II
Mary Dove came slowly down the big staircase. She paused a moment at
the window on the half landing, from which she had seen
Inspector1 Neele
arrive on the preceding day. Now, as she looked out in the fading light, she
noticed a man’s figure just disappearing round the
yew2 hedge. She
wondered if it was Lancelot Fortescue, the
prodigal3 son. He had, perhaps,
dismissed his car at the gate and was wandering round the garden recol-
lecting old times there before tackling a possibly hostile family. Mary Dove
felt rather sympathetic towards Lance. A faint smile on her lips, she went
on downstairs. In the hall she encountered Gladys, who jumped
nervously5
at the sight of her.
“Was that the telephone I heard just now?” Mary asked. “Who was it?”
“Oh, that was a wrong number. Thought we were the laundry.” Gladys
sounded breathless and rather hurried. “And before that, it was Mr.
Dubois. He wanted to speak to the mistress.”
“I see.”
Mary went on across the hall. Turning her head, she said: “It’s teatime, I
think. Haven’t you brought it in yet?”
Gladys said: “I don’t think it’s half past four yet, is it, miss?”
“It’s twenty minutes to five. Bring it in now, will you?”
Mary Dove went on into the library where Adele Fortescue, sitting on
the sofa, was staring at the fire, picking with her fingers at a small lace
handkerchief. Adele said fretfully:
“Where’s tea?”
Mary Dove said: “It’s just coming in.”
A log had fallen out of the fireplace and Mary Dove knelt down at the
grate and replaced it with the
tongs6, adding another piece of wood and a
little coal.
Gladys went out into the kitchen, where Mrs. Crump raised a red and
wrathful face from the kitchen table where she was mixing
pastry7 in a
large bowl.
“The library bell’s been ringing and ringing. Time you took in the tea,
my girl.”
“All right, all right, Mrs. Crump.”
“What I’ll say to Crump tonight,” muttered Mrs. Crump. “I’ll tell him
off.”
Gladys went on into the pantry. She had not cut any sandwiches. Well,
she jolly well wasn’t going to cut sandwiches. They’d got plenty to eat
without that, hadn’t they? Two cakes, biscuits and
scones8 and honey.
Fresh black-market farm butter. Plenty without her bothering to cut to-
mato or fois gras sandwiches. She’d got other things to think about. Fair
temper Mrs. Crump was in, all because Mr. Crump had gone out this after-
noon. Well, it was his day out, wasn’t it? Quite right of him, Gladys
thought. Mrs. Crump called out from the kitchen:
“The kettle’s boiling its head off. Aren’t you ever going to make that
tea?”
“Coming.”
She jerked some tea without measuring it into the big silver pot, carried
it into the kitchen and poured the boiling water on it. She added the teapot
and the kettle to the big silver tray and carried the whole thing through to
the library where she set it on the small table near the sofa. She went back
hurriedly for the other tray with the eatables on it. She carried the latter
as far as the hall when the sudden jarring noise of the grandfather clock
preparing itself to strike made her jump.
In the library, Adele Fortescue said querulously, to Mary Dove:
“Where is everybody this afternoon?”
“I really don’t know, Mrs. Fortescue. Miss Fortescue came in sometime
ago. I think Mrs. Percival’s writing letters in her room.”
Adele said
pettishly9: “Writing letters, writing letters. That woman never
stops writing letters. She’s like all people of her class. She takes an abso-
lute10 delight in death and misfortune. Ghoulish, that’s what I call it. Abso-
lutely ghoulish.”
Mary murmured tactfully: “I’ll tell her that tea is ready.”
Going towards the door she drew back a little in the
doorway11 as Elaine
Fortescue came into the room. Elaine said:
“It’s cold,” and dropped down by the fireplace, rubbing her hands be-
Mary stood for a moment in the hall. A large tray with cakes on it was
standing12 on one of the hall chests. Since it was getting dark in the hall,
Mary switched on the light. As she did so she thought she heard Jennifer
Fortescue walking along the passage upstairs. Nobody, however, came
down the stairs and Mary went up the staircase and along the corridor.
Percival Fortescue and his wife occupied a self-contained
suite13 in one
wing of the house. Mary tapped on the sitting room door. Mrs. Percival
liked you to tap on doors, a fact which always roused Crump’s scorn of
her. Her voice said briskly:
“Come in.”
Mary opened the door and murmured:
“Tea is just coming in, Mrs. Percival.”
She was rather surprised to see Jennifer Fortescue with her outdoor
clothes on. She was just
divesting14 herself of a long camel-hair coat.
“I didn’t know you’d been out,” said Mary.
Mrs. Percival sounded slightly out of breath.
“Oh, I was just in the garden, that’s all. Just getting a little air. Really,
though, it was too cold. I shall be glad to get down to the fire. The central
heating here isn’t as good as it might be. Somebody must speak to the
gardeners about it, Miss Dove.”
“I’ll do so,” Mary promised.
Jennifer Fortescue dropped her coat on a chair and followed Mary out
of the room. She went down the stairs ahead of Mary, who drew back a
little to give her precedence. In the hall, rather to Mary’s surprise, she no-
ticed the tray of eatables was still there. She was about to go out to the
pantry and call to Gladys when Adele Fortescue appeared in the door of
“Aren’t we ever going to have anything to eat for tea?”
Quickly Mary picked up the tray and took it into the library, disposing
the various things on low tables near the fireplace. She was carrying the
empty tray out to the hall again when the front-door bell rang. Setting
down the tray, Mary went to the door herself. If this was the prodigal son
at last she was rather curious to see him. “How unlike the rest of the For-
tescues,” Mary thought, as she opened the door and looked up into the
dark lean face and the faint quizzical twist of the mouth. She said quietly:
“Mr. Lancelot Fortescue?”
“Himself.”
Mary peered beyond him.
“Your luggage?”
“I’ve paid off the taxi. This is all I’ve got.”
He picked up a medium-sized zip bag. Some faint feeling of surprise in
her mind, Mary said:
“Oh, you did come in a taxi. I thought perhaps you’d walked up. And
your wife?”
His face set in a rather grim line, Lance said:
“My wife won’t be coming. At least, not just yet.”
“I see. Come this way, will you, Mr. Fortescue. Everyone is in the library,
having tea.”
She took him to the library door and left him there. She thought to her-
self that Lancelot Fortescue was a very attractive person. A second
thought followed the first. Probably a great many other women thought
so, too.
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