Chapter Eight
I“I ’ve got what I could, sir.” So Sergeant¹ Hay reported. “The marmalade, bit of the ham. Samples of tea, coffee andsugar, for what they’re worth. Actual brews² have been thrown out by now, of course, but there’s one point. There wasa good lot of coffee left over and they had it in the servants’ hall at elevenses—that’s important, I should say.”
“Yes, that’s important. Shows that if he took it in his coffee, it must have been slipped into the actual cup.”
“By one of those present. Exactly. I’ve inquired, cautious like, about the yew³ stuff—berries or leaves—there’s beennone of it seen about the house. Nobody seems to know anything about the cereal in his pocket, either . . . It just seemsdaft to them. Seems daft to me, too. He doesn’t seem to have been one of those food faddists who’ll eat any mortalthing so long as it isn’t cooked. My sister’s husband’s like that. Raw carrots, raw peas, raw turnips⁴. But even hedoesn’t eat raw grain. Why, I should say it would swell⁵ up in your inside something awful.”
The telephone rang and, on a nod from the inspector⁶, Sergeant Hay sprinted⁷ off to answer it. Following him, Neelefound that it was headquarters on the line. Contact had been made with Mr. Percival Fortescue, who was returning toLondon immediately.
As the inspector replaced the telephone, a car drew up at the front door. Crump went to the door and opened it. Thewoman who stood there had her arms full of parcels. Crump took them from her.
“Thanks, Crump. Pay the taxi, will you? I’ll have tea now. Is Mrs. Fortescue or Miss Elaine in?”
The butler hesitated, looking back over his shoulder.
“We’ve had bad news, ma’am,” he said. “About the master.”
“About Mr. Fortescue?”
Neele came forward. Crump said: “This is Mrs. Percival, sir.”

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