Pocket Full of Rye - Agatha Christie [70]
“Always Percival Fortescue,” the inspector continued bitterly. “And though he could have tampered with the marmalade, he couldn’t have poisoned his stepmother or strangled Gladys. According to his secretary he was in his city office at five o’clock that afternoon, and he didn’t arrive back here until nearly seven.”
“That makes it very difficult, doesn’t it?” said Miss Marple.
“It makes it impossible,” said Inspector Neele gloomily. “In other words, Percival is out.” Abandoning restraint and prudence, he spoke with some bitterness, almost unaware of his listener. “Wherever I go, wherever I turn, I always come up against the same person. Percival Fortescue! Yet it can’t be Percival Fortescue.” Calming himself a little he said: “Oh, there are other possibilities, other people who had a perfectly good motive.”
“Mr. Dubois, of course,” said Miss Marple sharply. “And that young Mr. Wright. I do so agree with you, Inspector. Wherever there is a question of gain, one has to be very suspicious. The great thing to avoid is having in any way a trustful mind.”
In spite of himself, Neele smiled.
“Always think the worst, eh?” he asked.
It seemed a curious doctrine to be proceeding from this charming and fragile-looking old lady.
“Oh yes,” said Miss Marple fervently. “I always believe the worst. What is so sad is that one is usually justified in doing so.”
“All right,” said Neele, “let’s think the worst. Dubois could have done it, Gerald Wright could have done it (that is to say if he’d been acting in collusion with Elaine Fortescue and she tampered with the marmalade), Mrs. Percival could have done it, I suppose. She was on the spot. But none of the people I have mentioned tie up with the crazy angle. They don’t tie up with blackbirds and pockets full of rye. That’s your theory and it may be that you’re right. If so, it boils down to one person, doesn’t it? Mrs. MacKenzie’s in a mental home and has been for a good number of years. She hasn’t been messing about with marmalade pots or putting cyanide in the drawing room afternoon tea. Her son Donald was killed at Dunkirk. That leaves the daughter, Ruby MacKenzie. And if your theory is correct, if this whole series of murders arises out of the old Blackbird Mine business, then Ruby MacKenzie must be here in this house, and there’s only one person that Ruby MacKenzie could be.”
“I think, you know,” said Miss Marple, “that you’re being a little too dogmatic.”
Inspector Neele paid no attention.
“Just one person,” he said grimly.
He got up and went out of the room.
II
Mary Dove was in her sitting room. It was a small, rather austerely furnished room, but comfortable. That is to say Miss Dove herself had made it comfortable. When Inspector Neele tapped at the door Mary Dove raised her head, which had been bent over a pile of tradesmen’s books, and said in her clear voice:
“Come in.”
The inspector entered.
“Do sit down, Inspector.” Miss Dove indicated a chair. “Could you wait just one moment? The total of the fishmonger’s account does not seem to be correct and I must check it.”
Inspector Neele sat in silence watching her as she totted up the column. How wonderfully calm and self-possessed the girl was, he thought. He was intrigued, as so often before, by the personality that underlay that self-assured manner. He tried to trace in her features any resemblance to those of the woman he had talked to at the Pinewood Sanatorium. The colouring was not unlike, but he could detect no real facial resemblance. Presently Mary Dove raised her head from her accounts and said:
“Yes, Inspector? What can I do for you?”
Inspector Neele said quietly:
“You know, Miss Dove, there are certain very peculiar features about this case.”
“Yes?”
“To begin with there is the odd circumstance of the rye found in Mr. Fortescue’s pocket.”