They Do It With Mirrors (Miss Marple 6)

Not to beat about the bush, I have reason to believe that that sweet and innocent lady is being slowly poisoned. I first suspected this when—

Here the letter broke off abruptly.

Curry said:

“And when he had reached this point, Christian Gulbrandsen was shot?”

“Yes.”

“But why on earth was this letter left in the typewriter?”

“I can only conceive of two reasons—one that the murderer had no idea to whom Gulbrandsen was writing and what was the subject of the letter. Secondly—he may not have had time. He may have heard someone coming and only had just time to escape unobserved.”

“And Gulbrandsen gave you no hint as to who he suspected—if he did suspect anyone?”

There was, perhaps, a very slight pause before Lewis answered. “None whatever.”

He added, rather obscurely:

“Christian was a very fair man.”

“How do you think this poison, arsenic or whatever it may be—was or is being administered?”

“I thought over that whilst I was changing for dinner, and it seemed to me that the most likely vehicle was some medicine, a tonic, that my wife was taking. As regards food we all partook of the same dishes and my wife has nothing specially prepared for her. But anyone could add arsenic to the medicine bottle.”

“We must take the medicine and have it analysed.”

Lewis said quietly:

“I already have a sample of it. I took it this evening before dinner.”

From a drawer in the desk, he took out a small, corked bottle with a red fluid in it.

Inspector Curry said with a curious glance:

“You think of everything, Mr. Serrocold.”

“I believe in acting promptly. Tonight, I stopped my wife from taking her usual dose. It is still in a glass on the oak dresser in the Hall—the bottle of tonic itself is in the drawing room.”

Curry leaned forward across the desk. He lowered his voice and spoke confidentially and without officialdom.

“You’ll excuse me, Mr. Serrocold, but just why are you so anxious to keep this from your wife? Are you afraid she’d panic? Surely, for her own sake, it would be as well if she were warned.”

“Yes—yes, that may well be so. But I don’t think you quite understand. Without knowing my wife, Caroline, it would be difficult. My wife, Inspector Curry, is an idealist, a completely trustful person. Of her it may truly be said that she sees no evil, hears no evil, and speaks no evil. It would be inconceivable to her that anyone could wish to kill her. But we have to go farther than that. It is not just ‘anyone.’ It is a case—surely you see that—of somebody possibly very near and dear to her….”

“So that’s what you think?”

“We have got to face facts. Close at hand we have a couple of hundred warped and stunted personalities who have expressed themselves often enough by crude and senseless violence. But by the very nature of things, none of them can be suspect in this case. A slow poisoner is someone living in the intimacy of family life. Think of the people who are here in this house; her husband, her daughter, her granddaughter, her granddaughter’s husband, her stepson whom she regards as her own son, Miss Bellever, her devoted companion and friend of many years. All very near and dear to her—and yet the suspicion must arise—is it one of them?”

Curry answered slowly,

“There are outsiders—”

“Yes, in a sense. There is Dr. Maverick, one or two of the staff are often with us, there are the servants—but, frankly, what possible motive could they have?”

Inspector Curry said,

“And there’s young—what is his name again—Edgar Lawson?”

“Yes. But he has only been down here as a casual visitor just lately. He has no possible motive. Besides, he is deeply attached to Caroline—just as everyone is.”

“But he’s unbalanced. What about this attack on you tonight?”

Serrocold waved it aside impatiently.

“Sheer childishness. He had no intention of harming me.”

“Not with these two bullet holes in the wall? He shot at you, didn’t he?”

“He didn’t mean to hit me. It was playacting, no more.”

“Rather a dangerous form of playacting, Mr. Serrocold.”

“You don’t understand. You must talk to our psychiatrist, Dr. Maverick. Edgar is an illegitimate child. He has consoled himself for his lack of a father and a humble origin by pretending to himself that he is the son of a celebrated man. It’s a well-known phenomenon, I assure you. He was improving, improving very much. Then, for some reason, he had a setback. He identified me as his ‘father’ and made a melodramatic attack, waving a revolver and uttering threats. I was not in the least alarmed. When he had actually fired the revolver, he broke down and sobbed, and Dr. Maverick took him away and gave him a sedative. He’ll probably be quite normal tomorrow morning.”

“You don’t wish to bring a charge against him?”

