A Pocket Full of Rye by Agatha Christie Page A

joke?”
    â€œI don’t see why it would be a joke?”
    Inspector Neele did not see either. He said:
    â€œI won’t trouble you any further at present, Mrs. Fortescue. Shall I send one of the maids to you? Or Miss Dove?”
    â€œWhat?” The word came abstractedly. He wondered what she had been thinking about.
    She fumbled with her bag and pulled out a handkerchief. Her voice trembled.
    â€œIt’s so awful,” she said unsteadily. “I’m only just beginning to take it in. I’ve really been numbed up to now. Poor Rex. Poor dear Rex.”
    She sobbed in a manner that was almost convincing.
    Inspector Neele watched her respectfully for a moment or two.
    â€œIt’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.

Chapter Eight
    I
    â€œI ’ve got what I could, sir.” So Sergeant Hay reported. “The marmalade, bit of the ham. Samples of tea, coffee and sugar, for what they’re worth. Actual brews have been thrown out by now, of course, but there’s one point. There was a good lot of coffee left over and they had it in the servants’ hall at elevenses—that’s important, I should say.”
    â€œYes, that’s important. Shows that if he took it in his coffee, it must have been slipped into the actual cup.”
    â€œBy one of those present. Exactly. I’ve inquired, cautious like, about the yew stuff—berries or leaves—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.
    â€œThanks, 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.
    â€œWe’ve had bad news, ma’am,” he said. “About the master.”
    â€œAbout Mr. Fortescue?”
    Neele came forward. Crump said: “This is Mrs. Percival, sir.”
    â€œWhat 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.
    â€œI’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.”
    â€œDied? 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.
    â€œIt