Pocket Full of Rye - Agatha Christie [63]
“You say his or her purpose. What sort of purpose?”
Miss Marple shook her head—she was not yet quite sure herself.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I
Once again Miss Somers had just made tea in the typists’ room, and once again the kettle had not been boiling when Miss Somers poured the water onto the tea. History repeats itself. Miss Griffith, accepting her cup, thought to herself: “I really must speak to Mr. Percival about Somers. I’m sure we can do better. But with all this terrible business going on, one doesn’t like to bother him over office details.”
As so often before Miss Griffith said sharply:
“Water not boiling again, Somers,” and Miss Somers, going pink, replied in her usual formula:
“Oh, dear, I was sure it was boiling this time.”
Further developments on the same line were interrupted by the entrance of Lance Fortescue. He looked round him somewhat vaguely, and Miss Griffith jumped up, came forward to meet him.
“Mr. Lance,” she exclaimed.
He swung round towards her and his face lit up in a smile.
“Hallo. Why, it’s Miss Griffith.”
Miss Griffith was delighted. Eleven years since he had seen her and he knew her name. She said in a confused voice:
“Fancy your remembering.”
And Lance said easily, with all his charm to the fore:
“Of course I remember.”
A flicker of excitement was running round the typists’ room. Miss Somers’s troubles over the tea were forgotten. She was gaping at Lance with her mouth slightly open. Miss Bell gazed eagerly over the top of her typewriter and Miss Chase unobtrusively drew out her compact and powdered her nose. Lance Fortescue looked round him.
“So everything’s still going on just the same here,” he said.
“Not many changes, Mr. Lance. How brown you look and how well! I suppose you must have had a very interesting life abroad.”
“You could call it that,” said Lance, “but perhaps I am now going to try and have an interesting life in London.”
“You’re coming back here to the office?”
“Maybe.”
“Oh, but how delightful.”
“You’ll find me very rusty,” said Lance. “You’ll have to show me all the ropes, Miss Griffith.”
Miss Griffith laughed delightedly.
“It will be very nice to have you back, Mr. Lance. Very nice indeed.”
Lance threw her an appreciative glance.
“That’s sweet of you,” he said, “that’s very sweet of you.”
“We never believed—none of us thought . . .” Miss Griffith broke off and flushed.
Lance patted her on the arm.
“You didn’t believe the devil was as black as he was painted? Well, perhaps he wasn’t. But that’s all old history now. There’s no good going back over it. The future’s the thing.” He added, “Is my brother here?”
“He’s in the inner office, I think.”
Lance nodded easily and passed on. In the anteroom to the inner sanctum a hard-faced woman of middle age rose behind a desk and said forbiddingly:
“Your name and business, please?”
Lance looked at her doubtfully.
“Are you—Miss Grosvenor?” he asked.
Miss Grosvenor had been described to him as a glamorous blonde. She had indeed appeared so in the pictures that had appeared in the newspapers reporting the inquest on Rex Fortescue. This, surely, could not be Miss Grosvenor.
“Miss Grosvenor left last week. I am Mrs. Hardcastle, Mr. Percival Fortescue’s personal secretary.”
“How like old Percy,” thought Lance. “To get rid of a glamorous blonde and take on a Gordon instead. I wonder why? Was it safety or was it because this one comes cheaper?” Aloud he said easily:
“I’m Lancelot Fortescue. You haven’t met me yet.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Mr. Lancelot,” Mrs. Hardcastle apologized, “this is the first time, I think, you’ve been to the office?”
“The first time but not the last,” said Lance, smiling.
He crossed the room and opened the door of what had been his father’s private office. Somewhat to his surprise it was not Percival who was sitting behind the desk there, but Inspector Neele. Inspector Neele looked up from a large wad of papers which he was sorting, and nodded his head.
“Good morning, Mr. Fortescue, you’ve come to take up your duties, I suppose.”
“So you’ve heard I decided