Pocket Full of Rye - Agatha Christie [27]
In the library, Adele Fortescue said querulously, to Mary Dove:
“Where is everybody this afternoon?”
“I really don’t know, Mrs. Fortescue. Miss Fortescue came in sometime ago. I think Mrs. Percival’s writing letters in her room.”
Adele said pettishly: “Writing letters, writing letters. That woman never stops writing letters. She’s like all people of her class. She takes an absolute delight in death and misfortune. Ghoulish, that’s what I call it. Absolutely ghoulish.”
Mary murmured tactfully: “I’ll tell her that tea is ready.”
Going towards the door she drew back a little in the doorway as Elaine Fortescue came into the room. Elaine said:
“It’s cold,” and dropped down by the fireplace, rubbing her hands before the blaze.
Mary stood for a moment in the hall. A large tray with cakes on it was standing on one of the hall chests. Since it was getting dark in the hall, Mary switched on the light. As she did so she thought she heard Jennifer Fortescue walking along the passage upstairs. Nobody, however, came down the stairs and Mary went up the staircase and along the corridor.
Percival Fortescue and his wife occupied a self-contained suite in one wing of the house. Mary tapped on the sitting room door. Mrs. Percival liked you to tap on doors, a fact which always roused Crump’s scorn of her. Her voice said briskly:
“Come in.”
Mary opened the door and murmured:
“Tea is just coming in, Mrs. Percival.”
She was rather surprised to see Jennifer Fortescue with her outdoor clothes on. She was just divesting herself of a long camel-hair coat.
“I didn’t know you’d been out,” said Mary.
Mrs. Percival sounded slightly out of breath.
“Oh, I was just in the garden, that’s all. Just getting a little air. Really, though, it was too cold. I shall be glad to get down to the fire. The central heating here isn’t as good as it might be. Somebody must speak to the gardeners about it, Miss Dove.”
“I’ll do so,” Mary promised.
Jennifer Fortescue dropped her coat on a chair and followed Mary out of the room. She went down the stairs ahead of Mary, who drew back a little to give her precedence. In the hall, rather to Mary’s surprise, she noticed the tray of eatables was still there. She was about to go out to the pantry and call to Gladys when Adele Fortescue appeared in the door of the library, saying in an irritable voice:
“Aren’t we ever going to have anything to eat for tea?”
Quickly Mary picked up the tray and took it into the library, disposing the various things on low tables near the fireplace. She was carrying the empty tray out to the hall again when the front-door bell rang. Setting down the tray, Mary went to the door herself. If this was the prodigal son at last she was rather curious to see him. “How unlike the rest of the Fortescues,” Mary thought, as she opened the door and looked up into the dark lean face and the faint quizzical twist of the mouth. She said quietly:
“Mr. Lancelot Fortescue?”
“Himself.”
Mary peered beyond him.
“Your luggage?”
“I’ve paid off the taxi. This is all I’ve got.”
He picked up a medium-sized zip bag. Some faint feeling of surprise in her mind, Mary said:
“Oh, you did come in a taxi. I thought perhaps you’d walked up. And your wife?”
His face set in a rather grim line, Lance said:
“My wife won’t be coming. At least, not just yet.”
“I see. Come this way, will you, Mr. Fortescue. Everyone is in the library, having tea.”
She took him to the library door and left him there. She thought to herself that Lancelot Fortescue was a very attractive person. A second thought followed the first. Probably a great many other women thought so, too.
III
“Lance!”
Elaine came hurrying forward towards him. She flung her arms