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Pocket Full of Rye - Agatha Christie [60]

By Root 372 0
me. Sometimes when I talked to him he used not to answer.” Mrs. Percy sighed, then went on: “Then Elaine, my sister-in-law, you know, she’s a very odd sort of girl. Very out of doors and all that. Not exactly unfriendly, but not sympathetic, you know. She never wanted to go to London and shop, or go to a matinée or anything of that kind. She wasn’t even interested in clothes.” Mrs. Percival sighed again and murmured: “But of course I don’t want to complain in any way.” A qualm of compunction came over her. She said, hurriedly: “You must think it most odd, talking to you like this when you are a comparative stranger. But really, what with all the strain and shock—I think really it’s the shock that matters most. Delayed shock. I feel so nervous, you know, that I really—well, I really must speak to someone. You remind me so much of a dear old lady, Miss Trefusis James. She fractured her femur when she was seventy-five. It was a very long business nursing her and we became great friends. She gave me a fox fur cape when I left and I did think it was kind of her.”

“I know just how you feel,” said Miss Marple.

And this again was true. Mrs. Percival’s husband was obviously bored by her and paid very little attention to her, and the poor woman had managed to make no local friends. Running up to London and shopping, matinées and a luxurious house to live in did not make up for the lack of humanity in her relations with her husband’s family.

“I hope it’s not rude of me to say so,” said Miss Marple in a gentle old lady’s voice, “but I really feel that the late Mr. Fortescue cannot have been a very nice man.”

“He wasn’t,” said his daughter-in-law. “Quite frankly my dear, between you and me, he was a detestable old man. I don’t wonder—I really don’t—that someone put him out of the way.”

“You’ve no idea at all who—” began Miss Marple and broke off. “Oh dear, perhaps this is a question I should not ask—not even an idea who—who—well, who it might have been?”

“Oh, I think it was that horrible man Crump,” said Mrs. Percival. “I’ve always disliked him very much. He’s got a manner, not really rude, you know, but yet it is rude. Impertinent, that’s more it.”

“Still, there would have to be a motive, I suppose.”

“I really don’t know that that sort of person requires much motive. I dare say Mr. Fortescue ticked him off about something, and I rather suspect that sometimes he drinks too much. But what I really think is that he’s a bit unbalanced, you know. Like that footman, or butler, whoever it was, who went round the house shooting everybody. Of course, to be quite honest with you, I did suspect that it was Adele who poisoned Mr. Fortescue. But now, of course, one can’t suspect that since she’s been poisoned herself. She may have accused Crump, you know. And then he lost his head and perhaps managed to put something in the sandwiches and Gladys saw him do it and so he killed her too—I think it’s really dangerous having him in the house at all. Oh dear, I wish I could get away, but I suppose these horrible policemen won’t let one do anything of the kind.” She leant forward impulsively and put a plump hand on Miss Marple’s arm. “Sometimes I feel I must get away—that if it doesn’t all stop soon I shall—I shall actually run away.”

She leant back studying Miss Marple’s face.

“But perhaps—that wouldn’t be wise?”

“No—I don’t think it would be very wise—the police could soon find you, you know.”

“Could they? Could they really? You think they’re clever enough for that?”

“It is very foolish to underestimate the police. Inspector Neele strikes me as a particularly intelligent man.”

“Oh! I thought he was rather stupid.”

Miss Marple shook her head.

“I can’t help feeling”—Jennifer Fortescue hesitated—“that it’s dangerous to stay here.”

“Dangerous for you, you mean?”

“Ye-es—well, yes—”

“Because of something you—know?”

Mrs. Percival seemed to take breath.

“Oh no—of course I don’t know anything. What should I know? It’s just—just that I’m nervous. That man Crump—”

But it was not, Miss Marple thought, of Crump that Mrs. Percival Fortescue was

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