Pocket Full of Rye - Agatha Christie [11]
“And suppose your staff, when you’ve assembled it, runs out on you? I’ve heard of such things.”
Mary smiled.
“If necessary, I can make the beds, dust the rooms, cook a meal and serve it without anyone noticing the difference. Of course I don’t advertise that fact. It might give rise to ideas. But I can always be sure of tiding over any little gap. But there aren’t often gaps. I work only for the extremely rich who will pay anything to be comfortable. I pay top prices and so I get the best of what’s going.”
“Such as the butler?”
She threw him an amused, appreciative glance.
“There’s always that trouble with a couple. Crump stays because of Mrs. Crump, who is one of the best cooks I’ve ever come across. She’s a jewel and one would put up with a good deal to keep her. Our Mr. Fortescue likes his food—liked, I should say. In this household nobody has any scruples and they have plenty of money. Butter, eggs, cream, Mrs. Crump can command what she likes. As for Crump, he just makes the grade. His silver’s all right, and his waiting at table is not too bad. I keep the key of the wine cellar and a sharp eye on the whisky, and gin, and supervise his valeting.”
Inspector Neele raised his eyebrows.
“The admirable Miss Crichton.”
“I find one must know how to do everything oneself. Then—one need never do it. But you wanted to know my impressions of the family.”
“If you don’t mind.”
“They are really all quite odious. The late Mr. Fortescue was the kind of crook who is always careful to play safe. He boasted a great deal of his various smart dealings. He was rude and overbearing in manner and was a definite bully. Mrs. Fortescue, Adele—was his second wife and about thirty years younger than he was. He came across her at Brighton. She was a manicurist on the look out for big money. She is very good-looking—a real sexy piece, if you know what I mean.”
Inspector Neele was shocked but managed not to show it. A girl like Mary Dove ought not to say such things, he felt.
The young lady was continuing composedly:
“Adele married him for his money, of course, and his son, Percival, and his daughter, Elaine, were simply livid about it. They’re as nasty as they can be to her, but very wisely she doesn’t care or even notice. She knows she’s got the old man where she wants him. Oh dear, the wrong tense again. I haven’t really grasped yet that he’s dead. . . .”
“Let’s hear about the son.”
“Dear Percival? Val, as his wife calls him. Percival is a mealy-mouthed hypocrite. He’s prim and sly and cunning. He’s terrified of his father and has always let himself be bullied, but he’s quite clever at getting his own way. Unlike his father he’s mean about money. Economy is one of his passions. That’s why he’s been so long about finding a house of his own. Having a suite of rooms here saved his pocket.”
“And his wife?”
“Jennifer’s meek and seems very stupid. But I’m not so sure. She was a hospital nurse before her marriage—nursed Percival through pneumonia to a romantic conclusion. The old man was disappointed by the marriage. He was a snob and wanted Percival to make what he called a ‘good marriage.’ He despised poor Mrs. Val and snubbed her. She dislikes—disliked him a good deal, I think. Her principal interests are shopping and the cinema; her principal grievance is that her husband keeps her short of money.”
“What about the daughter?”
“Elaine? I’m rather sorry for Elaine. She’s not a bad sort. One of those great schoolgirls who never grow up. She plays games quite well, and runs Guides and Brownies and all that sort of thing. There was some sort of affair not long ago with a disgruntled young schoolmaster, but Father discovered the young man had communistic ideas and came