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Chapter Four
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
She turned from the window and looked at herself in the full-length mir-
ror that hung on the wall where the staircase turned … She saw a small
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:
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
twenty-nine bedrooms which had now been taken over by the National
Trust. The lodge had been small and attractive from the outside, and had
form of sanitation13 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 do except open and shut the gates when re-
quired, and there were always plenty of rabbits and an occasional pheas-
ant or so for the pot. Mrs. Neele had never discovered the pleasure of elec-
tric irons, slow combustion14 stoves, airing cupboards, hot and cold water
winter the Neeles had an oil lamp and in summer they went to bed when
it got dark. They were a healthy family and a happy one, all thoroughly17
behind the times.
So when Inspector Neele heard the word Lodge, it was his childhood
memories that stirred. But this place, this pretentiously18 named Yewtree
Lodge was just the kind of mansion that rich people built themselves and
then called it “their little place in the country.” It wasn’t in the country
either, according to Inspector Neele’s idea of the country. The house was a
with rather too many gables, and a vast number of leaded paned win-
dows. The gardens were highly artificial—all laid out in rose beds and per-
golas and pools, and living up to the name of the house with large num-
Plenty of yew here for anybody with a desire to obtain the raw material
of taxine. Over on the right, behind the rose pergola, there was a bit of ac-
tual nature left—a vast yew tree of the kind one associates with church-
yards, its branches held up by stakes—like a kind of Moses of the forest
world. That tree, the inspector thought, had been there long before the
rash of newly built red-brick houses had begun to spread over the coun-
tryside. It had been there before the golf courses had been laid out and the
fashionable architects had walked round with their rich clients, pointing
out the advantages of the various sites. And since it was a valuable an-
tique, 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 speculations20. Must get on with
the job. He rang the bell.
ately 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
“Has Mrs. Fortescue returned yet?”
“No, sir.”
“Nor Mr. Percival Fortescue? Nor Miss Fortescue?”
“No, sir.”
“Then I would like to see Miss Dove, please.”
The man turned his head slightly.
“Here’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
pression of someone large and authoritative26 dressed in black with some-
The inspector was quite unprepared for the small trim figure descend-
ing towards him. The soft dove-coloured tones of her dress, the white col-
lar 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 un-
der 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.
“Inspector Neele?”
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
Her eyes met his for a moment, thoughtfully, then she nodded.
“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:
“Will you come in here?”
She opened the door of a room and preceded him into it. It was a char-
acterless apartment, clearly labelled “Smoking Room,” with panelling, rich
upholstery, large stuffed chairs, and a suitable set of sporting prints on the
walls.
“Please 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 wo-
man had anything to hide. But perhaps Mary Dove had nothing to hide.
“It 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.”
“Thank you, Miss Dove.”
“You say that Mr. Fortescue’s death was caused by something he may
have eaten for breakfast? Food poisoning, you mean?”
“Possibly.” He watched her.
She said composedly, “It seems unlikely. For breakfast this morning
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.”
“I see you know exactly what was served.”
“Naturally. I order the meals. For dinner last night—”
“No.” Inspector Neele interrupted her. “It would not be a question of
dinner last night.”
much as twenty-four hours.”
“Not in this case … Will you tell me exactly what Mr. Fortescue ate and
drank before leaving the house this morning?”
“He had early tea brought to his room at eight o’clock. Breakfast was at
a quarter past nine. Mr. Fortescue, as I have told you, had scrambled eggs,
bacon, coffee, toast and marmalade.”
“Any cereal?”
“No, he didn’t like cereals.”
“The sugar for the coffee—it is lump sugar or granulated?”
“Lump. But Mr. Fortescue did not take sugar in his coffee.”
“Was he in the habit of taking any medicines in the morning? Salts? A
“No, nothing of that kind.”
“Did you have breakfast with him also?”
“No. I do not take meals with the family.”
“Who was at breakfast?”
“Mrs. Fortescue. Miss Fortescue. Mrs. Val Fortescue. Mr. Percival Fortes-
cue, of course, was away.”
“And Mrs. and Miss Fortescue ate the same things for breakfast?”
“Mrs. Fortescue has only coffee, orange juice and toast, Mrs. Val and
eggs and cold ham, they would probably have a cereal as well. Mrs. Val
drinks tea, not coffee.”
Inspector Neele reflected for a moment. The opportunities seemed at
least to be narrowing down. Three people and three people only had had
breakfast with the deceased, his wife, his daughter and his daughter-in-
law. Either of them might have seized an opportunity to add taxine to his
cup of coffee. The bitterness of the coffee would have masked the bitter
taste of the taxine. There was the early morning tea, of course, but Berns-
dorff had intimated that the taste would be noticeable in tea. But perhaps,
first thing in the morning, before the senses were alert … He looked up to
find Mary Dove watching him.
