A Pocket Full of Rye by Agatha Christie

did not like the appearance of an inspector of the CID. He didn’t like it at all.
    â€œWhat’s up?” he said. “Something wrong—eh?”
    Quite unconsciously he backed away a little towards the door. Inspector Neele noted the movement.
    â€œI’m afraid,” he said to Mrs. Fortescue, “that there will have to be an inquest.”
    â€œAn inquest? Do you mean—what do you mean?”
    â€œI’m afraid this is all very distressing for you, Mrs. Fortescue.” The words came smoothly. “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.”
    â€œDo you mean he might have been poisoned? ”
    â€œWell, yes, it would seem so.”
    â€œI 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:
    â€œMadam? What did you think I meant?”
    She ignored that question, hurrying on.
    â€œBut we’ve been all right—all of us.”
    â€œYou can speak for all the members of the family?”
    â€œWell—no—of course—I can’t really.”
    Dubois said with a great show of consulting his watch:
    â€œI’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—”
    â€œOh, Vivian, don’t. Don’t go.”
    It was quite a wail, and it affected Mr. Dubois adversely. His retreat quickened.
    â€œAwfully 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 recognized 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:
    â€œIt’s such a shock, to come back and find the police in the house.”
    â€œI’m sure it must be. But you see, it was necessary to act promptly in order to obtain the necessary specimens of foodstuffs, coffee, tea, etc.”
    â€œTea and coffee? But they’re not poisonous? I expect it’s the awful bacon we sometimes get. It’s quite uneatable sometimes.”
    â€œWe 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 poisoning. It turned out that foxglove leaves had been picked in mistake for horseradish.”
    â€œYou think something like that could happen here?”
    â€œWe shall know better after the autopsy, Mrs. Fortescue.”
    â€œThe autop—oh I see.” She shivered.
    The inspector went on: “You’ve got a lot of yew round the house, haven’t you, madam. There’s no possibility, I suppose, of the berries or leaves having got—mixed-up in anything?”
    He was watching her closely. She stared at him.
    â€œYew berries? Are they poisonous?”
    The wonder seemed a little too wide-eyed and innocent.
    â€œChildren have been known to eat them with unfortunate results.”
    Adele clasped her hands to her head.
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œWe are getting in touch with Mr. Percival Fortescue as soon as possible. Unfortunately he is away in the North of England.”
    â€œOh yes, I forgot.”
    â€œThere’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.
    â€œWould anyone have slipped it in there as a