“That would be the worst thing possible—for him, I mean.”

“Frankly, Mr. Serrocold, it seems to me he ought to be under restraint. People who go about firing off revolvers to bolster up their egos—! One has to think of the community, you know.”

“Talk to Dr. Maverick on the subject,” urged Lewis. “He’ll give you the professional point of view. In any case,” he added, “poor Edgar certainly did not shoot Gulbrandsen. He was in here threatening to shoot me.”

“That’s the point I was coming to, Mr. Serrocold. We’ve covered the outside. Anyone, it seems, could have come in from outside, and shot Mr. Gulbrandsen, since the terrace door was unlocked. But there is a narrower field inside the house, and in view of what you have been telling me, it seems to me that very close attention must be paid to that. It seems possible that, with the exception of old Miss—er—yes, Marple who happened to be looking out of her bedroom window, no one was aware that you and Christian Gulbrandsen had already had a private interview. If so, Gulbrandsen may have been shot to prevent him communicating his suspicions to you. Of course, it is too early to say as yet what other motives may exist. Mr. Gulbrandsen was a wealthy man, I presume?”

“Yes, he was a very wealthy man. He has sons and daughters and grandchildren—all of whom will probably benefit by his death. But I do not think that any of his family are in this country, and they are all solid and highly respectable people. As far as I know, there are no black sheep amongst them.”

“Had he any enemies?”

“I should think it most unlikely. He was—really, he was not that type of man.”

“So it boils down, doesn’t it, to this house and the people in it? Who from inside the house could have killed him?”

Lewis Serrocold said slowly,

“That is difficult for me to say. There are the servants and the members of my household and our guests. They are, from your point of view, all possibilities, I suppose. I can only tell you that, as far as I know, everyone except the servants was in the Great Hall when Christian left it and whilst I was there, nobody left it.”

“Nobody at all?”

“I think”—Lewis frowned in an effort of remembrance—“oh yes. Some of the lights fused—Mr. Walter Hudd went to see to it.”

“That’s the young American gentleman?”

“Yes—of course, I don’t know what took place after Edgar and I came in here.”

“And you can’t give me anything nearer than that, Mr. Serrocold?”

Lewis Serrocold shook his head.

“No, I’m afraid I can’t help you. It’s—it’s all quite inconceivable.”

Inspector Curry sighed. He said:

“You can tell the party that they can all go to bed. I’ll talk to them tomorrow.”

When Serrocold had left the room, Inspector Curry said to Lake:

“Well—what do you think?”

“Knows—or thinks he knows, who did it,” said Lake.

“Yes. I agree with you. And he d

oesn’t like it a bit….”

Eleven

1

Gina greeted Miss Marple with a rush as the latter came down to breakfast the next morning.

“The police are here again,” she said. “They’re in the library this time. Wally is absolutely fascinated by them. He can’t understand their being so quiet and so remote. I think he’s really quite thrilled by the whole thing. I’m not. I hate it. I think it’s horrible. Why do you think I’m so upset? Because I’m half Italian?”

“Very possibly. At least perhaps it explains why you don’t mind showing what you feel.”

Miss Marple smiled just a little as she said this.

“Jolly’s frightfully cross,” said Gina, hanging on Miss Marple’s arm and propelling her into the dining room. “I think really because the police are in charge and she can’t exactly ‘run’ them like she runs everybody else.

“Alex and Stephen,” continued Gina severely, as they came into the dining room where the two brothers were finishing their breakfast, “just don’t care.”

“Gina dearest,” said Alex, “you are most unkind. Good morning, Miss Marple. I care intensely. Except for the fact that I hardly knew your Uncle Christian, I’m far and away the best suspect. You do realise that, I hope.”

“Why?”

“Well, I was driving up to the house at about the right time, it seems. And they’ve been checking up on times and it seems that I took too much time between the lodge and the house—time enough, the implication is, to leave the car, run round the house, go in through the side door, shoot Christian and rush out and back to the car again.”

“And what were you really doing?”

“I thought little girls were taught quite young not to ask indelicate questions. Like an idiot, I stood for several minutes taking in the fog effect in the headlights and thinking what I’d use to get that effect on a stage. For my new ‘Limehouse’ ballet.”

“But you can tell them that!”