A Pocket Full of Rye

‘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 (#u9f0d7202-e606-5f6a-ae72-e450f0adbd75)

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 that stirred. But this place, this pretentiously named Yewtree Lodge was just the kind of mansion that rich people built themselves and then called it ‘their little place in the country’. It wasn’t in the country 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.’