A Pocket Full of Rye Read Free

Inspector Neele, who had been reviewing speculatively the picture of the glamorous Miss Grosvenor adding yew berries to a brew of tea, and finding it incongruous, spoke sharply.
    â€œBecause the stuff couldn’t possibly have worked so soon. I understand the symptoms came on immediately he had drunk the tea?”
    â€œThat’s what they say.”
    â€œWell, there are very few poisons that act as quickly as that, apart from the cyanides, of course—and possibly pure nicotine—”
    â€œAnd it definitely wasn’t cyanide or nicotine?”
    â€œMy dear fellow. He’d have been dead before the ambulance arrived. Oh no, there’s no question of anything of that kind. I did suspect strychnine, but the convulsions were not at all typical. Still unofficial, of course, but I’ll stake my reputation it’s taxine.”
    â€œHow long would that take to work?”
    â€œDepends. An hour. Two hours, three hours. Deceased looked like a hearty eater. If he had had a big breakfast, that would slow things up.”
    â€œBreakfast,” said Inspector Neele thoughtfully. “Yes, it looks like breakfast.”
    â€œBreakfast with the Borgias.” Dr. Bernsdorff laughed cheerfully. “Well, good hunting, my lad.”
    â€œThanks, doctor. I’d like to speak to my sergeant before you ring off.”
    Again there were clicks and buzzes and far-off ghostly voices. And then the sound of heavy breathing came through, an inevitable prelude to Sergeant Hay’s conversation.
    â€œSir,” he said urgently. “Sir.”
    â€œNeele here. Did the deceased say anything I ought to know?”
    â€œSaid it was the tea. The tea he had at the office. But the M.O. says not. . . .”
    â€œYes, I know about that. Nothing else?”
    â€œNo, sir. But there’s one thing that’s odd. The suit he was wearing—I checked the contents of the pockets. The usual stuff—handkerchief, keys, change, wallet—but there was one thing that’s downright peculiar. The right-hand pocket of his jacket. It had cereal in it.”
    â€œCereal?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œWhat do you mean by cereal? Do you mean a breakfast food? Farmer’s Glory or Wheatifax. Or do you mean corn or barley—”
    â€œThat’s right, sir. Grain it was. Looked like rye to me. Quite a lot of it.”
    â€œI see . . . Odd . . . But it might have been a sample—something to do with a business deal.”
    â€œQuite so, sir—but I thought I’d better mention it.”
    â€œQuite right, Hay.”
    Inspector Neele sat staring ahead of him for a few moments after he had replaced the telephone receiver. His orderly mind was moving from Phase I to Phase II of the inquiry—from suspicion of poisoning to certainty of poisoning. Professor Bernsdorff’s words may have been unofficial, but Professor Bernsdorff was not a man to be mistaken in his beliefs. Rex Fortescue had been poisoned and the poison had probably been administered one to three hours before the onset of the first symptoms. It seemed probable, therefore, that the office staff could be given a clean bill of health.
    Neele got up and went into the outer office. A little desultory work was being done but the typewriters were not going at full speed.
    â€œMiss Griffith? Can I have another word with you?”
    â€œCertainly, Mr. Neele. Could some of the girls go out to lunch? It’s long past their regular time. Or would you prefer that we get something sent in?”
    â€œNo. They can go to lunch. But they must return afterwards.”
    â€œOf course.”
    Miss Griffith followed Neele back into the private office. She sat down in her composed efficient way.
    Without preamble, Inspector Neele said:
    â€œI have heard from St. Jude’s Hospital. Mr. Fortescue died at 12:43.”
    Miss Griffith received the news without surprise, merely shook her head.
    â€œI was afraid he was