Pocket Full of Rye - Agatha Christie [16]
“You hardly remember your mother, do you?”
“She always seemed to me incredibly old. She was old, of course. Nearly fifty when Elaine was born. She wore lots of clinking things and lay on a sofa and used to read me stories about knights and ladies which bored me stiff. Tennyson’s ‘Idylls of the King.’ I suppose I was fond of her . . . She was very—colourless, you know. I realize that, looking back.”
“You don’t seem to have been particularly fond of anybody,” said Pat disapprovingly.
Lance grasped and squeezed her arm.
“I’m fond of you,” he said.
Chapter Seven
Inspector Neele was still holding the telegraph message in his hand when he heard a car drive up to the front door and stop with a careless scrunching of brakes.
Mary Dove, “That will be Mrs. Fortescue now.”
Inspector Neele moved forwards to the front door. Out of the tail of his eye, he saw Mary Dove melt unobtrusively into the background and disappear. Clearly she intended to take no part in the forthcoming scene. A remarkable display of tact and discretion—and also a rather remarkable lack of curiosity. Most women, Inspector Neele decided, would have remained. . . .
As he reached the front door he was aware of the butler, Crump, coming forward from the back of the hall. So he had heard the car.
The car was a Rolls Bentley sports model coupé. Two people got out of it and came towards the house. As they reached the door, it opened. Surprised, Adele Fortescue stared at Inspector Neele.
He realized at once that she was a very beautiful woman, and he realized too the force of Mary Dove’s comment which had so shocked him at the time. Adele Fortescue was a sexy piece. In figure and type she resembled the blonde Miss Grosvenor, but whereas Miss Grosvenor was all glamour without and all respectability within, Adele Fortescue was glamour all through. Her appeal was obvious, not subtle. It said simply to every man “Here am I. I’m a woman.” She spoke and moved and breathed sex—and yet, within it all, her eyes had a shrewd appraising quality. Adele Fortescue, he thought, liked men—but she would always like money even better.
His eyes went on to the figure behind her who carried her golf clubs. He knew the type very well. It was the type that specialized in the young wives of rich and elderly men. Mr. Vivian Dubois, if this was he, had that rather forced masculinity which is, in reality, nothing of the kind. He was the type of man who “understands” women.
“Mrs. Fortescue?”
“Yes.” It was a wide blue-eyed gaze. “But I don’t know—”
“I am Inspector Neele. I’m afraid I have bad news for you.”
“Do you mean—a burglary—something of that kind?”
“No, nothing of that kind. It is about your husband. He was taken seriously ill this morning.”
“Rex? Ill?”
“We have been trying to get in touch with you since half past eleven this morning.”
“Where is he? Here? Or in hospital?”
“He was taken to St. Jude’s Hospital. I’m afraid you must prepare yourself for a shock.”
“You don’t mean—he isn’t—dead.”
She lurched forward a little and clutched his arm. Gravely feeling like someone playing a part in a stage performance, the inspector supported her into the hall. Crump was hovering eagerly.
“Brandy she’ll be needing,” he said.
The deep voice of Mr. Dubois said:
“That’s right, Crump. Get the brandy.” To the inspector he said: “In here.”
He opened a door on the left. The procession filed in. The inspector and Adele Fortescue, Vivian Dubois, and Crump with a decanter and two glasses.
Adele Fortescue sank onto an easy chair, her eyes covered with her hand. She accepted the glass that the inspector offered and took a tiny sip, then pushed it away.
“I don’t want it,” she said. “I’m all right. But tell me, what was it? A stroke, I suppose? Poor Rex.”
“It wasn’t a stroke, Mrs. Fortescue.”
“Did you say you were an inspector?” It was Mr. Dubois who made the inquiry.
Neele turned to him. “That’s right,” he said pleasantly. “Inspector Neele of the CID.”
He saw the alarm grow in the dark eyes. Mr.