Pocket Full of Rye - Agatha Christie [66]
“He wasn’t well,” said Percival, with finality. “He certainly wasn’t at all well.”
“You tried to induce him to see a doctor but you failed. He refused categorically?”
“That is so.”
“May I ask you if you suspected that your father was suffering from what is familiarly referred to as GPI, General Paralysis of the Insane, a condition with signs of megalomania and irritability which terminates sooner or later in hopeless insanity?”
Percival looked surprised. “It is remarkably astute of you, Inspector. That is exactly what I did fear. That is why I was so anxious for my father to submit to medical treatment.”
Neele went on:
“In the meantime, until you could persuade your father to do that, he was capable of causing a great deal of havoc to the business?”
“He certainly was,” Percival agreed.
“A very unfortunate state of affairs,” said the inspector.
“Quite terrible. No one knows the anxiety I have been through.”
Neele said gently:
“From the business point of view, your father’s death was an extremely fortunate circumstance.”
Percival said sharply:
“You can hardly think I would regard my father’s death in that light.”
“It is not a question of how you regard it, Mr. Fortescue. I’m speaking merely of a question of fact. Your father died before his finances were completely on the rocks.”
Percival said impatiently:
“Yes, yes. As a matter of actual fact, you are right.”
“It was a fortunate occurrence for your whole family, since they are dependent on this business.”
“Yes. But really, Inspector, I don’t see what you’re driving at . . .” Percival broke off.
“Oh, I’m not driving at anything, Mr. Fortescue,” said Neele. “I just like getting my facts straight. Now there’s another thing. I understood you to say that you’d had no communication of any kind with your brother here since he left England many years ago.”
“Quite so,” said Percival.
“Yes, but it isn’t quite so, is it, Mr. Fortescue? I mean that last spring when you were so worried about your father’s health, you actually wrote to your brother in Africa, told him of your anxiety about your father’s behaviour. You wanted, I think, your brother to combine with you in getting your father medically examined and put under restraint, if necessary.”
“I—I—really, I don’t see . . .” Percival was badly shaken.
“That is so, isn’t it, Mr. Fortescue?”
“Well, actually, I thought it only right. After all, Lancelot was a junior partner.”
Inspector Neele transferred his gaze to Lance. Lance was grinning.
“You received that letter?” Inspector Neele asked.
Lance Fortescue nodded.
“What did you reply to it?”
Lance’s grin widened.
“I told Percy to go and boil his head and to let the old man alone. I said the old man probably knew what he was doing quite well.”
Inspector Neele’s gaze went back again to Percival.
“Were those the terms of your brother’s answer?”
“I—I—well, I suppose roughly, yes. Far more offensively couched, however.”
“I thought the inspector had better have a bowdlerized version,” said Lance. He went on, “Frankly, Inspector Neele, that is one of the reasons why, when I got a letter from my father, I came home to see for myself what I thought. In the short interview I had with my father, frankly I couldn’t see anything much wrong with him. He was slightly excitable, that was all. He appeared to me perfectly capable of managing his own affairs. Anyway, after I got back to Africa and had talked things over with Pat, I decided that I’d come home and—what shall we say—see fair play.”
He shot a glance at Percival as he spoke.
“I object,” said Percival Fortescue. “I object strongly to what you are suggesting. I was not intending to victimize my father, I was concerned for his health. I admit that I was also concerned . . .” he paused.
Lance filled the pause quickly.
“You were also concerned for your pocket, eh? For Percy’s little pocket.” He got up and all of a sudden his manner changed. “All right, Percy, I’m through. I was going to string you along a bit by pretending to work here. I wasn’t going to let