Chapter Five
The girl who entered the room with obvious
unwillingness1 was an unat-
tractive, frightened-looking girl, who managed to look faintly sluttish in
spite of being tall and smartly dressed in a claret-coloured uniform.
She said at once, fixing
imploring2 eyes upon him:
“I didn’t do anything. I didn’t really. I don’t know anything about it.”
“That’s all right,” said Neele
heartily3. His voice had changed slightly. It
sounded more cheerful and a good deal commoner in
intonation4. He
wanted to put the frightened rabbit Gladys at her ease.
“Sit down here,” he went on. “I just want to know about breakfast this
morning.”
“I didn’t do anything at all.”
“Well, you laid the breakfast, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did that.” Even that admission came
unwillingly5. She looked both
guilty and terrified, but
Inspector6 Neele was used to witnesses who looked
like that. He went on cheerfully, trying to put her at her ease, asking ques-
tions: who had come down first? And who next?
Elaine Fortescue had been the first down to breakfast. She’d come in
just as Crump was bringing in the coffee pot. Mrs. Fortescue was down
next, and then Mrs. Val, and the master last. They waited on themselves.
The tea and coffee and the hot dishes were all on hot plates on the side-
board.
He learnt little of importance from her that he did not know already.
The food and drink was as Mary Dove had described it. The master and
Mrs. Fortescue and Miss Elaine took coffee and Mrs. Val took tea.
Everything had been quite as usual.
Neele questioned her about herself and here she answered more read-
ily. She’d been in private service first and after that in various cafés. Then
she thought she’d like to go back to private service and had come to
Yewtree
Lodge7 last September. She’d been there two months.
“And you like it?”
“Well, it’s all right, I suppose.” She added: “It’s not so hard on your feet
—but you don’t get so much freedom… .”
“Tell me about Mr. Fortescue’s clothes — his suits. Who looked after
them? Brushed them and all that?”
Gladys looked faintly resentful.
“Mr. Crump’s supposed to. But half the time he makes me do it.”
“Who brushed and pressed the suit Mr. Fortescue had on today?”
“I don’t remember which one he wore. He’s got ever so many.”
“Have you ever found grain in the pocket of one of his suits?”
“Grain?” She looked puzzled.
“Rye, to be exact.”
“Rye? That’s bread, isn’t it? A sort of black bread—got a nasty taste, I al-
ways think.”
“That’s bread made from rye. Rye is the grain itself. There was some
found in the pocket of your master’s coat.”
“In his coat pocket?”
“Yes. Do you know how it got there?”
“I couldn’t say I’m sure. I never saw any.”
He could get no more from her. For a moment or two he wondered if
she knew more about the matter than she was willing to admit. She cer-
tainly seemed embarrassed and on the defensive—but on the whole he
put it down to a natural fear of the police.
When he finally dismissed her, she asked:
“It’s really true, is it. He’s dead?”
“Yes, he’s dead.”
“Very sudden, wasn’t it? They said when they rang up from the office
that he’d had a kind of fit.”
“Yes—it was a kind of fit.”
Gladys said: “A girl I used to know had fits. Come on anytime, they did.
Used to scare me.”
For the moment this reminiscence seemed to overcome her suspicions.
Inspector Neele made his way to the kitchen.
His reception was
immediate8 and alarming. A woman of vast propor-
tions, with a red face armed with a rolling pin stepped towards him in a
menacing fashion.
“Police, indeed,” she said. “Coming here and saying things like that!
Nothing of the kind, I’d have you know. Anything I’ve sent in the dining
room has been just what it should be. Coming here and saying I poisoned
the master. I’ll have the law on you, police or no police. No bad food’s ever
been served in this house.”
Sergeant11 Hay looked in grinning from the pantry and Inspector Neele
gathered that he had already run the gauntlet of Mrs. Crump’s
wrath12.
The scene was terminated by the ringing of the telephone.
Neele went out into the hall to find Mary Dove taking the call. She was
writing down a message on a pad. Turning her head over her shoulder she
said: “It’s a telegram.”
The call concluded, she replaced the receiver and handed the pad on
which she had been writing to the inspector. The place of origin was Paris
and the message ran as follows:
Fortescue Yewtree Lodge Baydon Heath Surrey. Sorry your
letter delayed. Will be with you tomorrow about teatime.
Shall expect roast
veal13 for dinner. Lance.
“So the
Prodigal15 Son had been summoned home,” he said.
分享到: