A pocketful of rye - Agatha Christie

were there any special words - special phrases that the police could twist to make them say what they
wanted them to say? He remembered the Edith Thompson case. His letters were innocent enough, he
thought, but he could not be sure. His uneasiness grew. Even if Adele had not already burnt his letters,
would she have the sense to burn them now? Or had the police already got hold of them? Where did
she keep them, he wondered. Probably in that sitting-room of hers upstairs. That gimcrack little desk,
probably. Sham antique Louis XIV. She had said something to him once about there being a secret
drawer in it. Secret drawer! That would not fool the police long. But there were no police about the
house now. She had said so. They had been there that morning, and now they had all gone away.
Up to now they had probably been busy looking for possible sources of poison in the food. They
would not, he hoped, have got round to a room by room search of the house. Perhaps they would have
to ask permission or get a search warrant to do that. It was possible that if he acted now, at once -
He visualised the house clearly in his mind's eye. It would be getting towards dusk. Tea would be
brought in, either into the library or into the drawing-room. Everyone would be assembled downstairs
and the servants would be having tea in the servants' hall. There would be no one upstairs on the first
floor. Easy to walk up through the garden, skirting the yew hedges that provided such admirable
cover. Then there was the little door at the side on to the terrace. That was never locked until just
before bedtime. One could slip through there and, choosing one's moment, slip upstairs.
Vivian Dubois considered very carefully what it behove him to do next. If Fortescue's death had been
put down to a seizure or to a stroke as surely it ought to have been, the position would be very
different. As it was - Dubois murmured under his breath, "Better be safe than sorry."
II
Mary Dove came slowly down the big staircase. She paused a moment at the window on the half
landing, from which she had seen Inspector Neele arrive on the preceding day. Now, as she looked
out in the fading light, she noticed a man's figure just disappearing round the yew hedge. She
wondered if it was Lancelot Fortescue, the prodigal son. He had, perhaps, dismissed his car at the
gate and was wandering round the garden recollecting old times there before tackling a possibly
hostile family. Mary Dove felt rather sympathetic towards Lance. A faint smile on her lips, she went
on downstairs. In the hall she encountered Gladys, who jumped nervously at the sight of her.
"Was that the telephone I heard just now?" Mary asked. "Who was it?"
"Oh, that was a wrong number. Thought we were the laundry." Gladys sounded breathless and rather
hurried. "And before that, it was Mr Dubois. He wanted to speak to the mistress."
"I see."
Mary went on across the hall. Turning her head, she said: "It's tea-time, I think. Haven't you brought it
in yet?"
Gladys said: "I don't think it's half-past four yet, is it, miss?"
"It's twenty minutes to five. Bring it in now, will you?"
Mary Dove went on into the library where Adele Fortescue, sitting on the sofa, was staring at the fire,