They Do It With Mirrors

  “It did not seem to you that the shot was in the house?”

  “No, I thought it came from outside. I thought it might have been the backfire of a car.”

  “During the quarrel between your husband and this young fellow Lawson in the study, did you notice anybody leaving the Hall?”

  “Wally had already gone to see about the lights. Miss Bellever went out shortly afterwards—to get something, but I can’t remember what.”

  “Who else left the Hall?”

  “Nobody, so far as I know.”

  “Would you know, Mrs. Serrocold?”

  She reflected a moment.

  “No, I don’t think I should.”

  “You were completely absorbed in what you could hear going on in the study?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you were apprehensive as to what might happen there?”

  “No—no, I wouldn’t say that. I didn’t think anything would really happen.”

  “But Lawson had a revolver?”

  “Yes.”

  “And was threatening your husband with it?”

  “Yes. But he didn’t mean it.”

  Inspector Curry felt his usual slight exasperation at this statement. So she was another of them!

  “You can’t possibly have been sure of that, Mrs. Serrocold.”

  “Well, but I was sure. In my own mind, I mean. What is it the young people say—putting on an act? That’s what I felt it was. Edgar’s only a boy. He was being melodramatic and silly and fancying himself as a bold desperate character. Seeing himself as the wronged hero in a romantic story. I was quite sure he would never fire that revolver.”

  “But he did fire it, Mrs. Serrocold.”

  Carrie Louise smiled.

  “I expect it went off by accident.”

  Again exasperation mounted in Inspector Curry.

  “It was not by accident. Lawson fired that revolver twice—and fired it at your husband. The bullets only just missed him.”

  Carrie Louise looked startled and then grave.

  “I can’t really believe that. Oh yes—” she hurried on to forestall the Inspector’s protest. “Of course, I have to believe it, if you tell me so. But I still feel there must be a simple explanation. Perhaps Dr. Maverick can explain it to me.”

  “Oh yes, Dr. Maverick will explain it all right,” said Curry grimly. “Dr. Maverick can explain anything. I’m sure of that.”

  Unexpectedly Mrs. Serrocold said:

  “I know that a lot of what we do here seems to you foolish and pointless, and psychiatrists can be very irritating sometimes. But we do achieve results, you know. We have our failures, but we have successes too. And what we try to do is worth doing. And though you probably won’t believe it, Edgar is really devoted to my husband. He started this silly business about Lewis’ being his father because he wants so much to have a father like Lewis. But what I can’t understand is why he should suddenly get violent. He had been so very much better—really practically normal. Indeed, he has always seemed normal to me.”

  The Inspector did not argue the point.

  He said, “The revolver that Edgar Lawson had was one belonging to your granddaughter’s husband. Presumably Lawson took it from Walter Hudd’s room. Now tell me, have you ever seen this weapon before?”

  On the palm of his hand he held out the small black automatic.

  Carrie Louise looked at it.

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “I found it in the piano stool. It has recently been fired. We haven’t had time to check on it fully yet, but I should say that it is almost certainly the weapon with which Mr. Gulbrandsen was shot.”

  She frowned.

  “And you found it in the piano stool?”

  “Under some very old music. Music that I should say had not been played for years.”

  “Hidden, then?”

  “Yes. You remember who was at the piano last night?”

  “Stephen Restarick.”

  “He was playing?”

  “Yes. Just softly. A funny, melancholy little tune.”

  “When did he stop playing, Mrs. Serrocold?”

  “When did he stop? I don’t know.”

  “But he did stop? He didn’t go on playing all through the quarrel?”

  “No. The music just died down.”

  “Did he get up from the piano stool?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve no idea what he did until he came over to the study door to try and fit a key to it.”

  “Can you think of any reason why Stephen Restarick should shoot Mr. Gulbrandsen?”

  “None whatever,” she added thoughtfully, “I don’t believe he did.”

  “Gulbrandsen might have found something discreditable about him.”

