A POCKET FULL OF RYE Mr. Rex Fortescue, a wealthy businessman, takes ill suddenly in his office and <ij dies shortly afterwards in hospital. A Pocket Full of Rye. download. ⌸. Novel. First published: Murder methods. Strangling.. Gunshot Download the Miss Marple reading list. Download PDF. A pocket full of rye by Agatha Christie, , Pocket Books edition.
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"Could he have had barley - or rye - in his pocket today for any special reason? A sample, perhaps? had before. A pocketful of rye - and no explanation of it.". Een Handvol Rogge (A Pocket Full Of Rye) · Read more · A Pocket Full of Rye ( Miss Marple Mysteries). Read more · A Pocket Full of Rye (Miss Marple Mysteries ). By the step leading up into the sleeping-car stood a young French lieutenant To which Murder on the Orient Express And Then There Were None by AGATHA.
Do you mean a breakfast food? Farmer's Glory or Wheatifax? Grain it was. Looked like rye to me. Quite a lot of it. But it might have been a sample--something to do with a business deal. His orderly mind was moving from Phase I to Phase II of the inquiry--from suspicion of poisoning to certainty of poisoning.
Somers poured the water on to the tea, but poor Miss. Somers was never quite sure when a kettle was boiling.
It was one of the many worries that afflicted her in life. She poured out the tea and took the cups round with a couple of limp, sweet biscuits in each saucer.
Griffith thought to herself. But really! The mess the silly idiot made of that letter to Eastern Developments - a perfectly straightforward job, and always so stupid over the tea. At that moment Miss. Could some of the 18 girls go out to lunch? It's long past their regular time. Or would you prefer that we get something sent in? They can go to lunch. But they must return afterwards. She sat down in her composed efficient way.
Without preamble. Jude's Hospital. Fortescue died at She was not, Neele noted, at all distressed. I have already tried to get into communication with Mrs. Fortescue, but it seems she is out playing golf. She was not expected home to lunch.
There is some uncertainty as to which course she is playing on. Baydon Heath was almost entirely inhabited by rich city 19 men. It had an excellent train service, was only twenty miles from London and was comparatively easy to reach by car even in the rush of morning and evening traffic. The name of the house is Yewtree Lodge.
Fortescue is his second wife. She is much younger than he is. They were married about two years ago. The first Mrs. Fortescue has been dead a long time. There are two sons and a daughter of the first marriage. What was it? Jude's Hospital?
Are you a doctor? I'm speaking from Mr. Fortescue's office in the city. I am Detective-Inspector Neele of the C. Do you mean—what do you mean? Miss Dove, and when there is a sudden death we get called to the scene, especially when the deceased 25 man hasn't seen a doctor lately--which I gather was the case?
Percival made an appointment twice for him but he wouldn't keep it. Fortescue returns to the house before you arrive, what do you want me to tell her? Aloud he said: Routine inquiries. You didn't tell me that. Unlike himself. Peculiar in his manner. Sometimes he was quite boisterous. Once or twice, frankly, I thought he had been drinking He boasted and told the most extraordinary stories which I'm sure couldn't possibly have been true.
For most of the time I've been here he was always very close about his 27 affairs—not giving anything away, you know. But lately he's been quite different, expansive, and positively—well—flinging money about. Most unlike his usual manner. Why, when the office boy had to go to his grandmother's funeral, Mr. Fortescue called him in and gave him a five pound note and told him to put it on the second favourite and then roared with laughter.
He wasn't—well, he just wasn't like himself. That's all I can say. As though everyday things didn't matter any more. He was excited. And some very oddlooking people came to see him on business.
People who'd never been here before. It worried Mr. Percival dreadfully. Percival's always been very 28 much in his father's confidence, you see. His father relied on him. Fortescue was doing a lot of things that Mr. Percival thought unwise.
Percival is always very careful and prudent. But suddenly his father didn't listen to him any more and Mr. Percival was very upset. Of course, I realise now Mr. Fortescue can't have been himself—shouting like that. What did he say? What did he say Percival had done? He said he had no large outlook, no conception of doing business in a big way.
He said 'I shall get Lance home again. He's worth ten of you—and he's married well. Lance was just young and high spirited and didn't really realise what he was doing.
But he passed on to fresh questions. Inspector Neele thanked her and then said he would like to see Miss Grosvenor again. Detective-Constable Waite sharpened his pencil.
He remarked wistfully that this was a Ritzy joint. His glance wandered appreciatively over the huge chairs, the big desk and the indirect lighting. And Fortescue—that's a classy name, too.
Fontescu—and he came from somewhere in Central Europe. I suppose this man thought Fortescue sounded better. Fortescue was much too clever for that. He's had certain connections with the Black Market and put through one or two deals that are questionable to say the least of it, but they've always been just within the law. The Inland Revenue have been after him for a long time but he's been too clever for them.
Quite a financial genius, the late Mr. But he was poisoned at home remember. Or so it would seem. You know, Waite, I see a kind of pattern emerging. An old-fashioned familiar kind of pattern. The good boy, Percival. The bad boy. Lance--attractive to women. The wife who's younger than her husband and who's vague about which course she's going to play golf on. It's all very very familiar. But there's one thing that sticks out in a most incongruous way. I did, as a matter of fact. He seemed to talk a lot of nonsense.
