First, the death of Rex Fortescue, and who
benefits by his death. Well, it benefits quite a
lot of people, but most of all it benefits his
son, Percival. His son Percival wasn’t at
Yewtree Lodge that morning. He couldn’t
have put poison in his father’s coffee or in
anything that he ate for breakfast. Or that’s
what we thought at first.”
“Ah,” Miss Marple’s eyes brightened. “So
there was a method, was there? I’ve been
thinking about it, you know, a good deal, and
I’ve had several ideas. But of course no
evidence or proof.”
“There’s no harm in my letting you
know,” said Inspector Neele. “Taxine was
added to a new jar of marmalade. That jar of
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marmalade was placed on the breakfast table
and the top layer of it was eaten by Mr.
Fortescue at breakfast. Later that jar of
marmalade was thrown out into the bushes
and a similar jar with a similar amount taken
out of it was placed in the pantry. The jar in
the bushes was found and I’ve just had the
result of the analysis. It shows definite
evidence oftaxine.”
“So that was it,” murmured Miss Marple.
“So simple and easy to do.”
“Consolidated Investments,” Neele went
on, “was in a bad way. If the firm had had to
pay out a hundred thousand pounds to Adele
Fortescue under her husband’s will, it would,
I think, have crashed. If Mrs. Fortescue had
survived her husband for a month that money
would have had to be paid out to her. She
would have had no feeling for the firm or its
difficulties. But she didn’t survive her
husband for a month. She died, and as a
result of her death the gainer was the
residuary legatee of Rex Fortescue’s will. In
other words, Percival Fortescue again.
“Always Percival Fortescue,” the Inspector
continued bitterly. “And though he could
have tampered with the marmalade, he
couldn’t have poisoned his stepmother or
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strangled Gladys. According to his secretary
he was in his city office at five o’clock that
afternoon, and he didn’t arrive back here
until nearly seven.”
“That makes it very difficult, doesn’t it?”
said Miss Marple.
“It makes it impossible,” said Inspector
Neele gloomily. “In other words, Percival is out.” Abandoning restraint and prudence, he
spoke with some bitterness, almost unaware
of his listener. “Wherever I go, wherever I
turn, I always come up against the same
person. Percival Fortescue! Yet it can’t be
Percival Fortescue.” Calming himself a little
he said, “Oh, there are other possibilities,
other people who had a perfectly good
motive.”
“Mr. Dubois, of course,” said Miss Marple
sharply. “And that young Mr. Wright. I do
so agree with you. Inspector. Wherever there
is a question of gain, one has to be very
suspicious. The great thing to avoid is having
in any way a trustful mind.”
In spite of himself, Neele smiled.
“Always think the worst, eh?” he asked.
It seemed a curious doctrine to be proceeding
from this charming and fragile
looking old lady.
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“Oh yes,” said Miss Marple fervently. “I
always believe the worst. What is so sad is
that one is usually justified in doing so.”
“All right,” said Neele, “let’s think the
worst. Dubois could have done it, Gerald
Wright could have done it, (that is to say if
he’d been acting in collusion with Elaine
Fortescue and she tampered with the
marmalade), Mrs. Percival could have done
it, I suppose. She was on the spot. But none
of the people I have mentioned tie up with
the crazy angle. They don’t tie up with
blackbirds and pockets full of rye. That’s your theory and it may be that you’re right. If
so, it boils down to one person, doesn’t it?
Mrs. MacKenzie’s in a mental home and has
been for a good number of years. She hasn’t
been messing about with marmalade pots or
putting cyanide in the drawing-room afternoon
tea. Her son Donald was killed at
Dunkirk. That leaves the daughter. Ruby
MacKenzie. And if your theory is correct, if
this whole series of murders arises out of the
old Blackbird Mine business, then Ruby
MacKenzie must be here in this house, and