Nice old lady—and very shrewd. She’s moved into the house—to be near old Miss Ramsbottom—and I’ve no doubt she’ll get to hear anything that’s going.”

“What’s your next move, Neele?”

“I’ve an appointment with the London solicitors. I want to find out a little more about Rex Fortescue’s affairs. And though it’s old history, I want to hear a little more about the Blackbird Mine.”

III

Mr. Billingsley, of Billingsley, Horsethorpe & Walters, was an urbane man whose discretion was concealed habitually by a misleadingly forthcoming manner. It was the second interview that Inspector Neele had had with him, and on this occasion Mr. Billingsley’s discretion was less noticeable than it had been on the former one. The triple tragedy at Yewtree Lodge had shaken Mr. Billingsley out of his pr

ofessional reserve. He was now only too anxious to put all the facts he could before the police.

“Most extraordinary business, this whole thing,” he said. “A most extraordinary business. I don’t remember anything like it in all my professional career.”