A POCKET FULL OF RYE BY AGATHA CHRISTIE

wait a few minutes for a taxi—that train is

always very full. It was actually nearly a

quarter to five (five minutes after you had

seen the man in the garden) when he left the

170

station and it is a ten-minute drive. He paid

off the taxi at the gate here at about five

minutes to five at the earliest. No–it wasn’t

Lancelot Fortescue you saw.”

“I’m sure I did see someone.”

“Yes, you saw someone. It was getting

dark. You couldn’t have seen the man

clearly?”

“Oh no–I couldn’t see his face or anything

like that–just his build–tall and slender. We

were expecting Lancelot Fortescue–so I

jumped to the conclusion that that’s who it

was.”

“He was going–which way?”

“Along behind the yew hedge towards the

east side of the house.”

“There is a side door there. Is it kept

locked?”

“Not until the house is locked up for the

night.”

“Anyone could have come in by that side

door without being observed by any of the

household.”

Mary Dove considered.

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