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
pleasures 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.
36
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 upwards, 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
37
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.
Yewtreee 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.”
38
“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 other 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.
39
“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