A Pocket Full of Rye by Agatha Christie Page A

everybody says darling nowadays.”
    â€œYes, yes, that’s true enough. But listen. Don’t telephone to me and don’t write. ”
    â€œBut Vivian—”
    â€œIt’s just for the present, you understand. We must be careful. ”
    â€œOh. All right.” Her voice sounded offended.
    â€œAdele, listen. My letters to you. You did burn them, didn’t you?”
    There was a momentary hesitation before Adele Fortescue said:
    â€œOf course. I told you I was going to do so.”
    â€œThat’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 cheek thoughtfully. He didn’t like that moment’s hesitation. Had Adele burnt his letters? Women were all the same. They promised to burn things and then didn’t.
    Letters, Mr. Dubois thought to himself. Women always wanted you to write them letters. He himself tried to be careful but sometimes one could not get out of it. What had he said exactly in the few letters he had written to Adele Fortescue? “It was the usual sort of gup,” he thought, gloomily. But 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 visualized 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 onto 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.
    â€œWas that the telephone I heard just now?” Mary asked. “Who was it?”
    â€œOh, that