Chapter Fourteen
I
For about ten seconds
Inspector1 Neele stared at Miss Marple with the ut-
most bewilderment. His first idea was that the old lady had gone off her
head.
“Blackbirds?” he repeated.
Miss Marple nodded her head vigorously.
“Yes,” she said, and forthwith recited:
“ ‘Sing a song of sixpence, a pocketful of rye,
Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie.
When the pie was opened the birds began to sing.
Wasn’t that a dainty dish to set before the king?
“ ‘The king was in his counting house, counting out his
money,
The queen was in the parlour eating bread and honey,
The maid was in the garden hanging out the clothes,
When there came a little dickey bird and nipped off her
nose.’ ”
“Good Lord,” Inspector Neele said.
“I mean, it does fit,” said Miss Marple. “It was rye in his pocket, wasn’t it?
One newspaper said so. The others just said cereal, which might mean
anything. Farmer’s Glory or Cornflakes—or even maize—but it was rye?”
Inspector Neele nodded.
“There you are,” said Miss Marple,
triumphantly3. “Rex Fortescue. Rex
means King. In his Counting House. And Mrs. Fortescue the Queen in the
parlour, eating bread and honey. And so, of course, the murderer had to
put that clothes-peg on poor Gladys’s nose.”
Inspector Neele said:
“You mean the whole setup is crazy?”
“Well, one mustn’t jump to conclusions—but it is certainly very odd. But
you really must make
inquiries4 about blackbirds. Because there must be
blackbirds!”
It was at this point that
Sergeant5 Hay came into the room saying ur-
gently, “Sir.”
He broke off at sight of Miss Marple. Inspector Neele, recovering him-
self, said:
“Thank you, Miss Marple. I’ll look into the matter. Since you are interes-
ted2 in the girl, perhaps you would care to look over the things from her
room. Sergeant Hay will show you them presently.”
Miss Marple, accepting her dismissal, twittered her way out.
“Blackbirds!” murmured Inspector Neele to himself.
Sergeant Hay stared.
“Yes, Hay, what is it?”
“Sir,” said Sergeant Hay, urgently again. “Look at this.”
He produced an article wrapped in a somewhat grubby handkerchief.
“Found it in the shrubbery,” said Sergeant Hay. “Could have been
chucked there from one of the back windows.”
He tipped the object down on the desk in front of the inspector, who
leaned forward and inspected it with rising excitement. The exhibit was a
nearly full pot of marmalade.
The inspector stared at it without speech. His face assumed a peculiarly
wooden and stupid appearance. In actual fact this meant that Inspector
Neele’s mind was
racing6 once more round an imaginary track. A moving
picture was
enacting7 itself before the eyes of his mind. He saw a new pot
of marmalade, he saw hands carefully removing its cover, he saw a small
quantity of marmalade removed, mixed with a preparation of taxine and
replaced in the pot, the top smoothed over and the lid carefully replaced.
He broke off at this point to ask Sergeant Hay:
“They don’t take marmalade out of the pot and put it into fancy pots?”
“No, sir. Got into the way of serving it in its own pot during the war
when things were scarce, and it’s gone on like that ever since.”
Neele murmured:
“That made it easier, of course.”
“What’s more,” said Sergeant Hay, “Mr. Fortescue was the only one that
took marmalade for breakfast (and Mr. Percival when he was at home).
The others had jam or honey.”
Neele nodded.
“Yes,” he said. “That made it very simple, didn’t it?”
After a slight gap the moving picture went on in his mind. It was the
breakfast table now. Rex Fortescue stretching out his hand for the
marmalade pot, taking out a spoonful of marmalade and spreading it on
his toast and butter. Easier, far easier that way than the risk and difficulty
of
insinuating8 it into his coffee cup. A foolproof method of administering
the poison! And afterwards? Another gap and a picture that was not quite
so clear. The replacing of that pot of marmalade by another with exactly
the same amount taken from it. And then an open window. A hand and an
arm flinging out that pot into the shrubbery. Whose hand and arm?
Inspector Neele said in a businesslike voice:
“Well, we’ll have of course to get this analysed. See if there are any
traces of taxine. We can’t jump to conclusions.”
“Probably not the ones we want,” said Inspector Neele gloomily.
“There’ll be Gladys’s, of course, and Crump’s and Fortescue’s own. Then
probably Mrs. Crump’s, the grocer’s assistant and a few others! If anyone
put taxine in here they’d take care not to go playing about with their own
fingers all over the pot. Anyway, as I say, we mustn’t jump to conclusions.
How do they order marmalade and where is it kept?”
The
industrious10 Sergeant Hay had his answer pat for all these questions.
“Marmalade and jams comes in in
batches11 of six at a time. A new pot
would be taken into the pantry when the old one was getting low.”
“That means,” said Neele, “that it could have been
tampered12 with sev-
eral days before it was actually brought onto the breakfast table. And any-
one who was in the house or had access to the house could have tampered
with it.”
The term “access to the house” puzzled Sergeant Hay slightly. He did not
see in what way his superior’s mind was working.
But Neele was
postulating13 what seemed to him a logical assumption.
If the marmalade had been tampered with beforehand—then surely that
ruled out those persons who were actually at the breakfast table on the fatal
morning.
Which opened up some interesting new possibilities.
He planned in his mind interviews with various people—this time with
rather a different angle of approach.
He’d keep an open mind… .
He’d even consider seriously that old Miss Whatshername’s suggestions
about the nursery rhyme. Because there was no doubt that that nursery
rhyme fitted in a rather startling way. It fitted with a point that had wor-
ried him from the beginning. The pocketful of rye.
“Blackbirds?” murmured Inspector Neele to himself.
Sergeant Hay stared.
“It’s not blackberry jelly, sir,” he said. “It’s marmalade.”
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