A pocketful of rye - Agatha Christie

"It all depends, I suppose," she said, "where they'll have the funeral. Down here, I suppose. Or will it
be in London?"
"That will be for the family to say."
"Of course. I only just wondered." For the first time she took direct cognisance of the man who was
speaking to her.
"Are you from the office?" she asked. "You're not a doctor, are you?"
"I'm a police officer. Mr Fortescue's death was very sudden and -"
She interrupted him.
"Do you mean he was murdered?"
It was the first time that word had been spoken. Neele surveyed her eager questioning face carefully.
"Now why should you think that, madam?"
"Well, people are sometimes. You said sudden. And you're police. Have you seen her about it? What
did she say?"
"I don't quite understand to whom you are referring?"
"Adele, of course. I always told Val his father was crazy to go marrying a woman years younger than
himself. There's no fool like an old fool. Besotted about that awful creature, he was. And now look
what comes of it... A nice mess we're all in. Pictures in the paper and reporters coming round."
She paused, obviously visualising the future in a series of crude highly-coloured pictures. He thought
that the prospect was still not wholly unpleasing. She turned back to him.
"What was it? Arsenic?"
In a repressive voice Inspector Neele said:
"The cause of death has yet to be ascertained. There will be an autopsy and an inquest."
"But you know already, don't you? Or you wouldn't come down here."
There was a sudden shrewdness in her plump rather foolish face.
"You've been asking about what he ate and drank, I suppose? Dinner last night. Breakfast this
morning. And all the drinks, of course."
He could see her mind ranging vividly over all the possibilities. He said, with caution:
"It seems possible that Mr Fortescue's illness resulted from something he ate at breakfast."
"Breakfast?" She seemed surprised. "That's difficult. I don't see how..."
She paused and shook her head.