A Pocket Full of Rye by Agatha Christie Page B

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.”
    â€œI see.”
    Mary went on across the hall. Turning her head, she said: “It’s teatime, I think. Haven’t you brought it in yet?”
    Gladys said: “I don’t think it’s half past four yet, is it, miss?”
    â€œIt’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, picking with her fingers at a small lace handkerchief. Adele said fretfully:
    â€œWhere’s tea?”
    Mary Dove said: “It’s just coming in.”
    A log had fallen out of the fireplace and Mary Dove knelt down at the grate and replaced it with the tongs, adding another piece of wood and a little coal.
    Gladys went out into the kitchen, where Mrs. Crump raised a red and wrathful face from the kitchen table where she was mixing pastry in a large bowl.
    â€œThe library bell’s been ringing and ringing. Time you took in the tea, my girl.”
    â€œAll right, all right, Mrs. Crump.”
    â€œWhat I’ll say to Crump tonight,” muttered Mrs. Crump. “I’ll tell him off.”
    Gladys went on into the pantry. She had not cut any sandwiches. Well, she jolly well wasn’t going to cut sandwiches. They’d got plenty to eat without that, hadn’t they? Two cakes, biscuits and scones and honey. Fresh black-market farm butter. Plenty without her bothering to cut tomato or fois gras sandwiches. She’d got other things to think about. Fair temper Mrs. Crump was in, all because Mr. Crump had gone out this afternoon. Well, it was his day out, wasn’t it? Quite right of him, Gladys thought. Mrs. Crump called out from the kitchen:
    â€œThe kettle’s boiling its head off. Aren’t you ever going to make that tea?”
    â€œComing.”
    She jerked some tea without measuring it into the big silver pot, carried it into the kitchen and poured the boiling water on it. She added the teapot and the kettle to the big silver tray and carried the whole thing through to the library where she set it on the small table near the sofa. She went back hurriedly for the other tray with the eatables on it. She carried the latter as far as the hall when the sudden jarring noise of the grandfather clock preparing itself to strike made her jump.
    In the library, Adele Fortescue said querulously, to Mary Dove:
    â€œWhere is everybody this afternoon?”
    â€œI really don’t know, Mrs. Fortescue. Miss Fortescue came in sometime ago. I think Mrs. Percival’s writing letters in her room.”
    Adele said pettishly: “Writing letters, writing letters. That woman never stops writing letters. She’s like all people of her class. She takes an absolute delight in death and misfortune. Ghoulish, that’s what I call it. Absolutely ghoulish.”
    Mary murmured tactfully: “I’ll tell her that tea is ready.”
    Going towards the door she drew back a little in the doorway as Elaine Fortescue came into the room. Elaine said:
    â€œIt’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:
    â€œCome in.”
    Mary opened the door and