A Pocket Full of Rye

CHAPTER 2

Inspector Neele sat in Mr Fortescue’s sanctum behind Mr Fortescue’s vast sycamore desk. One of his underlings with a notebook sat unobtrusively against the wall near the door.

Inspector Neele had a smart soldierly appearance with crisp brown hair growing back from a rather low forehead. When he uttered the phrase ‘just a matter of routine’ those addressed were wont to think spitefully: ‘And routine is about all you’re capable of!’ They would have been quite wrong. Behind his unimaginative appearance, Inspector Neele was a highly imaginative thinker, and one of his methods of investigation was to propound to himself fantastic theories of guilt which he applied to such persons as he was interrogating at the time.

Miss Griffith, whom he had at once picked out with an unerring eye as being the most suitable person to give him a succinct account of the events which had led to his being seated where he was, had just left the room having given him an admirable résumé of the morning’s happenings. Inspector Neele propounded to himself three separate highly coloured reasons why the faithful doyenne of the typists’ room should have poisoned her employer’s mid-morning cup of tea, and rejected them as unlikely.

He classified Miss Griffith as (a) Not the type of a poisoner, (b) Not in love with her employer, (c) No pronounced mental instability, (d) Not a woman who cherished grudges. That really seemed to dispose of Miss Griffith except as a source of accurate information.

Inspector Neele glanced at the telephone. He was expecting a call from St Jude’s Hospital at any moment now.

It was possible, of course, that Mr Fortescue’s sudden illness was due to natural causes, but Dr Isaacs of Bethnal Green had not thought so and Sir Edwin Sandeman of Harley Street had not thought so.

Inspector Neele pressed a buzzer conveniently situated at his left hand and demanded that Mr Fortescue’s personal secretary should be sent in to him.

Miss Grosvenor had recovered a little of her poise, but not much. She came in apprehensively, with nothing of the swanlike glide about her motions, and said at once defensively:

‘I didn’t do it!’

Inspector Neele murmured conversationally: ‘No?’

He indicated the chair where Miss Grosvenor was wont to place herself, pad in hand, when summoned to take down Mr Fortescue’s letters. She sat down now with reluctance and eyed Inspector Neele in alarm. Inspector Neele, his mind playing imaginatively on the themes Seduction? Blackmail? Platinum Blonde in Court? etc., looked reassuring and just a little stupid.

‘There wasn’t anything wrong with the tea,’ said Miss Grosvenor. ‘There couldn’t have been.’

‘I see,’ said Inspector Neele. ‘Your name and address, please?’

‘Grosvenor. Irene Grosvenor.’

‘How do you spell it?’

‘Oh. Like the Square.’

‘And your address?’

‘14 Rushmoor Road, Muswell Hill.’

Inspector Neele nodded in a satisfied fashion.

‘No seduction,’ he said to himself. ‘No Love Nest. Respectable home with parents. No blackmail.’

Another good set of speculative theories washed out.

‘And so it was you who made the tea?’ he said pleasantly.

‘Well, I had to. I always do, I mean.’

Unhurried, Inspector Neele took her closely through the morning ritual of Mr Fortescue’s tea. The cup and saucer and teapot had already been packed up and dispatched to the appropriate quarter for analysis. Now Inspector Neele learned that Irene Grosvenor and only Irene Grosvenor had handled that cup and saucer and teapot. The kettle had been used for making the office tea and had been refilled from the cloakroom tap by Miss Grosvenor.

‘And the tea itself?’

‘It was Mr Fortescue’s own tea, special China tea. It’s kept on the shelf in my room next door.’

Inspector Neele nodded. He inquired about sugar and heard that Mr Fortescue didn’t take sugar.

The telephone rang. Inspector Neele picked up the receiver. His face changed a little.

‘St Jude’s?’

He nodded to Miss Grosvenor in dismissal.

‘That’s all for now, thank you, Miss Grosvenor.’

Miss Grosvenor sped out of the room hurriedly.

Inspector Neele listened carefully to the thin unemotional tones speaking from St Jude’s Hospital. As the voice spoke he made a few cryptic signs with a pencil on the corner of the blotter in front of him.

‘Died five minutes ago, you say?’ he asked. His eye went to the watch on his wrist. Twelve forty-three, he wrote on the blotter.

The unemotional voice said that Dr Bernsdorff himself would like to speak to Inspector Neele.

