A Pocket Full of Rye. Агата Кристи

that you all heard?’

      ‘Well—yes.’

      ‘And he called Percival names—abused him—swore at him.’

      ‘What did he say Percival had done?’

      ‘It was more that he hadn’t done anything … he called him a miserable pettifogging little clerk. He said he had no large outlook, no conception of doing business in a big way. He said: “I shall get Lance home again. He’s worth ten of you—and he’s married well. Lance has got guts even if he did risk a criminal prosecution once—” Oh dear, I oughtn’t to have said that!’ Miss Griffith, carried away as others before her had been under Inspector Neele’s expert handling, was suddenly overcome with confusion.

      ‘Don’t worry,’ said Inspector Neele comfortingly. ‘What’s past is past.’

      ‘Oh yes, it was a long time ago. Mr Lance was just young and high-spirited and didn’t really realize what he was doing.’

      Inspector Neele had heard that view before and didn’t agree with it. But he passed on to fresh questions.

      ‘Tell me a little more about the staff here.’

      Miss Griffith, hurrying to get away from her indiscretion, poured out information about the various personalities in the firm. Inspector Neele thanked her and then said he would like to see Miss Grosvenor again.

      Detective Constable Waite sharpened his pencil. He remarked wistfully that this was a Ritzy joint. His glance wandered appreciatively over the huge chairs, the big desk and the indirect lighting.

      ‘All these people have got Ritzy names, too,’ he said. ‘Grosvenor—that’s something to do with a Duke. And Fortescue—that’s a classy name, too.’

      Inspector Neele smiled.

      ‘His father’s name wasn’t Fortescue. Fontescu—and he came from somewhere in Central Europe. I suppose this man thought Fortescue sounded better.’

      Detective Constable Waite looked at his superior officer with awe.

      ‘So you know all about him?’

      ‘I just looked up a few things before coming along on the call.’

      ‘Not got a record, had he?’

      ‘Oh no. Mr Fortescue was much too clever for that. He’s had certain connections with the black market and put through one or two deals that are questionable to say the least of it, but they’ve always been just within the law.’

      ‘I see,’ said Waite. ‘Not a nice man.’

      ‘A twister,’ said Neele. ‘But we’ve got nothing on him. The Inland Revenue have been after him for a long time but he’s been too clever for them. Quite a financial genius, the late Mr Fortescue.’

      ‘The sort of man,’ said Constable Waite, ‘who might have enemies?’

      He spoke hopefully.

      ‘Oh yes—certainly enemies. But he was poisoned at home, remember. Or so it would seem. You know, Waite, I see a kind of pattern emerging. An old-fashioned familiar kind of pattern. The good boy, Percival. The bad boy, Lance—attractive to women. The wife who’s younger than her husband and who’s vague about which course she’s going to play golf on. It’s all very familiar. But there’s one thing that sticks out in a most incongruous way.’

      Constable Waite asked ‘What’s that?’ just as the door opened and Miss Grosvenor, her poise restored, and once more her glamorous self, inquired haughtily:

      ‘You wished to see me?’

      ‘I wanted to ask you a few questions about your employer—your late employer, perhaps I should say.’

      ‘Poor soul,’ said Miss Grosvenor unconvincingly.

      ‘I want to know if you had noticed any difference in him lately.’

      ‘Well, yes. I did, as a matter of fact.’

      ‘In what way?’

      ‘I couldn’t really say … He seemed to talk a lot of nonsense. I couldn’t really believe half of what he said. And then he lost his temper very easily—especially with Mr Percival. Not with me, because of course I never argue. I just say, “Yes, Mr Fortescue,” whatever peculiar thing he says—said, I mean.’

      ‘Did he—ever—well—make any passes at you?’

      Miss Grosvenor replied rather regretfully:

      ‘Well, no, I couldn’t exactly say that.’

      ‘There’s just one other thing, Miss Grosvenor. Was Mr Fortescue in the habit of carrying grain about in his pocket?’

      Miss Grosvenor displayed a lively surprise.

      ‘Grain? In his pocket? Do you mean to feed pigeons or something?’

      ‘It could have been for that purpose.’

      ‘Oh, I’m sure he didn’t. Mr Fortescue? Feed pigeons? Oh no.’

      ‘Could he have had barley—or rye—in his pocket today for any special reason? A sample, perhaps? Some deal in grain?’

      ‘Oh no. He was expecting the Asiatic Oil people this afternoon. And the President of the Atticus Building Society … No one else.’

      ‘Oh well—’ Neele dismissed the subject and Miss Grosvenor with a wave of the hand.

      ‘Lovely legs she’s got,’ said Constable Waite with a sigh. ‘And super nylons—’

      ‘Legs are no help to me,’ said Inspector Neele. ‘I’m left with what I had before. A pocketful of rye—and no explanation of it.’

       CHAPTER 4

      Mary Dove paused on her way downstairs and looked out through the big window on the stairs. A car had just driven up from which two men were alighting. The taller of the two stood for a moment with his back to the house surveying his surroundings. Mary Dove appraised the two men thoughtfully. Inspector Neele and presumably a subordinate.

      She turned from the window and looked at herself in the full-length mirror that hung on the wall where the staircase turned … She saw a small demure figure with immaculate white collar and cuffs on a beige grey dress. Her dark hair was parted in the middle and drawn back in two shining waves to a knot in the back of the neck … The lipstick she used was a pale rose colour.

      On the whole Mary Dove was satisfied with her appearance. A very faint smile on her lips, she went on down the stairs.

      Inspector Neele, surveying the house, was saying to himself:

      Call it a lodge, indeed! Yewtree Lodge! The affectation of these rich people! The house was what he, Inspector Neele, would call a mansion. He knew what a lodge was. He’d been brought up in one! The lodge at the gates of Hartington Park, that vast unwieldy Palladian house with its twenty-nine bedrooms which had now been taken over by the National Trust. The lodge had been small and attractive from the outside, and had been damp, uncomfortable and devoid of anything but the most primitive form of sanitation within. Fortunately these facts had been accepted as quite proper and fitting by Inspector Neele’s parents. They had no rent to pay and nothing whatever to do except open and shut the gates when required, and there were always plenty of rabbits and an occasional pheasant or so for the pot. Mrs Neele had never discovered the pleasure of electric irons, slow combustion stoves, airing cupboards, hot and cold water from taps, and the switching on of light by a mere flick of a finger. In winter the Neeles had an oil lamp and in summer they went to bed when it got dark. They were a healthy family and a happy one, all thoroughly behind the times.

      So when Inspector Neele heard the word Lodge, it was his childhood memories