A pocketful of rye - Agatha Christie

"It's cold," and dropped down by the fireplace, rubbing her hands before the blaze.
Mary stood for a moment in the hall. A large tray with cakes on it was standing on one of the hall
chests. Since it was getting dark in the hall, Mary switched on the light. As she did so she thought she
heard Jennifer Fortescue walking along the passage upstairs. Nobody, however, came down the stairs
and Mary went up the staircase and along the corridor.
Percival Fortescue and his wife occupied a self-contained suite in one wing of the house. Mary
tapped on the sitting-room door. Mrs Percival liked you to tap on doors, a fact which always roused
Crump's scorn of her. Her voice said briskly:
"Come in."
Mary opened the door and murmured:
"Tea is just coming in, Mrs Percival."
She was rather surprised to see Jennifer Fortescue with her outdoor clothes on. She was just
divesting herself of a long camel-hair coat.
"I didn't know you'd been out," said Mary.
Mrs Percival sounded slightly out of breath.
"Oh, I was just in the garden, that's all. Just getting a little air. Really, though, it was too cold. I shall
be glad to get down to the fire. The central heating here isn't as good as it might be. Somebody must
speak to the gardeners about it, Miss Dove."
"I'll do so," Mary promised.
Jennifer Fortescue dropped her coat on a chair and followed Mary out of the room. She went down
the Stairs ahead of Mary, who drew back a little to give her precedence. In the hall, rather to Mary's
surprise, she noticed the tray of eatables was still there. She was about to go out to the pantry and call
to Gladys when Adele Fortescue appeared in the door of the library, saying in an irritable voice:
"Aren't we ever going to have anything to eat for tea?"
Quickly Mary picked up the tray and took it into the library, disposing the various things on low
tables near the fireplace. She was carrying the empty tray out to the hall again when the front-door
bell rang. Setting down the tray, Mary went to the door herself. If this was the prodigal son at last she
was rather curious to see him. "How unlike the rest of the Fortescues," Mary thought, as she opened
the door and looked up into the dark lean face and the faint quizzical twist of the mouth. She said
quietly:
"Mr Lancelot Fortescue?"
"Himself."
Mary peered beyond him.
"Your luggage?"