one of those food faddists who’ll eat any
mortal thing so long as it isn’t cooked. My
sister’s husband’s like that. Raw carrots, raw
peas, raw turnips. But even he doesn’t eat
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raw grain. Why, I should say it would swell
up in your inside something awful.”
The telephone rang and on a nod from the
Inspector, Sergeant Hay sprinted off to
answer it. Following him, Neele found that it
was headquarters on the line. Contact had
been made with Mr. Percival Fortescue, who
was returning to London immediately.
As the Inspector replaced the telephone, a
car drew up at the front door. Crump went to
the door and opened it. The woman who
stood there had her arms full of parcels.
Crump took them from her.
“Thanks, Crump. Pay the taxi, will you?
I’ll have tea now. Is Mrs. Fortescue or Miss
Elaine in?”
The butler hesitated, looking back over his
shoulder.
“We’ve had bad news, m’arn,” he said.
“About the master.”
“About Mr. Fortescue?”
Neele came forward. Crump said: “This is
Mrs. Percival, sir.”
“What is it? What’s happened? An
accident?”
The Inspector looked her over as he
replied. Mrs. Percival Fortescue was a plump
woman with a discontented mouth. Her age
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he judged to be about thirty. Her questions
came with a kind of eagerness. The thought
flashed across his mind that she must be very
bored.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you that Mr.
Fortescue was taken to St. Jude’s Hospital
this morning seriously ill and has since died.”
“Died? You mean he’s dead?” The news
was clearly even more sensational than she
had hoped for. “Dear me–this is a surprise.
My husband’s away. You’ll have to get in
touch with him. He’s in the North somewhere.
I dare say they’ll know at the office.
He’ll have to see to everything. Things
always happen at the most awkward moment, don’t they.”
She paused for a moment, turning things
over in her mind.
“It all depends, I suppose,” she said, “where they’ll have the funeral. Down here, I
suppose. Or will it be in London?”
“That will be for the family to say.”
“Of course. I only just wondered.” For the
first time she took direct cognisance of the
man who was speaking to her.
“Are you from the office?” she asked.
“You’re not a doctor, are you?”
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“I’m a police officer. Mr. Fortescue’s death
was very sudden and——”
She interrupted him.
“Do you mean he was murdered?”
It was the first time that word had been
spoken. Neele surveyed her eager questioning
face carefully.
“Now why should you think that,
madam?”
“Well, people are sometimes. You said
sudden. And you’re police. Have you seen
her about it? What did she say?”
“I don’t quite understand to whom you are
referring?”
“Adele, of course. I always told Val his
father was crazy to go marrying a woman
years younger than himself. There’s no fool
like an old fool. Besotted about that awful
creature, he was. And now look what comes
of it. … A nice mess we’re all in. Pictures in
the paper and reporters coming round.”
She paused, obviously visualising the
future in a series of crude highly-coloured
pictures. He thought that the prospect was
still not wholly unpleasing. She turned back
to him.
“What was it? Arsenic?”
In a repressive voice Inspector Neele said:
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“The cause of death has yet to be
ascertained. There will be an autopsy and an
inquest.”
“But you know already, don’t you? Or you
wouldn’t come down here.”
There was a sudden shrewdness in her
plump rather foolish face.
“You’ve been asking about what he ate and
drank, I suppose? Dinner last night.
Breakfast this morning. And all the drinks, of
course.”
He could see her mind ranging vividly over
all the possibilities. He said, with caution:
“It seems possible that Mr. Fortescue’s
illness resulted from something he ate at
breakfast.”
“Breakfast?” She seemed surprised.
“That’s difficult. I don’t see how . . .”
She paused and shook her head.
“I don’t see how she could have done it,
then . . . unless she slipped something into
the coffee—when Elaine and I weren’t
looking . . . .”