  “That seems to me very unlikely.”

  Inspector Curry had a wild wish to reply:

  “Pigs may fly but they’re very unlikely birds.” It had been a saying of his grandmother’s. Miss Marple, he thought, was sure to know it.

  3

  Carrie Louise came down the broad stairway, and three people converged upon her from different directions, Gina from the long corridor, Miss Marple from the library, and Juliet Bellever from the Great Hall.

  Gina spoke first.

  “Darling!” she exclaimed passionately. “Are you all right? They haven’t bullied you or given you third degree or anything?”

  “Of course not, Gina. What odd ideas you have! Inspector Curry was charming and most considerate.”

  “So he ought to be,” said Miss Bellever. “Now, Cara, I’ve got all your letters here and a parcel. I was going to bring them up to you.”

  “Bring them into the library,” said Carrie Louise.

  All four of them went into the library.

  Carrie Louise sat down and began opening her letters. There were about twenty or thirty of them.

  As she opened them, she handed them to Miss Bellever who sorted them into heaps, explaining to Miss Marple as she did so, “Three main categories. One—from relations of the boys. Those I hand over to Dr. Maverick. Begging letters I deal with myself. And the rest are personal—and Cara gives me notes on how to deal with them.”

  The correspondence once disposed of, Mrs. Serrocold turned her attention to the parcel, cutting the string with scissors.

  Out of the neat wrappings, there appeared an attractive box of chocolates tied up with a gold ribbon.

  “Someone must think it’s my birthday,” said Mrs. Serrocold with a smile.

  She slipped off the ribbon and opened the box. Inside was a visiting card. Carrie Louise looked at it with slight surprise.

  “With love from Alex,” she read. “How odd of him to send me a box of chocolates by post on the same day he was coming down here.”

  Uneasiness stirred in Miss Marple’s mind.

  She said quickly:

  “Wait a minute, Carrie Louise. Don’t eat one yet.”

  Mrs. Serrocold looked faintly surprised.

  “I was going to hand them round.”

  “Well, don’t. Wait while I ask—is Alex about the house, do you know, Gina?”

  Gina said quickly, “Alex was in the Hall just now, I think.”

  She went across, opened the door, and called him.

  Alex Restarick appeared in the doorway a moment later.

  “Madonna darling! So you’re up. None the worse?”

  He came across to Mrs. Serrocold and kissed her gently on both cheeks.

  Miss Marple said:

  “Carrie Louise wants to thank you for the chocolates.”

  Alex looked surprised.

  “What chocolates?”

  “These chocolates,” said Carrie Louise.

  “But I never sent you any chocolates, darling.”

  “The box has got your card in,” said Miss Bellever.

  Alex peered down.

  “So it has. How odd. How very odd … I certainly didn’t send them.”

  “What a very extraordinary thing,” s
aid Miss Bellever.

  “They look absolutely scrumptious,” said Gina, peering into the box. “Look, Grandam, there are your favourite Kirsch ones in the middle.”

  Miss Marple gently but firmly took the box away from her. Without a word she took it out of the room and went to find Lewis Serrocold. It took her some time because he had gone over to the College—she found him in Dr. Maverick’s room there. She put the box on the table in front of him. He listened to her brief account of the circumstances. His face grew suddenly stern and hard.

  Carefully, he and the doctor lifted out chocolate after chocolate and examined them.

  “I think,” said Dr. Maverick, “that these ones I have put aside have almost certainly been tampered with. You see the unevenness of the chocolate coating underneath? The next thing to do is to get them analysed.”

  “But it seems incredible,” said Miss Marple. “Why, everyone in the house might have been poisoned!”

  Lewis nodded. His face was still white and hard.

  “Yes. There is a ruthlessness—a disregard—” he broke off. “Actually, I think all these particular chocolates are Kirsch flavouring. That is Caroline’s favourite. So, you see, there is knowledge behind this.”

