Pocket Full of Rye - Agatha Christie [41]
Mary Dove was her calm, practical self again.
“It must, I think, have been some silly, spiteful joke,” she said. “Four dead blackbirds were on Mr. Fortescue’s desk in his study here. It was summer and the windows were open, and we rather thought it must have been the gardener’s boy, though he insisted he’d never done anything of the kind. But they were actually blackbirds the gardener had shot which had been hanging up by the fruit bushes.”
“And somebody had cut them down and put them on Mr. Fortescue’s desk?”
“Yes.”
“Any sort of reason behind it—any association with blackbirds?”
Mary shook her head.
“I don’t think so.”
“How did Mr. Fortescue take it? Was he annoyed?”
“Naturally he was annoyed.”
“But not upset in any way?”
“I really can’t remember.”
“I see,” said Inspector Neele.
He said no more. Mary Dove once more turned away, but this time, he thought, she went rather unwillingly as though she would have liked to know more of what was in his mind. Ungratefully, all that Inspector Neele felt was annoyance with Miss Marple. She had suggested to him that there would be blackbirds and, sure enough, there the blackbirds were! Not four and twenty of them, that was true. What might be called a token consignment.
That had been as long ago as last summer and where it fitted in Inspector Neele could not imagine. He was not going to let this blackbird bogey divert him from the logical and sober investigation of murder by a sane murderer for a sane reason, but he would be forced from now on to keep the crazier possibilities of the case in mind.
Chapter Fifteen
I
“I’m sorry, Miss Fortescue, to bother you again, but I want to be quite, quite clear about this. As far as we know you were the last person—or rather the last person but one—to see Mrs. Fortescue alive. It was about twenty past five when you left the drawing room?”
“About then,” said Elaine, “I can’t say exactly.” She added defensively: “One doesn’t look at clocks the whole time.”
“No, of course not. During the time that you were alone with Mrs. Fortescue after the others had left, what did you talk about?”
“Does it matter what we talked about?”
“Probably not,” said Inspector Neele, “but it might give me some clue as to what was in Mrs. Fortescue’s mind.”
“You mean—you think she might have done it herself?”
Inspector Neele noticed the brightening on her face. It would certainly be a very convenient solution as far as the family was concerned. Inspector Neele did not think it was true for a moment. Adele Fortescue was not to his mind a suicidal type. Even if she had poisoned her husband and was convinced the crime was about to be brought home to her, she would not, he thought, have ever thought of killing herself. She would have been sure optimistically that even if she were tried for murder she would be sure to be acquitted. He was not, however, averse to Elaine Fortescue’s entertaining the hypothesis. He said, therefore, quite truthfully:
“There’s a possibility of it at least, Miss Fortescue. Now perhaps you’ll tell me just what your conversation was about?”
“Well, it was really about my affairs.” Elaine hesitated.
“Your affairs being . . . ? ” he paused questioningly with a genial expression.
“I—a friend of mine had just arrived in the neighbourhood, and I was asking Adele if she would have any objection to—to my asking him to stay here at the house.”
“Ah. And who is this friend?”
“It’s a Mr. Gerald Wright. He’s a schoolmaster. He—he’s staying at the Golf Hotel.”
“A very close friend, perhaps?”
Inspector Neele gave an avuncular beam which added at least fifteen years to his age.
“We may expect an interesting announcement shortly, perhaps?”
He felt almost compunction as he saw the awkward gesture of the girl’s hand and the flush on her face. She was in love with the fellow all right.
“We—we’re not actually engaged and of course we couldn’t have it announced just now, but—well, yes I think we do—I mean we are going to get married.”
“Congratulations,” said Inspector Neele pleasantly. “Mr. Wright is staying