Inspector Neele said, ‘Right. Put him through,’ which rather scandalized the owner of the voice, who had allowed a certain amount of reverence to seep into the official accents.

There were then various clicks, buzzes, and far-off ghostly murmurs. Inspector Neele sat patiently waiting.

Then without warning a deep bass roar caused him to shift the receiver an inch or two away from his ear.

‘Hallo, Neele, you old vulture. At it again with your corpses?’

Inspector Neele and Professor Bernsdorff of St Jude’s had been brought together over a case of poisoning just over a year ago and had remained on friendly terms.

‘Our man’s dead, I hear, doc.’

‘Yes. We couldn’t do anything by the time he got here.’

‘And the cause of death?’

‘There will have to be an autopsy, naturally. Very interesting case. Very interesting indeed. Glad I was able to be in on it.’

The professional gusto in Bernsdorff’s rich tones told Inspector Neele one thing at least.

‘I gather you don’t think it was natural death,’ he said dryly.

‘Not a dog’s chance of it,’ said Dr Bernsdorff robustly. ‘I’m speaking unofficially, of course,’ he added with belated caution.

‘Of course. Of course. That’s understood. He was poisoned?’

‘Definitely. And what’s more—this is quite unofficial, you understand—just between you and me—I’d be prepared to make a bet on what the poison was.’

‘In-deed?’

‘Taxine, my boy. Taxine.’

‘Taxine? Never heard of it.’

‘I know. Most unusual. Really delightfully unusual! I don’t say I’d have spotted it myself if I hadn’t had a case only three or four weeks ago. Couple of kids playing dolls’ tea-parties—pulled berries off a yew tree and used them for tea.’

‘Is that what it is? Yew berries?’

‘Berries or leaves. Highly poisonous. Taxine, of course, is the alkaloid. Don’t think I’ve heard of a case where it was used deliberately. Really most interesting and unusual … You’ve no idea, Neele, how tired one gets of the inevitable weed-killer. Taxine is a real treat. Of course, I may be wrong—don’t quote me, for Heaven’s sake—but I don’t think so. Interesting for you, too, I should think. Varies the routine!’

‘A good time is to be had by all, is that the idea? With the exception of the victim.’

‘Yes, yes, poor fellow.’ Dr Bernsdorff’s tone was perfunctory. ‘Very bad luck on him.’

‘Did he say anything before he died?’

‘Well, one of your fellows was sitting by him with a notebook. He’ll have the exact details. He muttered something once about tea—that he’d been given something in his tea at the office—but that’s nonsense, of course.’

‘Why is it nonsense?’ Inspector Neele, who had been reviewing speculatively the picture of the glamorous Miss Grosvenor adding yew berries to a brew of tea, and finding it incongruous, spoke sharply.

‘Because the stuff couldn’t possibly have worked so soon. I understand the symptoms came on immediately he had drunk the tea?’

‘That’s what they say.’

‘Well, there are very few poisons that act as quickly as that, apart from the cyanides, of course—and possibly pure nicotine—’

‘And it definitely wasn’t cyanide or nicotine?’

‘My dear fellow. He’d have been dead before the ambulance arrived. Oh no, there’s no question of anything of that kind. I did suspect strychnine, but the convulsions were not at all typical. Still unofficial, of course, but I’ll stake my reputation it’s taxine.’

‘How long would that take to work?’

‘Depends. An hour. Two hours, three hours. Deceased looked like a hearty eater. If he had had a big breakfast, that would slow things up.’

‘Breakfast,’ said Inspector Neele thoughtfully. ‘Yes, it looks like breakfast.’

‘Breakfast with the Borgias.’ Dr Bernsdorff laughed cheerfully. ‘Well, good hunting, my lad.’

‘Thanks, doctor. I’d like to speak to my sergeant before you ring off.’

Again there were clicks and buzzes and far-off ghostly voices. And then the sound of heavy breathing came through, an inevitable prelude to Sergeant Hay’s conversation.

‘Sir,’ he said urgently. ‘Sir.’

‘Neele here. Did the deceased say anything I ought to know?’

‘Said it was the tea. The tea he had at the office. But the M.O. says not …’

‘Yes, I know about that. Nothing else?’

