Free A Pocket Full of Rye by Agatha Christie Page A

mother died when we were about - oh, ten, twelve years old. What I'm really surprised at is that the old man didn't marry again before.”
    Inspector Neele murmured:
    “It may be considered taking rather a risk to marry a woman very much younger than yourself.”
    “Did my dear brother say that to you? It sounds rather like him. Percy is a great master of the art of insinuation. Is that the set up, Inspector? Is my stepmother suspected of poisoning my father?”
    Inspector Neele's face became blank.
    “It's early days to have any definite ideas about anything, Mr Fortescue,” he said pleasantly. “Now, may I ask you what your plans are?”
    “Plans?” Lance considered. “I shall have to make new plans, I suppose. Where is the family? All down at Yewtree Lodge?”
    “Yes.”
    “I'd better go down there straight away.” He turned to his wife. “You'd better go to an hotel, Pat.”
    She protested quickly. “No, no. Lance, I'll come with you.”
    “No, darling.”
    “But I want to.”
    “Really, I'd rather you didn't. Go and stay at the - oh it's so long since I stayed in London - Barnes's. Barnes's Hotel used to be a nice, quiet sort of place. That's still going, I suppose?”
    “Oh, yes, Mr Fortescue.”
    “Right, Pat, I'll settle you in there if they've got a room, then I'll go on down to Yewtree Lodge.”
    “But why can't I come with you, Lance?”
    Lance's face took suddenly a rather grim line.
    “Frankly, Pat, I'm not sure of my welcome. It was Father who invited me there, but Father's dead. I don't know who the place belongs to now. Percy, I suppose, or perhaps Adele. Anyway, I'd like to see what reception I get before I bring you there. Besides -”
    “Besides what?”
    “I don't want to take you to a house where there's a poisoner at large.”
    “Oh, what nonsense.”
    Lance said firmly:
    “Where you're concerned, Pat, I'm taking no risks.”

A Pocket of Rye

Chapter 11
    Mr Dubois was annoyed. He tore Adele Fortescue's letter angrily across and threw it into the wastepaper basket. Then, with a sudden caution, he fished out the various pieces, struck a match and watched them burn to ashes. He muttered under his breath:
    “Why have women got to be such damned fools? Surely common prudence...” But then, Mr Dubois reflected gloomily, women never had any prudence. Though he had profited by this lack many a time, it annoyed him now. He himself had taken every precaution. If Mrs Fortescue rang up they had instructions to say that he was out. Already Adele Fortescue had rung him up three times, and now she had written. On the whole, writing was far worse. He reflected for a moment or two, then he went to the telephone.
    “Can I speak to Mrs Fortescue, please? Yes, Mr Dubois.” A minute or two later he heard her voice.
    “Vivian, at last!”
    “Yes, yes, Adele, but be careful. Where are you speaking from?”
    “From the library.”
    “Sure nobody's listening in, in the hall?”
    “Why should they?”
    “Well, you never know. Are the police still about the house?”
    “No, they've gone for the moment, anyhow. Oh, Vivian dear, it's been awful.”
    “Yes, yes, it must have I'm sure. But look here, Adele, we've got to be careful.”
    “Oh, of course, darling.”
    “Don't call me darling through the phone. It isn't safe.”
    “Aren't you being a little bit panicky, Vivian? After all, everybody says darling nowadays.”
    “Yes, yes, that's true enough. But listen. Don't telephone to me and don't write.”
    “But Vivian -”
    “It's just for the present, you understand. We must be careful.”
    “Oh. All right.” Her voice sounded offended.
    “Adele, listen. My letters to you. You did burn them, didn't you?”
    There was a momentary hesitation before Adele Fortescue said:
    “Of course. I told you I was going to do so.”
    “That's all right, then. Well I'll ring off now. Don't phone and don't write. You'll hear from me in good time.”
    He put the receiver back in its hook. He stroked his