The girl who entered the room with obvious unwillingness was an unattractive, frightened-looking girl, who managed to look faintly sluttish in spite of being tall and smartly dressed in a claret-coloured uniform.
She said at once, fixing imploring eyes upon him:
“I didn’t do anything. I didn’t really. I don’t know anything about it.”
“That’s all right,” said Neele heartily. His voice had changed slightly. It sounded more cheerful and a good deal commoner in intonation. He wanted to put the frightened rabbit Gladys at her ease.
“Sit down here,” he went on. “I just want to know about breakfast this morning.”
“I didn’t do anything at all.”
“Well, you laid the breakfast, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did that.” Even that admission came unwillingly. She looked both guilty and terrified, but Inspector Neele was used to witnesses who looked like that. He went on cheerfully, trying to put her at her ease, asking questions: who had come down first? And who next?
Elaine Fortescue had been the first down to breakfast. She’d come in just as Crump was bringing in the coffee pot. Mrs. Fortescue was down next, and then Mrs. Val, and the master last. They waited on themselves. The tea and coffee and the hot dishes were all on hot plates on the sideboard.
He learnt little of importance from her that he did not know already. The food and drink was as Mary Dove had described it. The master and Mrs. Fortescue and Miss Elaine took coffee and Mrs. Val took tea. Everything had been quite as usual.
Neele questioned her about herself and here she answered more readily. She’d been in private service first and after that in various cafés. Then she thought she’d like to go back to private service and had come to Yewtree Lodge last September. She’d been there two months.
“And you like it?”
“Well, it’s all right, I suppose.” She added: “It’s not so hard on your feet—but you don’t get so much freedom. . . .”
“Tell me about Mr. Fortescue’s clothes—his suits. Who looked after them? Brushed them and all that?”
Gladys looked faintly resentful.
“Mr. Crump’s supposed to. But half the time he makes me do it.”
“Who brushed and pressed the suit Mr. Fortescue had on today?”
“I don’t remember which one he wore. He’s got ever so many.”
“Have you ever found grain in the pocket of one of his suits?”
“Grain?” She looked puzzled.
“Rye, to be exact.”
“Rye? That’s bread, isn’t it? A sort of black bread—got a nasty taste, I always think.”
“That’s bread made from rye. Rye is the grain itself. There was some found in the pocket of your master’s coat.”
“In his coat pocket?”
“Yes. Do you know how it got there?”
“I couldn’t say I’m sure. I never saw any.”
He could get no more from her. For a moment or two he wondered if she knew more about the matter than she was willing to admit. She certainly seemed embarrassed and on the defensive—but on the whole he put it down to a natural fear of the police.
When he finally dismissed her, she asked:
“It’s really true, is it. He’s dead?”
“Yes, he’s dead.”
“Very sudden, wasn’t it? They said when they rang up from the office that he’d had a kind of fit.”
“Yes—it was a kind of fit.”
Gladys said: “A girl I used to know had fits. Come on anytime, they did. Used to scare me.”
For the moment this reminiscence seemed to overcome her suspicions.
Inspector Neele made his way to the kitchen.
His reception was immediate and alarming. A woman of vast proportions, with a red face armed with a rolling pin stepped towards him in a menacing fashion.
“Police, indeed,” she said. “Coming here and saying things like that! Nothing of the kind, I’d have you know. Anything I’ve sent in the dining room has been just what it should be. Coming here and saying I poisoned the master. I’ll have the law on you, police or no police. No bad food’s ever been served in this house.”
It was sometime before Inspector Neele could appease the irate artist. Sergeant Hay looked in grinning from the pantry and Inspector Neele gathered that he had already run the gauntlet of Mrs. Crump’s wrath.
The scene was terminated by the ringing of the telephone.
Neele went out into the hall to find Mary Dove taking the call. She was writing down a message on a pad. Turning her head over her shoulder she said: “It’s a telegram.”
The call concluded, she replaced the receiver and handed the pad on which she had been writing to the inspector. The place of origin was Paris and the message ran as follows:
Fortescue Yewtree Lodge Baydon Heath Surrey. Sorry your letter delayed. Will be with you tomorrow about teatime. Shall expect roast veal for dinner. Lance.
Inspector Neele raised his eyebrows.
“So the Prodigal Son had been summoned home,” he said.
[A Pocket Full of Rye -Agatha Christie] Chapter Five