Free A Pocket Full of Rye by Agatha Christie Page A

was dead—”
    Inspector Neele shook his head sympathetically.
    Percival Fortescue prepared to take his departure—as he picked up his hat he said:
    â€œCall upon me if there is anything I can do. But I suppose—” he paused—“you will be coming down to Yewtree Lodge?”
    â€œYes, Mr. Fortescue—I’ve got a man in charge there now.”
    Percival shuddered in a fastidious way.
    â€œIt will all be most unpleasant. To think such a thing should happen to us—”
    He sighed and moved towards the door.
    â€œI shall be at the office most of the day. There is a lot to be seen to here. But I shall get down to Yewtree Lodge this evening.”
    â€œQuite so, sir.”
    Percival Fortescue went out.
    â€œPercy Prim,” murmured Neele.
    Sergeant Hay who was sitting unobtrusively by the wall looked up and said “Sir?” interrogatively.
    Then as Neele did not reply, he asked, “What do you make of it all, sir?”
    â€œI don’t know,” said Neele. He quoted softly, “ ‘They’re all very unpleasant people.’ ”
    Sergeant Hay looked somewhat puzzled.
    â€œAlice in Wonderland,” said Neele. “Don’t you know your Alice, Hay?”
    â€œIt’s a classic, isn’t it, sir?” said Hay. “Third Programme stuff. I don’t listen to the Third Programme.”

Chapter Ten
    I
    I t was about five minutes after leaving Le Bourget that Lance Fortescue opened his copy of the continental Daily Mail. A minute or two later he uttered a startled exclamation. Pat, in the seat beside him, turned her head inquiringly.
    â€œIt’s the old man,” said Lance. “He’s dead.”
    â€œDead! Your father?”
    â€œYes, he seems to have been taken suddenly ill at the office, was taken to St. Jude’s Hospital and died there soon after arrival.”
    â€œDarling, I’m so sorry. What was it, a stroke?”
    â€œI suppose so. Sounds like it.”
    â€œHad he ever had a stroke before?”
    â€œNo. Not that I know of.”
    â€œI thought people never died from a first one.”
    â€œPoor old boy,” said Lance. “I never thought I was particularly fond of him, but somehow, now that he’s dead. . . .”
    â€œOf course you were fond of him.”
    â€œWe haven’t all got your nice nature, Pat. Oh well, it looks as though my luck’s out again, doesn’t it.”
    â€œYes. It’s odd that it should happen now. Just when you were on the point of coming home.”
    He turned his head sharply towards her.
    â€œOdd? What do you mean by odd, Pat?”
    She looked at him with slight surprise.
    â€œWell, a sort of coincidence.”
    â€œYou mean that whatever I set out to do goes wrong?”
    â€œNo, darling, I didn’t mean that. But there is such a thing as a run of bad luck.”
    â€œYes, I suppose there is.”
    Pat said again: “I’m so sorry.”
    When they arrived at Heathrow and were waiting to disembark from the plane, an official of the air company called out in a clear voice:
    â€œIs Mr. Lancelot Fortescue abroad?”
    â€œHere,” said Lance.
    â€œWould you just step this way, Mr. Fortescue.”
    Lance and Pat followed him out of the plane, preceding the other passengers. As they passed a couple in the last seat, they heard the man whisper to his wife:
    â€œWell-known smugglers, I expect. Caught in the act.”
    II
    â€œIt’s fantastic,” said Lance. “Quite fantastic.” He stared across the table at Detective Inspector Neele.
    Inspector Neele nodded his head sympathetically.
    â€œTaxine—yewberries—the whole thing seems like some kind of melodrama. I dare say this sort of thing seems ordinary enough to you, Inspector. All in the day’s work. But poisoning, in our family, seems wildly far-fetched.”
    â€œYou’ve no idea then at all,” asked Inspector Neele,