“Your questions about tonic and medicines seem to me rather odd, In-
spector,” she said. “It seems to imply that either there was something
wrong with a medicine, or that something had been added to it. Surely
neither of those processes could be described as food poisoning.”
“I did not say—definitely—that Mr. Fortescue died of food poisoning.
But some kind of poisoning. In fact—just poisoning.”
She repeated softly: “Poisoning… .”
She appeared neither startled nor dismayed, merely interested. Her atti-
tude was of one sampling a new experience.
In fact she said as much, remarking after a moment’s reflection: “I have
never had anything to do with a poisoning case before.”
“It’s not very pleasant,” Neele informed her dryly.
“No—I suppose not… .”
She thought about it for a moment and then looked up at him with a
sudden smile.
“I didn’t do it,” she said. “But I suppose everybody will tell you that!”
“Have you any idea who did do it, Miss Dove?”
“But people aren’t poisoned just for being ‘odious,’ Miss Dove. There
“Yes, of course.”
She was thoughtful.
“Do you care to tell me something about the household here?”
She looked up at him. He was a little startled to find her eyes cool and
amused.
“This isn’t exactly a statement you’re asking me to make, is it? No, it
couldn’t be, because your sergeant is busy upsetting the domestic staff. I
shouldn’t like to have what I say read out in court—but all the same I
should rather like to say it—unofficially. Off the record, so to speak?”
“Go ahead then, Miss Dove. I’ve no witness, as you’ve already observed.”
She leaned back, swinging one slim foot and narrowing her eyes.
work for them because it’s a job that pays well and I insist that it should
pay well.”
“I was a little surprised to find you doing this type of job. It struck me
that with your brains and education—”
dear Inspector Neele, this is the perfect racket. People will pay anything—
anything—to be spared domestic worries. To find and engage a staff is a
thoroughly tedious job. Writing to agencies, putting in advertisements, in-
terviewing people, making arrangements for interviews, and finally keep-
ing the whole thing running smoothly—it takes a certain capacity which
most of these people haven’t got.”
“And suppose your staff, when you’ve assembled it, runs out on you?
I’ve heard of such things.”
Mary smiled.
“If necessary, I can make the beds, dust the rooms, cook a meal and
serve it without anyone noticing the difference. Of course I don’t advertise
that fact. It might give rise to ideas. But I can always be sure of tiding over
any little gap. But there aren’t often gaps. I work only for the extremely
rich who will pay anything to be comfortable. I pay top prices and so I get
the best of what’s going.”
“Such as the butler?”
She threw him an amused, appreciative42 glance.
“There’s always that trouble with a couple. Crump stays because of Mrs.
Crump, who is one of the best cooks I’ve ever come across. She’s a jewel
and one would put up with a good deal to keep her. Our Mr. Fortescue
likes his food — liked, I should say. In this household nobody has any
can command what she likes. As for Crump, he just makes the grade. His
silver’s all right, and his waiting at table is not too bad. I keep the key of
the wine cellar and a sharp eye on the whisky, and gin, and supervise his
valeting.”
“The admirable Miss Crichton.”
“I find one must know how to do everything oneself. Then—one need
never do it. But you wanted to know my impressions of the family.”
“If you don’t mind.”
“They are really all quite odious. The late Mr. Fortescue was the kind of
various smart dealings. He was rude and overbearing in manner and was
thirty years younger than he was. He came across her at Brighton. She
was a manicurist on the look out for big money. She is very good-looking
—a real sexy piece, if you know what I mean.”
Inspector Neele was shocked but managed not to show it. A girl like
Mary Dove ought not to say such things, he felt.
The young lady was continuing composedly:
“Adele married him for his money, of course, and his son, Percival, and
his daughter, Elaine, were simply livid about it. They’re as nasty as they
can be to her, but very wisely she doesn’t care or even notice. She knows
she’s got the old man where she wants him. Oh dear, the wrong tense
again. I haven’t really grasped yet that he’s dead… .”
“Let’s hear about the son.”
“Dear Percival? Val, as his wife calls him. Percival is a mealy-mouthed
way. Unlike his father he’s mean about money. Economy is one of his pas-
sions. That’s why he’s been so long about finding a house of his own. Hav-
“And his wife?”
to a romantic conclusion. The old man was disappointed by the marriage.
riage.’ He despised poor Mrs. Val and snubbed her. She dislikes—disliked
him a good deal, I think. Her principal interests are shopping and the
money.”
“What about the daughter?”