‘No, sir. But there’s one thing that’s odd. The suit he was wearing—I checked the contents of the pockets. The usual stuff—handkerchief, keys, change, wallet—but there was one thing that’s downright peculiar. The right-hand pocket of his jacket. It had cereal in it.’

‘Cereal?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘What do you mean by cereal? Do you mean a breakfast food? Farmer’s Glory or Wheatifax? Or do you mean corn or barley—’

‘That’s right, sir. Grain it was. Looked like rye to me. Quite a lot of it.’

‘I see … Odd … But it might have been a sample—something to do with a business deal.’

‘Quite so, sir—but I thought I’d better mention it.’

‘Quite right, Hay.’

Inspector Neele sat staring ahead of him for a few moments after he had replaced the telephone receiver. His orderly mind was moving from Phase I to Phase II of the inquiry—from suspicion of poisoning to certainty of poisoning. Professor Bernsdorff’s words may have been unofficial, but Professor Bernsdorff was not a man to be mistaken in his beliefs. Rex Fortescue had been poisoned and the poison had probably been administered one to three hours before the onset of the first symptoms. It seemed probable, therefore, that the office staff could be given a clean bill of health.

Neele got up and went into the outer office. A little desultory work was being done but the typewriters were not going at full speed.

‘Miss Griffith? Can I have another word with you?’

‘Certainly, Mr Neele. Could some of the girls go out to lunch? It’s long past their regular time. Or would you prefer that we get something sent in?’

‘No. They can go to lunch. But they must return afterwards.’

‘Of course.’

Miss Griffith followed Neele back into the private office. She sat down in her composed efficient way.

Without preamble, Inspector Neele said:

‘I have heard from St Jude’s Hospital. Mr Fortescue died at 12.43.’

Miss Griffith received the news without surprise, merely shook her head.

‘I was afraid he was very ill,’ she said.

She was not, Neele noted, at all distressed.

‘Will you please give me particulars of his home and family?’

‘Certainly. I have already tried to get into communication with Mrs Fortescue, but it seems she is out playing golf. She was not expected home to lunch. There is some uncertainty as to which course she is playing on.’ She added in an explanatory manner, ‘They live at Baydon Heath, you know, which is a centre for three well-known golf courses.’

Inspector Neele nodded. Baydon Heath was almost entirely inhabited by rich city men. It had an excellent train service, was only twenty miles from London and was comparatively easy to reach by car even in the rush of morning and evening traffic.

‘The exact address, please, and the telephone number?’

‘Bayden Heath 3400. The name of the house is Yewtree Lodge.’

‘What?’ The sharp query slipped out before Inspector Neele could control it. ‘Did you say Yewtree Lodge?’

‘Yes.’

Miss Griffith looked faintly curious, but Inspector Neele had himself in hand again.

‘Can you give me particulars of his family?’

‘Mrs Fortescue is his second wife. She is much younger than he is. They were married about two years ago. The first Mrs Fortescue has been dead a long time. There are two sons and a daughter of the first marriage. The daughter lives at home and so does the elder son, who is a partner in the firm. Unfortunately he is away in the North of England today on business. He is expected to return tomorrow.’

‘When did he go away?’

‘The day before yesterday.’

‘Have you tried to get in touch with him?’

‘Yes. After Mr Fortescue was removed to hospital I rang up the Midland Hotel in Manchester where I thought he might be staying, but he had left early this morning. I believe he was also going to Sheffield and Leicester, but I am not sure about that. I can give you the names of certain firms in those cities whom he might be visiting.’

Certainly an efficient woman, thought the inspector, and if she murdered a man she would probably murder him very efficiently, too. But he forced himself to abandon these speculations and concentrate once more on Mr Fortescue’s home front.

‘There is a second son you said?’

‘Yes. But owing to a disagreement with his father he lives abroad.’

‘Are both sons married?’

‘Yes. Mr Percival has been married for three years. He and his wife occupy a self-contained flat in Yewtree Lodge, though they are moving into their own house at Baydon Heath very shortly.’

‘You were not able to get in touch with Mrs Percival Fortescue when you rang up this morning?’

‘She had gone to London for the day.’ Miss Griffith went on, ‘Mr Lancelot got married less than a year ago. To the widow of Lord Frederick Anstice. I expect you’ve seen pictures of her. In the Tatler—with horses, you know. And at point-to-points.’

