A Pocket Full of Rye. Агата Кристи

either, according to Inspector Neele’s idea of the country. The house was a large solid red-brick structure, sprawling lengthwise rather than upward, with rather too many gables, and a vast number of leaded paned windows. The gardens were highly artificial—all laid out in rose beds and pergolas and pools, and living up to the name of the house with large numbers of clipped yew hedges.

      Plenty of yew here for anybody with a desire to obtain the raw material of taxine. Over on the right, behind the rose pergola, there was a bit of actual nature left—a vast yew tree of the kind one associates with churchyards, its branches held up by stakes—like a kind of Moses of the forest world. That tree, the inspector thought, had been there long before the rash of newly built red-brick houses had begun to spread over the countryside. It had been there before the golf courses had been laid out and the fashionable architects had walked round with their rich clients, pointing out the advantages of the various sites. And since it was a valuable antique, the tree had been kept and incorporated in the new set-up and had, perhaps, given its name to the new desirable residence. Yewtree Lodge. And possibly the berries from that very tree—Inspector Neele cut off these unprofitable speculations. Must get on with the job. He rang the bell.

      It was opened promptly by a middle-aged man who fitted in quite accurately with the mental image Inspector Neele had formed of him over the phone. A man with a rather spurious air of smartness, a shifty eye and a rather unsteady hand.

      Inspector Neele announced himself and his subordinate and had the pleasure of seeing an instant look of alarm come into the butler’s eye … Neele did not attach too much importance to that. It might easily have nothing to do with the death of Rex Fortescue. It was quite possibly a purely automatic reaction.

      ‘Has Mrs Fortescue returned yet?’

      ‘No, sir.’

      ‘Nor Mr Percival Fortescue? Nor Miss Fortescue?’

      ‘No, sir.’

      ‘Then I would like to see Miss Dove, please.’

      The man turned his head slightly.

      ‘Here’s Miss Dove now—coming downstairs.’

      Inspector Neele took in Miss Dove as she came composedly down the wide staircase. This time the mental picture did not correspond with the reality. Unconsciously the word housekeeper had conjured up a vague impression of someone large and authoritative dressed in black with somewhere concealed about her a jingle of keys.

      The inspector was quite unprepared for the small trim figure descending towards him. The soft dove-coloured tones of her dress, the white collar and cuffs, the neat waves of hair, the faint Mona Lisa smile. It all seemed, somehow, just a little unreal, as though this young woman of under thirty was playing a part: not, he thought, the part of a housekeeper, but the part of Mary Dove. Her appearance was directed towards living up to her name.

      She greeted him composedly.

      ‘Inspector Neele?’

      ‘Yes. This is Sergeant Hay. Mr Fortescue, as I told you through the phone, died in St Jude’s Hospital at 12.43. It seems likely that his death was the result of something he ate at breakfast this morning. I should be glad therefore if Sergeant Hay could be taken to the kitchen where he can make inquiries as to the food served.’

      Her eyes met his for a moment, thoughtfully, then she nodded.

      ‘Of course,’ she said. She turned to the uneasily hovering butler. ‘Crump, will you take Sergeant Hay out and show him whatever he wants to see.’

      The two men departed together. Mary Dove said to Neele:

      ‘Will you come in here?’

      She opened the door of a room and preceded him into it. It was a characterless apartment, clearly labelled ‘Smoking Room’, with panelling, rich upholstery, large stuffed chairs, and a suitable set of sporting prints on the walls.

      ‘Please sit down.’

      He sat and Mary Dove sat opposite him. She chose, he noticed, to face the light. An unusual preference for a woman. Still more unusual if a woman had anything to hide. But perhaps Mary Dove had nothing to hide.

      ‘It is very unfortunate,’ she said, ‘that none of the family is available. Mrs Fortescue may return at any minute. And so may Mrs Val. I have sent wires to Mr Percival Fortescue at various places.’

      ‘Thank you, Miss Dove.’

      ‘You say that Mr Fortescue’s death was caused by something he may have eaten for breakfast? Food poisoning, you mean?’

      ‘Possibly.’ He watched her.

      She said composedly, ‘It seems unlikely. For breakfast this morning there were bacon and scrambled eggs, coffee, toast and marmalade. There was also a cold ham on the sideboard, but that had been cut yesterday, and no one felt any ill effects. No fish of any kind was served, no sausages—nothing like that.’

      ‘I see you know exactly what was served.’

      ‘Naturally. I order the meals. For dinner last night—’

      ‘No.’ Inspector Neele interrupted her. ‘It would not be a question of dinner last night.’

      ‘I thought the onset of food poisoning could sometimes be delayed as much as twenty-four hours.’

      ‘Not in this case … Will you tell me exactly what Mr Fortescue ate and drank before leaving the house this morning?’

      ‘He had early tea brought to his room at eight o’clock. Breakfast was at a quarter past nine. Mr Fortescue, as I have told you, had scrambled eggs, bacon, coffee, toast and marmalade.’

      ‘Any cereal?’

      ‘No, he didn’t like cereals.’

      ‘The sugar for the coffee—is it lump sugar or granulated?’

      ‘Lump. But Mr Fortescue did not take sugar in his coffee.’

      ‘Was he in the habit of taking any medicines in the morning? Salts? A tonic? Some digestive remedy?’

      ‘No, nothing of that kind.’

      ‘Did you have breakfast with him also?’

      ‘No. I do not take meals with the family.’

      ‘Who was at breakfast?’

      ‘Mrs Fortescue. Miss Fortescue. Mrs Val Fortescue. Mr Percival Fortescue, of course, was away.’

      ‘And Mrs and Miss Fortescue ate the same things for breakfast?’

      ‘Mrs Fortescue has only coffee, orange juice and toast, Mrs Val and Miss Fortescue always eat a hearty breakfast. Besides eating scrambled eggs and cold ham, they would probably have a cereal as well. Mrs Val drinks tea, not coffee.’

      Inspector Neele reflected for a moment. The opportunities seemed at least to be narrowing down. Three people and three people only had had breakfast with the deceased, his wife, his daughter and his daughter-in-law. Either of them might have seized an opportunity to add taxine to his cup of coffee. The bitterness of the coffee would have masked the bitter taste of the taxine. There was the early morning tea, of course, but Bernsdorff had intimated that the taste would be noticeable in tea. But perhaps, first thing in the morning, before the senses were alert … He looked up to find Mary Dove watching him.

      ‘Your questions about tonic and medicines seem to me rather odd, Inspector,’ she said. ‘It seems to imply that either there was something wrong with a medicine, or that something had been added to it. Surely neither of those processes could be described as food poisoning.’

      Neele eyed her steadily.

      ‘I did not say—definitely—that Mr Fortescue died of food poisoning. But some kind of poisoning. In fact—just poisoning.’

      She repeated softly: ‘Poisoning …’

      She appeared neither startled nor dismayed,