Pocket Full of Rye - Agatha Christie [48]
“I’m afraid none of us can be as leisured as we would like to appear to be nowadays.”
“Mrs. Fortescue’s death must have been a great shock to you, Mr. Dubois. You were great friends, were you not?”
“Yes,” said Dubois, “she was a charming woman. We played golf quite often together.”
“I expect you’ll miss her very much.”
“Yes, indeed.” Dubois sighed. “The whole thing is really quite, quite terrible.”
“You actually telephoned her, I believe, on the afternoon of her death?”
“Did I? I really cannot remember now.”
“About four o’clock, I understand.”
“Yes, I believe I did.”
“Don’t you remember what your conversation was about, Mr. Dubois?”
“It wasn’t of any significance. I think I asked her how she was feeling and if there was any further news about her husband’s death—a more or less conventional inquiry.”
“I see,” said Inspector Neele. He added: “And then you went out for a walk?”
“Er—yes—yes, I—I did, I think. At least, not a walk, I played a few holes of golf.”
Inspector Neele said gently:
“I think not, Mr. Dubois . . . Not that particular day . . . The porter here noticed you walking down the road towards Yewtree Lodge.”
Dubois’s eyes met his, then shied away again nervously.
“I’m afraid I can’t remember, Inspector.”
“Perhaps you actually went to call upon Mrs. Fortescue?”
Dubois said sharply:
“No. No, I didn’t do that. I never went near the house.”
“Where did you go, then?”
“Oh, I—went on down the road, down as far as the Three Pigeons and then I turned around and came back by the links.”
“You’re quite sure you didn’t go to Yewtree Lodge?”
“Quite sure, Inspector.”
The inspector shook his head.
“Come, now, Mr. Dubois,” he said, “it’s much better to be frank with us, you know. You may have had some quite innocent reason for going there.”
“I tell you I never went to see Mrs. Fortescue that day.”
The inspector stood up.
“You know, Mr. Dubois,” he said pleasantly, “I think we’ll have to ask you for a statement and you’ll be well-advised and quite within your rights in having a solicitor present when you are making that statement.”
The colour fled from Mr. Dubois’s face, leaving it a sickly greenish colour.
“You’re threatening me,” he said. “You’re threatening me.”
“No, no, nothing of the kind.” Inspector Neele spoke in a shocked voice. “We’re not allowed to do anything of that sort. Quite the contrary. I’m actually pointing out to you that you have certain rights.”
“I had nothing to do with it at all, I tell you! Nothing to do with it.”
“Come now, Mr. Dubois, you were at Yewtree Lodge round about half past four on that day. Somebody looked out of the window, you know, and saw you.”
“I was only in the garden. I didn’t go into the house.”
“Didn’t you?” said Inspector Neele. “Are you sure? Didn’t you go in by the side door and up the stairs to Mrs. Fortescue’s sitting room on the first floor? You were looking for something, weren’t you, in the desk there?”
“You’ve got them, I suppose,” said Dubois sullenly. “That fool Adele kept them, then—she swore she burnt them—But they don’t mean what you think they mean.”
“You’re not denying, are you, Mr. Dubois, that you were a very close friend of Mrs. Fortescue’s?”
“No, of course I’m not. How can I when you’ve got the letters? All I say is, there’s no need to go reading any sinister meaning into them. Don’t think for a moment that we—that she—ever thought of getting rid of Rex Fortescue. Good God, I’m not that kind of man!”
“But perhaps she was that kind of woman?”
“Nonsense,” cried Vivian Dubois, “wasn’t she killed too?”
“Oh yes, yes.”
“Well, isn’t it natural to believe that the same person who killed her husband killed her?”
“It might be. It certainly might be. But there are other solutions. For instance—(this is quite a hypothetical case, Mr. Dubois) it’s possible that Mrs. Fortescue got rid of her husband, and that after his death she became somewhat of a danger to someone else. Someone who had, perhaps, not helped her in what she had done but who had at least encouraged her and provided, shall we say, the motive