“Yes, I did that.” Even that admission
came unwillingly. She looked both guilty and
terrified, but Inspector Neele was used to
witnesses who looked like that. He went on
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cheerfully, trying to put her at her ease,
asking questions: who had come down first?
And who next?
Elaine Fortescue had been the first down to
breakfast. She’d come in just as Crump was
bringing in the coffee pot. Mrs. Fortescue
was down next, and then Mrs. Val, and the
master last. They waited on themselves. The
tea and coffee and the hot dishes were all on
hot plates on the sideboard.
He learnt little of importance from her that
he did not know already. The food and drink
was as Mary Dove had described it. The
master and Mrs. Fortescue and Miss Elaine
took coffee and Mrs. Val took tea. Everything
had been quite as usual.
Neele questioned her about herself and
here she answered more readily. She’d been
in private service first and after that in
various cafes. Then she thought she’d like to
go back to private service and had come to
Yewtree Lodge last September. She’d been
there two months.
“And you like it?”
“Well, it’s all right, I suppose.” She added:
“It’s not so hard on your feet—but you don’t
get so much freedom. …”
“Tell me about Mr. Fortescue’s clothes—
56
his suits. Who looked after them? Brushed
them and all that?”
Gladys looked faintly resentful.
“Mr. Crump’s supposed to. But half the
time he makes me do it.”
“Who brushed and pressed the suit Mr.
Fortescue had on today?”
“I don’t remember which one he wore.
He’s got ever so many.”
“Have you ever found grain in the pocket
of one of his suits?”
“Grain?” She looked puzzled.
“Rye, to be exact.”
“Rye? That’s bread, isn’t it? A sort of black
bread–got a nasty taste, I always think.”
“That’s bread made from rye. Rye is the
grain itself. There was some found in the
pocket of your master’s coat.”
“In his coat pocket?”
“Yes. Do you know how it got there?”
“I couldn’t say I’m sure. I never saw any.”
He could get no more from her. For a
moment or two he wondered if she knew
more about the matter than she was willing to
admit. She certainly seemed embarrassed and
on the defensive–but on the whole he put it
down to a natural fear of the police.
When he finally dismissed her, she asked:
57
“It’s really true, is it. He’s dead?”
“Yes, he’s dead.”
“Very sudden, wasn’t it? They said when
they rang up from the office that he’d had a
kind of fit.”
“Yes—it was a kind of fit.”
Gladys said: “A girl I used to know had
fits. Come on any time, they did. Used to
scare me.”
For the moment this reminiscence seemed
to overcome her suspicions.
Inspector Neele made his way to the
kitchen.
His reception was immediate and alarming.
A woman of vast proportions, with a red face
armed with a rolling-pin stepped towards him
in a menacing fashion.
“Police, indeed,” she said. “Coming here
and saying things like that! Nothing of the
kind, I’d have you know. Anything I’ve sent
in to the dining-room has been just what it
should be. Coming here and saying I poisoned
the master. I’ll have the law on you, police or
no police. No bad food’s ever been served in
this house.”
It was some time before Inspector Neele
could appease the irate artist. Sergeant Hay
looked in grinning from the pantry and
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Inspector Neele gathered that he had already
run the gauntlet of Mrs. Crump’s wrath.
The scene was terminated by the ringing of
the telephone.
Neele went out into the hall to find Mary
Dove taking the call. She was writing down a
message on a pad. Turning her head over her
shoulder she said: “It’s a telegram.”
The call concluded, she replaced the
receiver and handed the pad on which she
had been writing to the Inspector. The place
of origin was Paris and the message ran as
follows:
FORTESCUE YEWTREE LODGE BAYDON HEATH
SURREY. SORRY YOUR LETTER DELAYED. WILL
BE WITH YOU TO-MORROW ABOUT TEATIME.