  Miss Marple said quietly:

  “If it is as you suspect—if there is—poison—in these chocolates, then I’m afraid Carrie Louise will have to know what is going on. She must be put upon her guard.”

  Lewis Serrocold said heavily:

  “Yes. She will have to know that someone wants to kill her. I think that she will find it almost impossible to believe.”

  Sixteen

  1

  “’Ere, Miss. Is it true as there’s an ’ideous poisoner at work?”

  Gina pushed the hair back from her forehead, and jumped as the hoarse whisper reached her. There was paint on her cheek and paint on her slacks. She and her selected helpers had been busy on the backcloth of the Nile at sunset for their next theatrical production.

  It was one of these helpers who was now asking the question. Ernie, the boy who had given her such valuable lessons in the manipulations of locks. Ernie’s fingers were equally dextrous at stage carpentry, and he was one of the most enthusiastic theatrical assistants.

  His eyes now were bright and beady with pleasurable anticipation.

  “Where on earth did you get that idea?” asked Gina indignantly.

  Ernie shut one eye.

  “It’s all round the dorms,” he said. “But look ’ere, Miss, it wasn’t one of us. Not a thing like that. And nobody wouldn’t do a thing to Mrs. Serrocold. Even Jenkins wouldn’t cosh her. ’Tisn’t as though it was the old bitch. Wouldn’t ’alf like to poison ’er, I wouldn’t.”

  “Don’t talk like that about Miss Bellever.”

  “Sorry, Miss. It slipped out. What poison was it, Miss? Strickline, was it? Makes you arch your back and die in agonies, that does. Or was it Prussian acid?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ernie.”

  Ernie winked again.

  “Not ’alf you don’t. Mr. Alex it was done it, so they say. Brought them chocs down from London. But that’s a lie. Mr. Alex wouldn’t do a thing like that, would he, Miss?”

  “Of course he wouldn’t,” said Gina.

  “Much more likely to be Mr. Birnbaum. When he’s giving us P.T. he makes the most awful faces and Don and I think as he’s batty.”

  “Just move that turpentine out of the way.”

  Ernie obeyed, murmuring to himself:

  “Don’t ’arf see life ’ere! Old Gulbrandsen done in yesterday and now a secret poisoner. D’you think it’s the same person doing both? What ud you say, Miss, if I told you as I know oo it was done ’im in?”

  “You can’t possibly know anything about it.”

  “Coo, carn’t I neither? Supposin’ I was outside last night and saw something.”

  “How could you have been out? The College is locked up after roll call at seven.”

  “Roll call … I can get out whenever I likes, Miss. Locks don’t mean nothing to me. Get out and walk round the grounds just for the fun of it, I do.”

  Gina said:

  “I wish you’d stop telling lies, Ernie.”

  “Who’s telling lies?”

  “You are. You tell lies and you boast about things that you’ve never done at all.”

  “That’s what you say, Miss. You wait till the coppers come round and arsk me all about what I saw last night.”

  “Well, what did you see?”

  “Ah,” said Ernie, “wouldn’t you like to know?”

  Gina made a rush at him and he beat a strategic retreat. Stephen came over from the other side of the theatre and joined Gina. They discussed various technical matters and then, side by side, they walked back towards the house.

  “They all seem to know about Grandam and the chocs,” said Gina. “The boys, I mean. How do they get to know?”

  “Local grapevine of some kind.”

  “And they knew about Alex’s card. Stephen, surely it was very stupid to put Alex’s card in the box when he was actually coming down here.”

  “Yes, but who knew he was coming down here? He decided to come on the spur of the moment and sent a telegram. Probably the box was posted by then. And if he hadn’t come down, putting his card in would have been quite a good idea. Because he does send Caroline chocolates sometimes.”

  He went on slowly:

  “What I simply can’t understand is—”

  “Is why anyone should want to poison Grandam,” Gina cut in. “I know. It’s inconceivable! She’s so adorable—and absolutely everyone does adore her.”

