Chapter Seven
Inspector1 Neele was still holding the telegraph message in his hand when
he heard a car drive up to the front door and stop with a careless scrunch-
ing of brakes.
Mary Dove, “That will be Mrs. Fortescue now.”
Inspector Neele moved forwards to the front door. Out of the tail of his
eye, he saw Mary Dove melt unobtrusively into the background and disap-
pear. Clearly she intended to take no part in the forthcoming scene. A re-
lack of curiosity. Most women, Inspector Neele
decided4, would have re-
mained… .
As he reached the front door he was aware of the butler, Crump, coming
forward from the back of the hall. So he had heard the car.
The car was a Rolls Bentley sports model coupé. Two people got out of it
and came towards the house. As they reached the door, it opened. Sur-
prised, Adele Fortescue stared at Inspector Neele.
He realized at once that she was a very beautiful woman, and he real-
ized too the force of Mary Dove’s comment which had so shocked him at
the time. Adele Fortescue was a sexy piece. In figure and type she re-
sembled the blonde Miss Grosvenor, but whereas Miss Grosvenor was all
glamour5 without and all respectability within, Adele Fortescue was glam-
our all through. Her appeal was obvious, not subtle. It said simply to every
man “Here am I. I’m a woman.” She
spoke6 and moved and breathed sex—
and yet, within it all, her eyes had a shrewd
appraising7 quality. Adele For-
tescue, he thought, liked men—but she would always like money even bet-
ter.
His eyes went on to the figure behind her who carried her golf clubs. He
knew the type very well. It was the type that
specialized8 in the young
wives of rich and elderly men. Mr. Vivian Dubois, if this was he, had that
rather forced masculinity which is, in reality, nothing of the kind. He was
the type of man who “understands” women.
“Mrs. Fortescue?”
“Yes.” It was a wide blue-eyed gaze. “But I don’t know—”
“I am Inspector Neele. I’m afraid I have bad news for you.”
“Do you mean—a burglary—something of that kind?”
“No, nothing of that kind. It is about your husband. He was taken seri-
ously ill this morning.”
“Rex? Ill?”
“We have been trying to get in touch with you since half past eleven this
morning.”
“Where is he? Here? Or in hospital?”
“He was taken to St. Jude’s Hospital. I’m afraid you must prepare your-
self for a shock.”
“You don’t mean—he isn’t—dead.”
She lurched forward a little and clutched his arm. Gravely feeling like
someone playing a part in a stage performance, the inspector supported
her into the hall. Crump was
hovering9 eagerly.
“Brandy she’ll be needing,” he said.
The deep voice of Mr. Dubois said:
“That’s right, Crump. Get the brandy.” To the inspector he said: “In
here.”
He opened a door on the left. The procession filed in. The inspector and
Adele Fortescue, Vivian Dubois, and Crump with a decanter and two
glasses.
Adele Fortescue sank onto an easy chair, her eyes covered with her
hand. She accepted the glass that the inspector offered and took a tiny
sip10,
then pushed it away.
“I don’t want it,” she said. “I’m all right. But tell me, what was it? A
stroke, I suppose? Poor Rex.”
“It wasn’t a stroke, Mrs. Fortescue.”
“Did you say you were an inspector?” It was Mr. Dubois who made the
Neele turned to him. “That’s right,” he said pleasantly. “Inspector Neele
of the CID.”
He saw the alarm grow in the dark eyes. Mr. Dubois did not like the ap-
pearance of an inspector of the CID. He didn’t like it at all.
“What’s up?” he said. “Something wrong—eh?”
Quite unconsciously he backed away a little towards the door. Inspector
“I’m afraid,” he said to Mrs. Fortescue, “that there will have to be an in-
quest.”
“An inquest? Do you mean—what do you mean?”
“I’m afraid this is all very
distressing13 for you, Mrs. Fortescue.” The
words came
smoothly14. “It seemed advisable to find out as soon as possible
exactly what Mr. Fortescue had to eat or drink before leaving for the office
this morning.”
“Do you mean he might have been poisoned?”
“Well, yes, it would seem so.”
“I can’t believe it. Oh—you mean food poisoning.”
Her voice dropped half an octave on the last words. His face wooden, his
voice still smooth, Inspector Neele said:
“Madam? What did you think I meant?”
She ignored that question, hurrying on.
“But we’ve been all right—all of us.”
“You can speak for all the members of the family?”
“Well—no—of course—I can’t really.”
Dubois said with a great show of consulting his watch:
“I’ll have to push off, Adele. Dreadfully sorry. You’ll be all right, won’t
you? I mean, there are the maids, and the little Dove and all that—”
“Oh, Vivian, don’t. Don’t go.”
quickened.
“Awfully sorry, old girl. Important engagement. I’m putting up at the
Dormy House, by the way, Inspector. If you—er—want me for anything.”
Inspector Neele nodded. He had no wish to detain Mr. Dubois. But he re-
cognized Mr. Dubois’s departure for what it was. Mr. Dubois was running
away from trouble.
Adele Fortescue said, in an attempt to carry off the situation:
“It’s such a shock, to come back and find the police in the house.”
“I’m sure it must be. But you see, it was necessary to act
promptly18 in or-
“Tea and coffee? But they’re not poisonous? I expect it’s the awful bacon
we sometimes get. It’s quite uneatable sometimes.”
“We shall find out, Mrs. Fortescue. Don’t worry. You’d be surprised at
some of the things that can happen. We once had a case of digitalis poison-
ing. It turned out that foxglove leaves had been picked in mistake for
horseradish.”
“You think something like that could happen here?”
“We shall know better after the
autopsy21, Mrs. Fortescue.”
“The autop—oh I see.” She shivered.
The inspector went on: “You’ve got a lot of
yew22 round the house, haven’t
you, madam. There’s no possibility, I suppose, of the berries or leaves hav-
ing got—mixed-up in anything?”
He was watching her closely. She stared at him.
“Yew berries? Are they poisonous?”
The wonder seemed a little too wide-eyed and innocent.
“Children have been known to eat them with unfortunate results.”
Adele clasped her hands to her head.
“I can’t bear to talk about it anymore. Must I? I want to go and lie down.
I can’t stand anymore. Mr. Percival Fortescue will arrange everything—I
can’t—I can’t—it isn’t fair to ask me.”
“We are getting in touch with Mr. Percival Fortescue as soon as possible.
Unfortunately he is away in the North of England.”
“Oh yes, I forgot.”
“There’s just one thing, Mrs. Fortescue. There was a small quantity of
grain in your husband’s pocket. Could you give me some explanation of
that?”
She shook her head. She appeared quite bewildered.
“Would anyone have slipped it in there as a joke?”
“I don’t see why it would be a joke?”
Inspector Neele did not see either. He said:
“I won’t trouble you any further at present, Mrs. Fortescue. Shall I send
one of the maids to you? Or Miss Dove?”
“What?” The word came abstractedly. He wondered what she had been
thinking about.
She
fumbled23 with her bag and pulled out a handkerchief. Her voice
trembled.
“It’s so awful,” she said unsteadily. “I’m only just beginning to take it in.
I’ve really been
numbed24 up to now. Poor Rex. Poor dear Rex.”
She
sobbed25 in a manner that was almost convincing.
Inspector Neele watched her respectfully for a moment or two.
“It’s been very sudden, I know,” he said. “I’ll send someone to you.”
He went towards the door, opened it and passed through. He paused for
a moment before looking back into the room.
Adele Fortescue still held the handkerchief to her eyes. The ends of it
hung down but did not quite obscure her mouth. On her lips was a very
faint smile.
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