Miss Griffith sounded a little breathless and her cheeks were faintly flushed. Neele, who was quick to catch the moods of human beings, realized that this marriage had thrilled the snob and the romantic in Miss Griffith. The aristocracy was the aristocracy to Miss Griffith and the fact that the late Lord Frederick Anstice had had a somewhat unsavoury reputation in sporting circles was almost certainly not known to her. Freddie Anstice had blown his brains out just before an inquiry by the Stewards into the running of one of his horses. Neele remembered something vaguely about his wife. She had been the daughter of an Irish Peer and had been married before to an airman who had been killed in the Battle of Britain.

And now, it seemed, she was married to the black sheep of the Fortescue family, for Neele assumed that the disagreement with his father, referred to primly by Miss Griffith, stood for some disgraceful incident in young Lancelot Fortescue’s career.

Lancelot Fortescue! What a name! And what was the other son—Percival? He wondered what the first Mrs Fortescue had been like? She’d had a curious taste in Christian names …

He drew the phone towards him and dialled TOL. He asked for Baydon Heath 3400.

Presently a man’s voice said:

‘Baydon Heath 3400.’

‘I want to speak to Mrs Fortescue or Miss Fortescue.’

‘Sorry. They aren’t in, either of ’em.’

The voice struck Inspector Neele as slightly alcoholic.

‘Are you the butler?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Mr Fortescue has been taken seriously ill.’

‘I know. They rung up and said so. But there’s nothing I can do about it. Mr Val’s away up North and Mrs Fortescue’s out playing golf. Mrs Val’s gone up to London but she’ll be back for dinner and Miss Elaine’s out with her Brownies.’

‘Is there no one in the house I can speak to about Mr Fortescue’s illness? It’s important.’

‘Well—I don’t know.’ The man sounded doubtful. ‘There’s Miss Ramsbottom—but she don’t ever speak over the phone. Or there’s Miss Dove—she’s what you might call the ’ousekeeper.’

‘I’ll speak to Miss Dove, please.’

‘I’ll try and get hold of her.’

His retreating footsteps were audible through the phone. Inspector Neele heard no approaching footsteps but a minute or two later a woman’s voice spoke.

‘This is Miss Dove speaking.’

The voice was low and well poised, with clear-cut enunciation. Inspector Neele formed a favourable picture of Miss Dove.

‘I am sorry to have to tell you, Miss Dove, that Mr Fortescue died in St Jude’s Hospital a short time ago. He was taken suddenly ill in his office. I am anxious to get in touch with his relatives—’

‘Of course. I had no idea—’ She broke off. Her voice held no agitation, but it was shocked. She went on: ‘It is all most unfortunate. The person you really want to get in touch with is Mr Percival Fortescue. He would be the one to see to all the necessary arrangements. You might be able to get in touch with him at the Midland in Manchester or possibly at the Grand in Leicester. Or you might try Shearer and Bonds of Leicester. I don’t know their telephone number, I’m afraid, but I know they are a firm on whom he was going to call and they might be able to inform you where he would be likely to be today. Mrs Fortescue will certainly be in to dinner and she may be in to tea. It will be a great shock to her. It must have been very sudden? Mr Fortescue was quite well when he left here this morning.’

‘You saw him before he left?’

‘Oh yes. What was it? Heart?’

‘Did he suffer from heart trouble?’

‘No—no—I don’t think so—But I thought as it was so sudden—’ She broke off. ‘Are you speaking from St Jude’s Hospital? Are you a doctor?’

‘No, Miss Dove, I’m not a doctor. I’m speaking from Mr Fortescue’s office in the city. I am Detective Inspector Neele of the CID and I shall be coming down to see you as soon as I can get there.’

‘Detective Inspector? Do you mean—what do you mean?’

‘It was a case of sudden death, Miss Dove; and when there is a sudden death we get called to the scene, especially when the deceased man hasn’t seen a doctor lately—which I gather was the case?’

It was only the faintest suspicion of a question mark but the young woman responded.

‘I know. Percival made an appointment twice for him, but he wouldn’t keep it. He was quite unreasonable—they’ve all been worried—’

She broke off and then resumed in her former assured manner.

‘If Mrs Fortescue returns to the house before you arrive, what do you want me to tell her?’

Practical as they make ’em, thought Inspector Neele.

Aloud he said:

‘Just tell her that in a case of sudden death we have to make a few inquiries. Routine inquiries.’

He hung up.