II
Mary Dove was in her sitting room. It was a small, rather
austerely1 fur-
nished room, but comfortable. That is to say Miss Dove herself had made it
comfortable. When
Inspector2 Neele tapped at the door Mary Dove raised
her head, which had been
bent3 over a pile of tradesmen’s books, and said
in her clear voice:
“Come in.”
The inspector entered.
“Do sit down, Inspector.” Miss Dove indicated a chair. “Could you wait
just one moment? The total of the fishmonger’s account does not seem to
be correct and I must check it.”
Inspector Neele sat in silence watching her as she totted up the column.
How wonderfully calm and self-possessed the girl was, he thought. He was
sured manner. He tried to trace in her features any resemblance to those
of the woman he had talked to at the Pinewood Sanatorium. The colouring
was not unlike, but he could detect no real facial resemblance. Presently
Mary Dove raised her head from her accounts and said:
“Yes, Inspector? What can I do for you?”
Inspector Neele said quietly:
“You know, Miss Dove, there are certain very
peculiar6 features about
this case.”
“Yes?”
“To begin with there is the odd circumstance of the rye found in Mr.
Fortescue’s pocket.”
“That was very extraordinary,” Mary Dove agreed. “You know I really
cannot think of any explanation for that.”
“Then there is the curious circumstance of the blackbirds. Those four
blackbirds on Mr. Fortescue’s desk last summer, and also the incident of
the blackbirds being substituted for the
veal7 and ham in the pie. You were
here, I think, Miss Dove, at the time of both those occurrences?”
“Yes, I was. I remember now. It was most upsetting. It seemed such a
very purposeless, spiteful thing to do, especially at the time.”
“Perhaps not
entirely8 purposeless. What do you know, Miss Dove, about
the Blackbird Mine?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard of the Blackbird Mine.”
“Your name, you told me, is Mary Dove. Is that your real name, Miss
Dove?”
expression had come into her blue eyes.
“What an extraordinary question, Inspector. Are you suggesting that my
name is not Mary Dove?”
“That is exactly what I am suggesting. I’m suggesting,” said Neele pleas-
antly, “that your name is
Ruby12 MacKenzie.”
She stared at him. For a moment her face was entirely blank with
neither protest on it nor surprise. There was, Inspector Neele thought, a
very definite effect of calculation. After a minute or two she said in a
quiet, colourless voice:
“What do you expect me to say?”
“Please answer me. Is your name Ruby MacKenzie?”
“I have told you my name is Mary Dove.”
“Yes, but have you proof of that, Miss Dove?”
“What do you want to see? My birth certificate?”
“That might be helpful or it might not. You might, I mean, be in posses-
sion of the birth certificate of a Mary Dove. That Mary Dove might be a
friend of yours or might be someone who had died.”
“Yes, there are a lot of possibilities, aren’t there?” Amusement had crept
back into Mary Dove’s voice. “It’s really quite a
dilemma13 for you, isn’t it,
Inspector?”
“They might possibly be able to recognize you at Pinewood Sanatorium,”
said Neele.
“Pinewood Sanatorium!” Mary raised her
eyebrow10. “What or where is
Pinewood Sanatorium?”
“I think you know very well, Miss Dove.”
“I assure you I am quite in the dark.”
“And you deny categorically that you are Ruby MacKenzie?”
“I shouldn’t really like to deny anything. I think, you know, Inspector,
that it’s up to you to prove I am this Ruby MacKenzie, whoever she is.”
There was a definite amusement now in her blue eyes, amusement and
challenge. Looking him straight in the eyes, Mary Dove said, “Yes, it’s up to
you, Inspector. Prove that I’m Ruby MacKenzie if you can.”
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