I couldn't really believe half of what he said. And then he lost his 32 temper very easily--especially with Mr. Not with me, because of course I never argue. Fortescue,' whatever peculiar thing he says--said, I mean. Was Mr. Fortescue in the habit of carrying grain about in his pocket? In his pocket? Do you mean to feed pigeons or something? Feed pigeons? Oh no. A sample, perhaps? Some deal in grain? He was expecting the Asiatic Oil people this afternoon. And the President of the Atticus Building Society.
No one else. A pocketful of rye—and no explanation of it. A car had just driven up from which two men were alighting.
The taller of the two stood for a moment with his back to the house surveying his surroundings. Mary Dove appraised the two men thoughtfully. Inspector Neele and presumably a subordinate. She turned from the window and looked at herself in the full-length mirror that hung on the wall where the staircase turned.
She saw a small demure figure with immaculate white collar and cuffs on a beige grey dress. Her dark hair was parted in the middle and drawn back in two shining waves to a knot in the back of the neck. The lipstick she used was a pale rose colour. On the whole Mary Dove was satisfied with her appearance. A very faint smile on her lips, she went on down the stairs.
Inspector Neele, surveying the house, was saying to himself: Yewtree Lodge! The affectation of these rich people! The house was what he.
Inspector Neele, would call a mansion. He knew what a lodge was. He'd been brought up in one! The lodge at the gates of Hartington Park, that vast unwieldy Palladian house with its twentynine bedrooms which had now been taken over by the National Trust.
The lodge had been small and attractive from the outside, and had been damp, uncomfortable and devoid of anything but the most primitive form of sanitation within. Fortunately these facts had been accepted as quite proper and fitting by Inspector Neele's parents. They had no rent to pay and nothing whatever to do except open and shut the gates when required, and there were always plenty of rabbits and an occasional pheasant or so for the pot.
Neele had never discovered the pleasures of electric irons, slow combustion stoves, airing cupboards, hot and cold water from taps, and the switching on of light by a mere flick of a finger. In winter the Neeles had an oil lamp and in summer they went to bed when it got dark.
They were a healthy family and a happy one, all thoroughly behind the times. The house was a large solid red brick structure, sprawling lengthwise rather than upwards, with rather too many gables, and a vast number of leaded paned windows. The gardens were highly artificial—all laid out in rose beds and pergolas and pools, and living up to the name of the house with large numbers of clipped yew hedges.
Plenty of yew here for anybody with a desire to obtain the raw material of taxine. Over on the right, behind the rose pergola, there was a bit of actual Nature left—a vast yew tree of the kind one associates with churchyards, its branches held up by stakes—like a kind of Moses of the forest world. That tree, the Inspector thought, had been there long before the rash of newly built red brick houses had begun to spread over the countryside.
It had been there before the golf courses had been laid out and the fashionable 37 architects had walked round with their rich clients pointing out the advantages of the various sites. And since it was a valuable antique, the tree had been kept and incorporated in the new set up and had, perhaps, given its name to the new desirable residence. Yewtreee Lodge. And possibly the berries from that very treeInspector Neele cut off these unprofitable speculations.
Must get on with the job. He rang the bell. It was opened promptly by a middle-aged man who fitted in quite accurately with the mental image Inspector Neele had formed of him over the phone. A man with a rather spurious air of smartness, a shifty eye and a rather unsteady hand. Inspector Neele announced himself and his subordinate and had the pleasure of seeing an instant look of alarm come into the butler's eye. Neele did not attach too much importance to that.
It might easily have nothing to do with the death of Rex Fortescue. It was quite possibly a purely automatic reaction. Fortescue returned yet? Percival Fortescue? Nor Miss Fortescue? This time the mental picture did not correspond with the reality. Unconsciously the word housekeeper had conjured up a vague impression of someone large and authoritative dressed in black with somewhere concealed about her a jingle of keys.
The Inspector was quite unprepared for the small trim figure descending towards him. The soft dove-coloured tones other dress, the white collar and cuffs, the neat waves of hair, the faint Mona Lisa smile.
It all seemed, somehow, just a little unreal, as though this young woman of under thirty was playing a part: Her appearance was directed towards living up to her name. She greeted him composedly. This is Sergeant Hay. Fortescue, as I told you through the phone, died in St. Jude's Hospital at It seems likely that his death was the result of something he ate at breakfast this morning.
I should be glad therefore if Sergeant Hay could be taken to the kitchen where he can make inquiries as to the food served. She turned to the uneasily hovering butler. Mary Dove said to Neele: She chose, he noticed, to face the light. An unusual preference for a woman. Still more 40 unusual if a woman had anything to hide. But perhaps Mary Dove had nothing to hide. Fortescue may return at any minute. And so may Mrs. I have sent wires to Mr. Percival Fortescue at various places.
Fortescue's death was caused by something he may have eaten for breakfast? Food poisoning, you mean?