the police already got hold of them? Where
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did she keep them, he wondered. Probably in
that sitting-room of hers upstairs. That
gimcrack little desk, probably. Sham antique
Louis XIV. She had said something to him
once about there being a secret drawer in it
Secret drawer! That would not fool the police
long. But there were no police about the
house now. She had said so. They had been
there that morning, and now they had all
gone away.
Up to now they had probably been busy
looking for possible sources of poison in the
food. They would not, he hoped, have got
round to a room by room search of the house.
Perhaps they would have to ask permission or
get a search warrant to do that. It was
possible that if he acted now, at once——
He visualised the house clearly in his
mind’s eye. It would be getting towards dusk.
Tea would be brought in, either into the
library or into the drawing-room. Everyone
would be assembled downstairs and the
servants would be having tea in the servants’
hall. There would be no one upstairs on the
first floor. Easy to walk up through the
garden, skirting the yew hedges that provided
such admirable cover. Then there was the
little door at the side on to the terrace. That
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was never locked until just before bedtime.
One could slip through there and, choosing
one’s moment, slip upstairs.
Vivian Dubois considered very carefully
what it behoved him to do next. If
Fortescue’s death had been put down to a
seizure or to a stroke as surely it ought to have
been, the position would be very different. As
it was—Dubois murmured under his breath,
“Better be safe than sorry.”
II
Mary Dove came slowly down the big
staircase. She paused a moment at the
window on the half landing, from which she
had seen Inspector Neele arrive on the
preceding day. Now, as she looked out in the
fading light, she noticed a man’s figure just
disappearing round the yew hedge. She
wondered if it was Lancelot Fortescue, the
prodigal son. He had, perhaps, dismissed his
car at the gate and was wandering round the
garden recollecting old times there before
tackling a possibly hostile family. Mary Dove
felt rather sympathetic towards Lance. A
faint smile on her lips, she went on
III
downstairs. In the hall she encountered
Gladys, who jumped nervously at the sight of
her.
“Was that the telephone I heard just now?”
Mary asked. “Who was it?”
“Oh, that was a wrong number. Thought
we were the laundry.” Gladys sounded
breathless and rather hurried. “And before
that, it was Mr. Dubois. He wanted to speak
to the mistress.”
“I see.”
Mary went on across the hall. Turning her
head, she said: “It’s tea-time, I think.
Haven’t you brought it in yet?”
Gladys said: “I don’t think it’s half-past
four yet, is it, miss?”
“It’s twenty minutes to five. Bring it in
now, will you?”
Mary Dove went on into the library where
Adele Fortescue, sitting on the sofa, was
staring at the fire, picking with her fingers at
a small lace handkerchief. Adele said
fretfully:
“Where’s tea?”
Mary Dove said: “It’s just coming in.”
A log had fallen out of the fireplace and
Mary Dove knelt down at the grate and
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replaced it with the tongs, adding another
piece of wood and a little coal.
Gladys went out into the kitchen where
Mrs. Crump raised a red and wrathful face
from the kitchen table where she was mixing
pastry in a large bowl.
“The library bell’s been ringing and
ringing. Time you took in the tea, my girl.”
“All right, all right, Mrs. Crump.”
“What I’ll say to Crump tonight,”
muttered Mrs. Crump. “I’ll tell him off.”
Gladys went on into the pantry. She had
not cut any sandwiches. Well, she jolly well
wasn’t going to cut sandwiches. They’d got
plenty to eat without that, hadn’t they? Two
cakes, biscuits and scones and honey. Fresh black market farm butter. Plenty without her
bothering to cut tomato or fois gras
sandwiches. She’d got other things to think
about. Fair temper Mrs. Crump was in, all