been after him for a long time but he’s been
too clever for them. Quite a financial genius,
the late Mr. Fortescue.”
“The sort of man,” said Constable Waite,
“who might have enemies?”
He spoke hopefully.
31
“Oh yes–certainly enemies. But he was
poisoned at home remember. Or so it would
seem. You know, Waite, I see a kind of
pattern emerging. An old-fashioned familiar
kind of pattern. The good boy, Percival. The
bad boy. Lance–attractive to women. The
wife who’s younger than her husband and
who’s vague about which course she’s going
to play golf on. It’s all very very familiar. But
there’s one thing that sticks out in a most
incongruous way.”
Constable Waite asked “What’s that?” just
as the door opened and Miss Grosvenor, her
poise restored, and once more her glamorous
self, inquired haughtily:
“You wished to see me?”
“I wanted to ask you a few questions about
your employer–your late employer perhaps I
should say.”
“Poor soul,” said Miss Grosvenor unconvincingly.
“I want to know if you have noticed any
difference in him lately.”
“Well, yes. I did, as a matter of fact.”
“In what way?”
“I couldn’t really say. … He seemed to
talk a lot of nonsense. I couldn’t really believe
half of what he said. And then he lost his
32
temper very easily–especially with Mr.
Percival. Not with me, because of course I never argue. I just say, “Yes, Mr. Fortescue,’
whatever peculiar thing he says–said, I
mean.”
“Did he–ever–well–make any passes at you?”
Miss Grosvenor replied rather regretfully:
“Well, no, I couldn’t exactly say that.” “There’s just one other thing. Miss Grosvenor. Was Mr. Fortescue in the habit of
carrying grain about in his pocket?”
Miss Grosvenor displayed a lively surprise.
“Grain? In his pocket? Do you mean to
feed pigeons or something?”
“It could have been for that purpose.”
“Oh I’m sure he didn’t. Mr. Fortescue?
Feed pigeons? Oh no.”
“Could he have had barley–or rye–in his
pocket to-day for any special reason? A
sample, perhaps? Some deal in grain?”
“Oh no. He was expecting the Asiatic Oil
people this afternoon. And the President of
the Atticus Building Society. . . . No one
else.”
“Oh well—-” Neele dismissed the subject
and Miss Grosvenor with a wave of the hand.
“Lovely legs she’s got,” said Constable
33
Waite with a sigh. “And super nylons——”
“Legs are no help to me,” said Inspector
Neele. “I’m left with what I had before. A
pocketful of rye—and no explanation of it.”
34
4
MARY DOVE paused on her way
downstairs and looked out through
the big window on the stairs. A car
had just driven up from which two men were
alighting. The taller of the two stood for a
moment with his back to the house surveying
his surroundings. Mary Dove appraised the
two men thoughtfully. Inspector Neele and
presumably a subordinate.
She turned from the window and looked at
herself in the full-length mirror that hung on
the wall where the staircase turned. . . . She
saw a small demure figure with immaculate
white collar and cuffs on a beige grey dress.
Her dark hair was parted in the middle and
drawn back in two shining waves to a knot in
the back of the neck. . . . The lipstick she
used was a pale rose colour.
On the whole Mary Dove was satisfied with
her appearance. A very faint smile on her
lips, she went on down the stairs.
Inspector Neele, surveying the house, was
saying to himself:
35
Call it a lodge, indeed! Yewtree Lodge!
The affectation of these rich people! The
house was what he. Inspector Neele, would
call a mansion. He knew what a lodge was.
He’d been brought up in one! The lodge at
the gates of Hartington Park, that vast
unwieldy Palladian house with its twentynine
bedrooms which had now been taken
over by the National Trust. The lodge had
been small and attractive from the outside,
and had been damp, uncomfortable and
devoid of anything but the most primitive
form of sanitation within. Fortunately these
facts had been accepted as quite proper and
fitting by Inspector Neele’s parents. They
had no rent to pay and nothing whatever to