  Stephen did not answer. Gina looked at him sharply.

  “I know what you’re thinking, Steve!”

  “I wonder.”

  “You’re thinking that Wally—doesn’t adore her. But Wally would never poison anyone. The idea’s laughable.”

  “The loyal wife!”

  “Don’t say that in that sneering tone of voice.”

  “I didn’t mean to sneer. I think you are loyal. I admire you for it. But, darling Gina, you can’t keep it up, you know.”

  “What do you mean, Steve?”

  “You know quite well what I mean. You and Wally don’t belong together. It’s just one of those things that doesn’t work. He knows it, too. The split is going to come any day now. And you’ll both be much happier when it has come.”

  Gina said:

  “Don’t be idiotic.”

  Stephen laughed.

  “Come now, you can’t pretend that you’re suited to each other or that Wally’s happy here.”

  “Oh, I don’t know what’s the matter with him,” cried Gina. “He sulks the whole time. He hardly speaks. I—I don’t know what to do about him. Why can’t he enjoy himself here? We had such fun together once—everything was fun—and now he might be a different person. Why do people have to change so?”

  “Do I change?”

  “No, Steve darling. You’re always Steve. Do you remember how I used to tag round after you in the holidays?”

  “And what a nuisance I used to think you—that miserable little kid Gina. Well, the tables are turned now. You’ve got me where you want me, haven’t you, Gina?”

  Gina said quickly:

  “Idiot.” She went on hurriedly, “Do you think Ernie was lying? He was pretending he was roaming about in the fog last night, and hinting that he could tell things about the murder. Do you think that might be true?”

  “True? Of course not. You know how he boasts. Anything to make himself important.”

  “Oh I know. I only wondered—”

  They walked along side by side without speaking.

  2

  The setting sun illumined the west façade of the house. Inspector Curry looked towards it.

  “Is this about the place where you stopped your car last night?” he asked.

  Alex Restarick stood back a little as though considering.

 
“Near enough,” he said. “It’s difficult to tell exactly because of the fog. Yes, I should say this was the place.”

  Inspector Curry stood looking round with an appraising eye.

  The gravelled sweep of drive swept round in a slow curve, and at this point, emerging from a screen of rhododendrons, the west façade of the house came suddenly into view with its terrace and yew hedges and steps leading down to the lawns. Thereafter the drive continued in its curving progress, sweeping through a belt of trees and round between the lake and the house until it ended in the big gravel sweep at the east side of the house.

  “Dodgett,” said Inspector Curry.

  Police Constable Dodgett, who had been holding himself at the ready, started spasmodically into motion. He hurled himself across the intervening space of lawn in a diagonal line towards the house, reached the terrace, and went in by the side door. A few moments later, the curtains of one of the windows were violently agitated. Then Constable Dodgett reappeared out of the garden door, and ran back to rejoin them, breathing like a steam engine.

  “Two minutes and forty-two seconds,” said Inspector Curry, clicking the stop watch with which he had been timing him. “They don’t take long, these things, do they?”

  His tone was pleasantly conversational.

  “I don’t run as fast as your constable,” said Alex. “I presume it is my supposed movements you have been timing?”

  “I’m just pointing out that you had the opportunity to do murder. That’s all, Mr. Restarick. I’m not making any accusations—as yet.”

  Alex Restarick said kindly to Constable Dodgett who was still panting:

  “I can’t run as fast as you can, but I believe I’m in better training.”

  “It’s since ’aving the bronchitis last winter,” said Dodgett.

  Alex turned back to the Inspector.

  “Seriously, though, in spite of trying to make me uncomfortable and observing my reactions—and you must remember that we artistic folk are oh! so sensitive, such tender plants!”—his voice took on a mocking note—“you can’t really believe I had anything to do with all this? I’d hardly send a box of poisoned chocolates to Mrs. Serrocold and put my card inside, would I?”

  “That might be what we are meant to think. There’s such a thing as a double bluff, Mr. Restarick.”