Pocket Full of Rye - Agatha Christie [51]
Pat still found it difficult to say anything. She wondered if Lance’s Aunt Effie was really quite all there. She was, however, a trifle disconcerted by the old lady’s shrewd glance at her.
“How much,” demanded Aunt Effie, “do you know about the family you’ve married into?”
“I suppose,” said Pat, “as much as one ever knows of the family one marries into.”
“H’m, something in that, something in that. Well, I’ll tell you this. My sister was a fool, my brother-in-law was a rogue, Percival is a sneak, and your Lance was always the bad boy of the family.”
“I think that’s all nonsense,” said Pat robustly.
“Maybe you’re right,” said Miss Ramsbottom, unexpectedly. “You can’t just stick labels on people. But don’t underestimate Percival. There’s a tendency to believe that those who are labelled good are also stupid. Percival isn’t the least bit stupid. He’s quite clever in a sanctimonious kind of way. I’ve never cared for him. Mind you, I don’t trust Lance and I don’t approve of him, but I can’t help being fond of him . . . He’s a reckless sort of fellow—always has been. You’ve got to look after him and see he doesn’t go too far. Tell him not to underestimate Percival, my dear. Tell him not to believe everything that Percival says. They’re all liars in this house.” The old lady added with satisfaction: “Fire and brimstone shall be their portion.”
II
Inspector Neele was finishing a telephone conversation with Scotland Yard.
The assistant commissioner at the other end said:
“We ought to be able to get that information for you—by circularizing the various private sanatoriums. Of course she may be dead.”
“Probably is. It’s a long time ago.”
Old sins cast long shadows. Miss Ramsbottom had said that—said it with a significance, too—as though she was giving him a hint.
“It’s a fantastic theory,” said the AC.
“Don’t I know it, sir. But I don’t feel we can ignore it altogether. Too much fits in—”
“Yes—yes—rye—blackbirds—the man’s Christian name—”
Neele said:
“I’m concentrating on the other lines too—Dubois is a possibility—so is Wright—the girl Gladys could have caught sight of either of them outside the side door—she could have left the tea tray in the hall and gone out to see who it was and what they were doing—whoever it was could have strangled her then and there and then carried her body round to the clothesline and put the peg on her nose—”
“A crazy thing to do in all conscience! A nasty one too.”
“Yes, sir. That’s what upset the old lady—Miss Marple, I mean. Nice old lady—and very shrewd. She’s moved into the house—to be near old Miss Ramsbottom—and I’ve no doubt she’ll get to hear anything that’s going.”
“What’s your next move, Neele?”
“I’ve an appointment with the London solicitors. I want to find out a little more about Rex Fortescue’s affairs. And though it’s old history, I want to hear a little more about the Blackbird Mine.”
III
Mr. Billingsley, of Billingsley, Horsethorpe & Walters, was an urbane man whose discretion was concealed habitually by a misleadingly forthcoming manner. It was the second interview that Inspector Neele had had with him, and on this occasion Mr. Billingsley’s discretion was less noticeable than it had been on the former one. The triple tragedy at Yewtree Lodge had shaken Mr. Billingsley out of his professional reserve. He was now only too anxious to put all the facts he could before the police.
“Most extraordinary business, this whole thing,” he said. “A most extraordinary business. I don’t remember anything like it in all my professional career.”
“Frankly, Mr. Billingsley,” said Inspector Neele, “we need all the help we can get.”
“You can count on me, my dear sir. I shall be only too happy to assist you in every way I can.”
“First let me ask you how well you knew the late Mr. Fortescue, and how well do you know the affairs of his firm?”
“I knew Rex Fortescue fairly well. That is to say I’ve known him for a period of, well, sixteen years I should say. Mind you, we are not the only firm of solicitors he employed, not by a long way.