“Elaine? I’m rather sorry for Elaine. She’s not a bad sort. One of those
great schoolgirls who never grow up. She plays games quite well, and runs
Guides and Brownies and all that sort of thing. There was some sort of af-
fair not long ago with a disgruntled young schoolmaster, but Father dis-
covered the young man had communistic ideas and came down on the ro-
mance like a ton of bricks.”
“She hadn’t got the spirit to stand up to him?”
“She had. It was the young man who ratted. A question of money yet
again, I fancy. Elaine is not particularly attractive, poor dear.”
“And the other son?”
“I’ve never seen him. He’s attractive, by all accounts, and a thoroughly
bad lot. Some little matter of a forged cheque in the past. He lives in East
Africa.”
“Yes, Mr. Fortescue couldn’t cut him off with a shilling because he’d
already made him a junior partner in the firm, but he held no communica-
tion with him for years, and in fact if Lance was ever mentioned, he used
—”
“Yes, Miss Dove?”
Mary said slowly: “All the same, I shouldn’t be surprised if old Fortescue
hadn’t been planning to get him back here.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Because, about a month ago, old Fortescue had a terrific row with Per-
cival—he found out something that Percival had been doing behind his
back—I don’t know what it was—and he was absolutely furious. Percival
suddenly stopped being the white-headed boy. He’s been quite different
lately, too.”
“Mr. Fortescue was quite different?”
“No. I meant Percival. He’s gone about looking worried to death.”
“Now what about servants? You’ve already described the Crumps. Who
else is there?”
“Gladys Martin is the parlourmaid or waitress, as they like to call them-
selves nowadays. She does the downstairs rooms, lays the table, clears
away and helps Crump wait at table. Quite a decent sort of girl but very
nearly half-witted. The adenoidal type.”
Neele nodded.
but has been in good service and is a first-class housemaid. The rest is out-
side help—odd women who come in.”
“And those are the only people living here?”
“There’s old Miss Ramsbottom.”
“Who is she?”
“Mr. Fortescue’s sister-in-law—his first wife’s sister. His wife was a good
deal older than he was and her sister again was a good deal older than her
—which makes her well over seventy. She has a room of her own on the
second floor—does her own cooking and all that, with just a woman com-
ing in to clean. She’s rather eccentric and she never liked her brother-in-
law, but she came here while her sister was alive and stayed on when she
died. Mr. Fortescue never bothered about her much. She’s quite a charac-
ter, though, is Aunt Effie.”
“And that is all.”
“That’s all.”
“So we come to you, Miss Dove.”
St. Alfred’s Secretarial College. I took a job as shorthand typist, left it and
present career. I have been with three different employers. After about a
year or eighteen months I get tired of a particular place and move on. I
have been at Yewtree Lodge just over a year. I will type out the names and
addresses of my various employers and give them, with a copy of my ref-
erences to Sergeant—Hay, is it? Will that be satisfactory?”
“Perfectly, Miss Dove.” Neele was silent for a moment, enjoying a mental
a little basket. With a sigh he returned to the present and reality. “Now, I
would like to see the girl—er Gladys—and then the housemaid, Ellen.” He
added as he rose: “By the way, Miss Dove, can you give me any idea why
Mr. Fortescue would be carrying loose grain in his pocket?”
“Grain?” she stared at him with what appeared to be genuine surprise.
“Yes—grain. Does that suggest something to you, Miss Dove?”
“Nothing at all.”
“Who looked after his clothes?”
“Crump.”
“I see. Did Mr. Fortescue and Mrs. Fortescue occupy the same bed-
room?”
Mary glanced down at her wristwatch. “I really think that she ought to be
back very soon now.”
The inspector had risen. He said in a pleasant voice:
“Do you know one thing, Miss Dove? It strikes me as very odd that even
has yet not been possible to find Mrs. Fortescue on one of them before
now?”
“It would not be so odd, Inspector, if she did not actually happen to be
playing golf at all.”
Mary’s voice was dry. The inspector said sharply:
“I was distinctly informed that she was playing golf.”
“She took her golf clubs and announced her intention of doing so. She
was driving her own car, of course.”
He looked at her steadily, perceiving the inference.
“Who was she playing with? Do you know?”
“I think it possible that it might be Mr. Vivian Dubois.”
“I’ll send Gladys in to you. She’ll probably be scared to death.” Mary
paused for a moment by the door, then she said:
“I should hardly advise you to go too much by all I’ve told you. I’m a ma-
licious creature.”
She went out. Inspector Neele looked at the closed door and wondered.
be suggestive. If Rex Fortescue had been deliberately64 poisoned, and it
seemed almost certain that that was the case, then the setup at Yewtree
ground.
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