Chapter Fifteen
I
“I’m sorry, Miss Fortescue, to bother you again, but I want to be quite,
quite clear about this. As far as we know you were the last person—or
rather the last person but one—to see Mrs. Fortescue alive. It was about
twenty past five when you left the drawing room?”
“About then,” said Elaine, “I can’t say exactly.” She added defensively:
“One doesn’t look at clocks the whole time.”
“No, of course not. During the time that you were alone with Mrs. For-
tescue after the others had left, what did you talk about?”
“Does it matter what we talked about?”
“Probably not,” said
Inspector1 Neele, “but it might give me some clue as
to what was in Mrs. Fortescue’s mind.”
“You mean—you think she might have done it herself?”
Inspector Neele noticed the brightening on her face. It would certainly
be a very convenient solution as far as the family was concerned. In-
spector Neele did not think it was true for a moment. Adele Fortescue was
not to his mind a suicidal type. Even if she had poisoned her husband and
was convinced the crime was about to be brought home to her, she would
not, he thought, have ever thought of
killing2 herself. She would have been
sure optimistically that even if she were tried for murder she would be
tertaining the hypothesis. He said, therefore, quite truthfully:
“There’s a possibility of it at least, Miss Fortescue. Now perhaps you’ll
tell me just what your conversation was about?”
“Well, it was really about my affairs.” Elaine hesitated.
“Your affairs being … ? ” he paused questioningly with a
genial5 expres-
sion.
“I—a friend of mine had just arrived in the neighbourhood, and I was
asking Adele if she would have any objection to—to my asking him to stay
here at the house.”
“Ah. And who is this friend?”
“It’s a Mr. Gerald Wright. He’s a schoolmaster. He—he’s staying at the
Golf Hotel.”
“A very close friend, perhaps?”
Inspector Neele gave an
avuncular6 beam which added at least fifteen
years to his age.
“We may expect an interesting announcement shortly, perhaps?”
He felt almost compunction as he saw the awkward gesture of the girl’s
hand and the flush on her face. She was in love with the fellow all right.
“We—we’re not actually engaged and of course we couldn’t have it an-
nounced just now, but—well, yes I think we do—I mean we are going to
get married.”
“Congratulations,” said Inspector Neele pleasantly. “Mr. Wright is stay-
ing at the Golf Hotel, you say? How long has he been there?”
“I wired him when Father died.”
“And he came at once. I see,” said Inspector Neele.
He used this favourite phrase of his in a friendly and
reassuring7 way.
“What did Mrs. Fortescue say when you asked her about his coming
here?”
“Oh, she said, all right, I could have anybody I pleased.”
“She was nice about it then?”
“Not exactly nice. I mean, she said—”
“Yes, what else did she say?”
Again Elaine flushed.
“Oh, something stupid about my being able to do a lot better for myself
now. It was the sort of thing Adele would say.”
“Ah, well,” said Inspector Neele
soothingly8, “relations say these sort of
things.”
“Yes, yes, they do. But people often find it difficult to—to appreciate Ger-
ald properly. He’s an intellectual, you see, and he’s got a lot of unconven-
tional and progressive ideas that people don’t like.”
“That’s why he didn’t get on with your father?”
Elaine flushed hotly.
“Father was very prejudiced and unjust. He hurt Gerald’s feelings. In
fact, Gerald was so upset by my father’s attitude that he went off and I
didn’t hear from him for weeks.”
And probably wouldn’t have heard from him now if your father hadn’t
died and left you a packet of money, Inspector Neele thought. Aloud he
said:
“Was there any more conversation between you and Mrs. Fortescue?”
“No. No, I don’t think so.”
“And that was about twenty-five past five and Mrs. Fortescue was found
dead at five minutes to six. You didn’t return to the room during that half
hour?”
“No.”
“What were you doing?”
“I—I went out for a short walk.”
“To the Golf Hotel?”
“I—well, yes, but Gerald wasn’t in.”
Inspector Neele said “I see” again, but this time with a rather dismissive
effect. Elaine Fortescue got up and said:
“Is that all?”
“That’s all, thank you, Miss Fortescue.”
“You can’t tell me anything about blackbirds, can you?”
She stared at him.
“Blackbirds? You mean the ones in the pie?”
They would be in the pie, the inspector thought to himself. He merely
said, “When was this?”
“Oh! Three or four months ago—and there were some on Father’s desk,
too. He was furious—”
“Furious, was he? Did he ask a lot of questions?”
“Yes—of course—but we couldn’t find out who put them there.”
“Have you any idea why he was so angry?”
“Well—it was rather a
horrid10 thing to do, wasn’t it?”
Neele looked thoughtfully at her—but he did not see any signs of eva-
sion in her face. He said:
“Oh, just one more thing, Miss Fortescue. Do you know if your step-
mother made a will at any time?”
“I’ve no idea—I—suppose so. People usually do, don’t they?”
“They should do—but it doesn’t always follow. Have you made a will
yourself, Miss Fortescue?”
“No—no—I haven’t—up to now I haven’t had anything to leave—now, of
course—”
He saw the
realization11 of the changed position come into her eyes.
“Yes,” he said. “Fifty thousand pounds is quite a responsibility—
it changes a lot of things, Miss Fortescue.”
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