A Pocket Full of Rye by Agatha Christie

- there's been none of it seen about the house. Nobody seems to know anything about the cereal in his pocket, either... It just seems daft to them. Seems daft to me, too. He doesn't seem to have been one of those food faddists who'll eat any mortal thing so long as it isn't cooked. My sister's husband's like that. Raw carrots, raw peas, raw turnips. But even he doesn't eat raw grain. Why, I should say it would swell up in your inside something awful.”
    The telephone rang and on a nod from the Inspector, Sergeant Hay sprinted off to answer it. Following him, Neele found that it was headquarters on the line. Contact had been made with Mr Percival Fortescue, who was returning to London immediately.
    As the Inspector replaced the telephone, a car drew up at the front door. Crump went to the door and opened it. The woman who stood there had her arms full of parcels. Crump took them from her.
    “Thanks, Crump. Pay the taxi, will you? I'll have tea now. Is Mrs Fortescue or Miss Elaine in?”
    The butler hesitated, looking back over his shoulder.
    “We've had bad news, ma'am,” he said. “About the master.”
    “About Mr Fortescue?”
    Neele came forward. Crump said: “This is Mrs Percival, sir.”
    “What is it? What's happened? An accident?”
    The Inspector looked her over as he replied. Mrs Percival Fortescue was a plump woman with a discontented mouth. Her age he judged to be about thirty. Her questions came with a kind of eagerness. The thought flashed across his mind that she must be very bored.
    “I'm sorry to have to tell you that Mr Fortescue was taken to St Jude's Hospital this morning seriously ill and has since died.”
    “Died? You mean he's dead?” The news was clearly even more sensational than she had hoped for. “Dear me - this is a surprise. My husband's away. You'll have to get in touch with him. He's in the North somewhere. I dare say they'll know at the office. He'll have to see to everything. Things always happen at the most awkward moment, don't they.”
    She paused for a moment, turning things over in her mind.
    “It all depends, I suppose,” she said, “where they'll have the funeral. Down here, I suppose. Or will it be in London?”
    “That will be for the family to say.”
    “Of course. I only just wondered.” For the first time she took direct cognisance of the man who was speaking to her.
    “Are you from the office?” she asked. “You're not a doctor, are you?”
    “I'm a police officer. Mr Fortescue's death was very sudden and -”
    She interrupted him.
    “Do you mean he was murdered?”
    It was the first time that word had been spoken. Neele surveyed her eager questioning face carefully.
    “Now why should you think that, madam?”
    “Well, people are sometimes. You said sudden. And you're police. Have you seen her about it? What did she say?”
    “I don't quite understand to whom you are referring?”
    “Adele, of course. I always told Val his father was crazy to go marrying a woman years younger than himself. There's no fool like an old fool. Besotted about that awful creature, he was. And now look what comes of it... A nice mess we're all in. Pictures in the paper and reporters coming round.”
    She paused, obviously visualising the future in a series of crude highly-coloured pictures. He thought that the prospect was still not wholly unpleasing. She turned back to him.
    “What was it? Arsenic?”
    In a repressive voice Inspector Neele said:
    “The cause of death has yet to be ascertained. There will be an autopsy and an inquest.”
    “But you know already, don't you? Or you wouldn't come down here.”
    There was a sudden shrewdness in her plump rather foolish face.
    “You've been asking about what he ate and drank, I suppose? Dinner last night. Breakfast this morning. And all the drinks, of course.”
    He could see her mind ranging vividly over all the possibilities. He said, with caution:
    “It seems possible that Mr Fortescue's illness resulted from something he ate