secret weapons, about truth drugs used by Russians, and claims for fantastic drugs discovered by American doctors. All the witchcraft, so Neele thought, of our twentieth century. But in all the contents of the room there was nothing to give him a clue to her disappearance. She had kept no diary, not that he had expected that. It was a remote possibility. There was no unfinished letter, no record at all of anything she might have seen in the house which could have had a bearing on Rex Fortescue's death. Whatever Gladys had seen, whatever Gladys had known, there was no record of it. It would still have to be guesswork why the second tea tray had been left in the hall, and Gladys herself had so suddenly vanished.
Sighing, Neele left the room, shutting the door behind him.
As he prepared to descend the small winding stairs he heard a noise of running feet coming along the landing below.
The agitated face of Sergeant Hay looked up at him from the bottom of the stairs. Sergeant Hay was panting a little.
“Sir,” he said urgently. “Sir! We've found her -”
“Found her?”
“It was the housemaid, sir - Ellen - remembered as she hadn't brought the clothes in from where they were hanging on the line - just round the corner from the back door. So she went out with a torch to take them in and she almost fell over the body - the girl's body - strangled, she was, with a stocking round her throat - been dead for hours, I'd say. And, sir, it's a wicked kind of joke - there was a clothes peg clipped on her nose -”
A Pocket of Rye
Chapter 13
An elderly lady travelling by train had bought three morning papers, and each of them as she finished it, folded it and laid it aside, showed the same headline. It was no longer a question now of a small paragraph hidden away in the corner of the papers. There were headlines with flaring announcements of Triple Tragedy at Yewtree Lodge.
The old lady sat very upright, looking out of the window of the train, her lips pursed together, an expression of distress and disapproval on her pink and white wrinkled face. Miss Marple had left St Mary Mead by the early train, changing at the junction and going on to London where she took a Circle train to another London terminus and thence on to Baydon Heath.
At the station she signalled a taxi and asked to be taken to Yewtree Lodge. So charming, so innocent, such a fluffy and pink and white old lady was Miss Marple that she gained admittance to what was now practically a fortress in a state of siege far more easily than could have been believed possible. Though an army of reporters and photographers were being kept at bay by the police, Miss Marple was allowed to drive in without question, so impossible would it have been to believe that she was anyone but an elderly relative of the family.
Miss Marple paid off the taxi in a careful assortment of small change, and rang the front-door bell. Crump opened it and Miss Marple summed him up with an experienced glance. “A shifty eye,” she said to herself. “Scared to death, too.”
Crump saw a tall, elderly lady wearing an old-fashioned tweed coat and skirt, a couple of scarves and a small felt hat with a bird's wing. The old lady carried a capacious handbag and an aged but good quality suitcase reposed by her feet. Crump recognised a lady when he saw one and said:
“Yes, madam?” in his best and most respectful voice.
“Could I see the mistress of the house, please?” said Miss Marple.
Crump drew back to let her in. He picked up the suitcase and put it carefully down in the hall.
“Well, madam,” he said rather dubiously, “I don't know who exactly -”
Miss Marple helped him out.
“I have come,” she said, “to speak about the poor girl who was killed. Gladys Martin.”
“Oh, I see, madam. Well in that case -” he broke off, and looked towards the library door from which a tall young woman had just emerged. “This is Mrs Lance Fortescue, madam,” he said.
Pat came forward and
Sighing, Neele left the room, shutting the door behind him.
As he prepared to descend the small winding stairs he heard a noise of running feet coming along the landing below.
The agitated face of Sergeant Hay looked up at him from the bottom of the stairs. Sergeant Hay was panting a little.
“Sir,” he said urgently. “Sir! We've found her -”
“Found her?”
“It was the housemaid, sir - Ellen - remembered as she hadn't brought the clothes in from where they were hanging on the line - just round the corner from the back door. So she went out with a torch to take them in and she almost fell over the body - the girl's body - strangled, she was, with a stocking round her throat - been dead for hours, I'd say. And, sir, it's a wicked kind of joke - there was a clothes peg clipped on her nose -”
A Pocket of Rye
Chapter 13
An elderly lady travelling by train had bought three morning papers, and each of them as she finished it, folded it and laid it aside, showed the same headline. It was no longer a question now of a small paragraph hidden away in the corner of the papers. There were headlines with flaring announcements of Triple Tragedy at Yewtree Lodge.
The old lady sat very upright, looking out of the window of the train, her lips pursed together, an expression of distress and disapproval on her pink and white wrinkled face. Miss Marple had left St Mary Mead by the early train, changing at the junction and going on to London where she took a Circle train to another London terminus and thence on to Baydon Heath.
At the station she signalled a taxi and asked to be taken to Yewtree Lodge. So charming, so innocent, such a fluffy and pink and white old lady was Miss Marple that she gained admittance to what was now practically a fortress in a state of siege far more easily than could have been believed possible. Though an army of reporters and photographers were being kept at bay by the police, Miss Marple was allowed to drive in without question, so impossible would it have been to believe that she was anyone but an elderly relative of the family.
Miss Marple paid off the taxi in a careful assortment of small change, and rang the front-door bell. Crump opened it and Miss Marple summed him up with an experienced glance. “A shifty eye,” she said to herself. “Scared to death, too.”
Crump saw a tall, elderly lady wearing an old-fashioned tweed coat and skirt, a couple of scarves and a small felt hat with a bird's wing. The old lady carried a capacious handbag and an aged but good quality suitcase reposed by her feet. Crump recognised a lady when he saw one and said:
“Yes, madam?” in his best and most respectful voice.
“Could I see the mistress of the house, please?” said Miss Marple.
Crump drew back to let her in. He picked up the suitcase and put it carefully down in the hall.
“Well, madam,” he said rather dubiously, “I don't know who exactly -”
Miss Marple helped him out.
“I have come,” she said, “to speak about the poor girl who was killed. Gladys Martin.”
“Oh, I see, madam. Well in that case -” he broke off, and looked towards the library door from which a tall young woman had just emerged. “This is Mrs Lance Fortescue, madam,” he said.
Pat came forward and
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