A Pocket Full of Rye Read Online Free PDF Page A

antique, the tree had been kept and incorporated in the new setup and had, perhaps, given its name to the new desirable residence. Yewtree Lodge. And possibly the berries from that very tree—
    Inspector Neele cut off these unprofitable speculations. Must get on with the job. He rang the bell.
    It was opened promptly by a middle-aged man who fitted in quite accurately with the mental image Inspector Neele had formed of him over the phone. A man with a rather spurious air of smartness, a shifty eye and a rather unsteady hand.
    Inspector Neele announced himself and his subordinate and had the pleasure of seeing an instant look of alarm come into the butler’s eye . . . Neele did not attach too much importance to that. It might easily have nothing to do with the death of Rex Fortescue. It was quite possibly a purely automatic reaction.
    â€œHas Mrs. Fortescue returned yet?”
    â€œNo, sir.”
    â€œNor Mr. Percival Fortescue? Nor Miss Fortescue?”
    â€œNo, sir.”
    â€œThen I would like to see Miss Dove, please.”
    The man turned his head slightly.
    â€œHere’s Miss Dove now—coming downstairs.”
    Inspector Neele took in Miss Dove as she came composedly down the wide staircase. This time the mental picture did not correspond with the reality. Unconsciously the word housekeeper had conjured up a vague impression of someone large and authoritative dressed in black with somewhere concealed about her a jingle of keys.
    The inspector was quite unprepared for the small trim figure descending towards him. The soft dove-coloured tones of her dress, the white collar and cuffs, the neat waves of hair, the faint Mona Lisa smile. It all seemed, somehow, just a little unreal, as though this young woman of under thirty was playing a part: not, he thought, the part of a housekeeper, but the part of Mary Dove. Her appearance was directed towards living up to her name.
    She greeted him composedly.
    â€œInspector Neele?”
    â€œYes. This is Sergeant Hay. Mr. Fortescue, as I told you through the phone, died in St. Jude’s Hospital at 12:43. It seems likely that his death was the result of something he ate at breakfast this morning. I should be glad therefore if Sergeant Hay could be taken to the kitchen where he can make inquiries as to the food served.”
    Her eyes met his for a moment, thoughtfully, then she nodded.
    â€œOf course,” she said. She turned to the uneasily hovering butler. “Crump, will you take Sergeant Hay out and show him whatever he wants to see.”
    The two men departed together. Mary Dove said to Neele:
    â€œWill you come in here?”
    She opened the door of a room and preceded him into it. It was a characterless apartment, clearly labelled “Smoking Room,” with panelling, rich upholstery, large stuffed chairs, and a suitable set of sporting prints on the walls.
    â€œPlease sit down.”
    He sat and Mary Dove sat opposite him. She chose, he noticed, to face the light. An unusual preference for a woman. Still more unusual if a woman had anything to hide. But perhaps Mary Dove had nothing to hide.
    â€œIt is very unfortunate,” she said, “that none of the family is available. Mrs. Fortescue may return at any minute. And so may Mrs. Val. I have sent wires to Mr. Percival Fortescue at various places.”
    â€œThank you, Miss Dove.”
    â€œYou say that Mr. Fortescue’s death was caused by something he may have eaten for breakfast? Food poisoning, you mean?”
    â€œPossibly.” He watched her.
    She said composedly, “It seems unlikely. For breakfast this morning there were bacon and scrambled eggs, coffee, toast and marmalade. There was also a cold ham on the sideboard, but that had been cut yesterday, and no one felt any ill effects. No fish of any kind was served, no sausages—nothing like that.”
    â€œI see you know exactly what was served.”
    â€œNaturally. I order the meals. For dinner