A Pocket Full of Rye by Agatha Christie Read Free Book Online Page A

Percival who was behind that cheque business—you know, when the old man kicked me out—and was he mad that he’d given me a share in the firm and so he couldn’t disinherit me! Because the queer thing was that I never forged that cheque—though of course nobody would believe that after that time I swiped funds out of the till and put it on a horse. I was dead sure I could put it back, and anyway it was my own cash in a manner of speaking. But that cheque business—no. I don’t know why I’ve got the ridiculous idea that Percival did that—but I have, somehow.”
    â€œBut it wouldn’t have done him any good? It was paid into your account.”
    â€œI know. So it doesn’t make sense, does it?”
    Pat turned sharply towards him.
    â€œYou mean—he did it to get you chucked out of the firm?”
    â€œI wondered. Oh well—it’s a rotten thing to say. Forget it. I wonder what old Percy will say when he sees the Prodigal returned. Those pale, boiled-gooseberry eyes of his will pop right out of his head!”
    â€œDoes he know you are coming?”
    â€œI shouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t know a damned thing! The old man’s got rather a funny sense of humour, you know.”
    â€œBut what has your brother done to upset your father so much?”
    â€œThat’s what I’d like to know. Something must have made the old man livid. Writing off to me the way he did.”
    â€œWhen was it you got his first letter?”
    â€œMust be four—no five months ago. A cagey letter, but a distinct holding out of the olive branch. ‘Your elder brother has proved himself unsatisfactory in many ways.’ ‘You seem to have sown your wild oats and settled down.’ ‘I can promise you that it will be well worth your while financially.’ ‘Shall welcome you and your wife.’ You know, darling, I think my marrying you had a lot to do with it. The old boy was impressed that I’d married into a class above me.”
    Pat laughed.
    â€œWhat? Into the aristocratic riff-raff?”
    He grinned. “That’s right. But riff-raff didn’t register and aristocracy did. You should see Percival’s wife. She’s the kind who says ‘Pass the preserves, please’ and talks about a postage stamp.”
    Pat did not laugh. She was considering the women of the family into which she had married. It was a point of view which Lance had not taken into account.
    â€œAnd your sister?” she asked.
    â€œElaine—? Oh she’s all right. She was pretty young when I left home. Sort of an earnest girl—but probably she’s grown out of that. Very intense over things.”
    It did not sound very reassuring. Pat said:
    â€œShe never wrote to you—after you went away?”
    â€œI didn’t leave an address. But she wouldn’t have, anyway. We’re not a devoted family.”
    â€œNo.”
    He shot a quick look at her.
    â€œGot the wind up? About my family? You needn’t. We’re not going to live with them, or anything like that. We’ll have our own little place, somewhere. Horses, dogs, anything you like.”
    â€œBut there will still be the 5:18.”
    â€œFor me, yes. To and fro to the city, all togged up. But don’t worry, sweet—there are rural pockets, even round London. And lately I’ve felt the sap of financial affairs rising in me. After all, it’s in my blood—from both sides of the family.”
    â€œYou hardly remember your mother, do you?”
    â€œShe always seemed to me incredibly old. She was old, of course. Nearly fifty when Elaine was born. She wore lots of clinking things and lay on a sofa and used to read me stories about knights and ladies which bored me stiff. Tennyson’s ‘Idylls of the King.’ I suppose I was fond of her . . . She was very—colourless, you know. I realize that, looking