always mistrusted it. And now that mistrust
of his was justified.
“The whole thing takes on an entirely different
aspect,” the A.C. had said, striding up
and down his room and frowning. “It looks to
me, Neele, as though we’d got someone
mentally unhinged to deal with. First the
husband, then the wife. But the very circumstances
of the case seem to show that it’s an
inside job. It’s all there, in the family. Someone
who sat down to breakfast with Fortescue
put taxine in his coffee or on his food,
someone who had tea with the family that day
put potassium cyanide in Adele Fortescue’s
cup of tea. Someone trusted, unnoticed, one
of the family. Which of’em, Neele?”
Neele said dryly:
“Percival wasn’t there, so that lets him out
again. That lets him out again,” Inspector
Neele repeated.
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The A.C. looked at him sharply. Something
in the repetition had attracted his
attention.
“What’s the idea, Neele? Out with it,
man.”
Inspector Neele looked stolid.
“Nothing, sir. Not so much as an idea. All
I say is it was very convenient for him.”
“A bit too convenient, eh?” The A.C. reflected and shook his head. “You think he
might have managed it somehow? Can’t see
how, Neele. No, I can’t see how.”
He added, “And he’s a cautious type, too.”
“But quite intelligent, sir.”
“You don’t fancy the women. Is that it? Yet
the women are indicated. Elaine Fortescue
and Percival’s wife. They were at breakfast
and they were at tea that day. Either of them
could have done it. No signs of anything
abnormal about them? Well, it doesn’t always
show. There might be something in their past
medical record.”
Inspector Neele did not answer. He was
thinking of Mary Dove. He had no definite
reason for suspecting her, but that was the
way his thoughts lay. There was something
unexplained about her, unsatisfactory. A taint, amused antagonism. That had been her
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attitude after the death of Rex Fortescue.
What was her attitude now? Her behaviour
and manner were, as always, exemplary.
There was no longer, he thought, amusement.
Perhaps not even antagonism, but he
wondered whether, once or twice, he had not
seen a trace of fear. He had been to blame,
culpably to blame, in the matter of Gladys
Martin. That guilty confusion others he had
put down to no more than a natural nervousness
of the police. He had come across that
guilty nervousness so often. In this case it had
been something more. Gladys had seen or
heard something which had aroused her
suspicions. It was probably, he thought, some
quite small thing, something so vague and
indefinite that she had hardly liked to speak
about it. And now, poor little rabbit, she
would never speak.
Inspector Neele looked with some interest
at the mild, earnest face of the old lady who
confronted him now at Yewtree Lodge. He
had been in two minds at first how to treat
her, but he quickly made up his mind. Miss
Marple would be useful to him. She was
upright, of unimpeachable rectitude and she
had, like most old ladies, time on her hands
and an old maid’s nose for scenting bits of
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gossip. She’d get things out of servants and
out of the women of the Fortescue family
perhaps, that he and his policemen would
never get. Talk, conjecture, reminiscences,
repetitions of things said and done, out of it
all she would pick the salient facts. So
Inspector Neele was gracious.
“It’s uncommonly good of you to have
come here. Miss Marple,” he said.
“It was my duty. Inspector Neele. The girl
had lived in my house. I feel, in a sense, responsible
for her. She was a very silly girl,
you know.”
Inspector Neele looked at her appreciatively.
“Yes,” he said, “just so.”
She had gone, he felt, to the heart of the
matter.
“She wouldn’t know,” said Miss Marple, “what she ought to do. If, I mean, something
came up. Oh, dear, I’m expressing myself
very badly.”
Inspector Neele said that he understood.
“She hadn’t got good judgment as to what
was important or not, that’s what you mean,
isn’t it?”
“Oh yes, exactly. Inspector.”