They Do It With Mirrors (Miss Marple 6)

“They came to me out of the fog. Somewhere near the house.”

Inspector Curry said gently:

“That would suggest that the murderer of Christian Gulbrandsen came from outside.”

“Of course. Why not? You don’t really suggest, do you, that he came from inside the house?”

Still very gently, Inspector Curry said:

“We have to think of everything.”

“I suppose so,” said Alex Restarick generously. “What a soul-destroying job yours must be, Inspector! The details, the times and places, the pettifogging pettiness of it. And in the end—what good is it all? Does it bring the wretched Christian Gulbrandsen back to life?”

“There’s quite a satisfaction in getting your man, Mr. Restarick.”

“The Wild Western touch!”

“Did you know Mr. Gulbrandsen well?”

“Not well enough to murder him, Inspector. I had met him, off and on, since I lived here as a boy. He made brief appearances from time to time. One of our captains of industry. The type does not interest me. He has quite a collection, I believe, of Thorwaldsen’s statuary—” Alex shuddered. “That speaks for itself, does it not? My God, these rich men!”

Inspector Curry eyed him meditatively. Then he said, “Do you take any interest in poisons, Mr. Restarick?”

“In poisons? My dear man, he was surely not poisoned first and shot afterwards. That would be too madly detective story.”

“He was not poisoned. But you haven’t answered my question.”

“Poison has a certain appeal … It has not the crudeness of the revolver bullet or the blunt weapon. I have no special knowledge of the subject, if that is what you mean.”

“Have you ever had arsenic in your possession?”

“In sandwiches—after the show? The idea has its allurements. You don’t know Rose Glidon? These actresses who think they have a name! No, I have never thought of arsenic. One extracts it from weed killer or flypapers, I believe.”

“How often are you down here, Mr. Restarick?”

“It varies, Inspector. Sometimes not for several weeks. But I try to get down for weekends whenever I can. I always regard Stonygates as my true home.”

“Mrs. Serrocold has encouraged you to do so?”

“What I owe Mrs. Serrocold can never be repaid. Sympathy, understanding, affection—”

“And quite a lot of solid cash as well, I believe?”

Alex looked faintly disgusted.

“She treats me as a son, and she has belief in my work.”

“Has she ever spoken to you about her will?”

“Certainly. But may I ask what is the point of all these questions, Inspector? There is nothing wrong with Mrs. Serrocold.”

“There had better not be,” said Inspector Curry grimly.

“Now what can you possibly mean by that?”

“If you don’t know, so much the better,” said Inspector Curry. “And if you do—I’m warning you.”

When Alex had gone Sergeant Lake said:

“Pretty bogus, would you say?”

Curry shook his head.

“Difficult to say. He may have genuine creative talent. He may just like living soft and talking big. One doesn’t know. Heard running footsteps, did he? I’d be prepared to bet he made that up.”

“For any particular reason?”

“Definitely for a particular reason. We haven’t come to it yet, but we will.”

“After all, sir, one of those smart lads may have got out of the College buildings unbeknownst. Probably a few cat burglars amongst them, and if so—”

“That’s what we’re meant to think. Very convenient. But if that’s so, Lake, I’ll eat my new soft hat.”

2

“I was at the piano,” said Stephen Restarick. “I’d been strumming softly when the row blew up. Between Lewis and Edgar.”

“What did you think of it?”

“Well—to tell the truth I didn’t really take it seriously. The poor beggar has these fits of venom. He’s not really loopy, you know. All this nonsense is a kind of blowing off steam. The truth is, we all get under his skin—particularly Gina, of course.”

“Gina? You mean Mrs. Hudd? Why does she get under his skin?”

“Because she’s a woman—and a beautiful woman, and because she thinks he’s funny! She’s half Italian, you know, and the Italians have that unconscious vein of cruelty. They’ve no compassion for anyone who’s old or ugly, or peculiar in any way. They point with their fingers and jeer. That’s what Gina did, metaphorically speaking. She’d no use for young Edgar. He was ridiculous, pompous, and, at bottom, fundamentally unsure of himself. He wanted to impress, and he only succeeded in looking silly. It wouldn’t mean anything to her that the poor fellow suffered a lot.”

“Are you suggesting that Edgar Lawson is in love with Mrs. Hudd?” asked Inspector Curry.

Stephen replied cheerfully:

“Oh yes. As a matter of fact we all are, more or less! She likes us that way.”

“Does her husband like it?”

“He takes a dim view. He suffers, too, poor fellow. The thing can’t last, you know. Their marriage, I mean. It will break up before long. It was just one of these war affairs.”

“This is all very interesting,” said the Inspector. “But we’re getting away from our subject, which is the murder of Christian Gulbrandsen.”

“Quite,” said Stephen. “But I can’t tell you anything about it. I sat at the piano, and I didn’t leave the piano until dear Jolly came in with some rusty old keys and tried to fit one to the lock of the study door.”

“You stayed at the piano. Did you continue to play the piano?”

“A gentle obbligato to the life and death struggle in Lewis’ study? No, I stopped playing when the tempo rose. Not that I had any doubts as to the outcome. Lewis has what I can only describe as a dynamic eye. He could easily break up Edgar just by looking at him.”

“Yet Edgar Lawson fired two shots at him.”

Stephen shook his head gently.

“Just putting on an act, that was. Enjoying himself. My dear mother used to do it. She died or ran away with someone when I was four, but I remember her blazing off with a pistol if anything upset her. She did it at a nightclub once. Made a pattern on the wall. She was an excellent shot. Quite a bit of trouble she caused. She was a Russian dancer, you know.”

“Indeed. Can you tell me, Mr. Restarick, who left the Hall yesterday evening whilst you were there—during the relevant time?”

“Wally—to fix the lights. Juliet Bellever to find a key to fit the study door. Nobody else, as far as I know.”

“Would you have noticed if somebody did?”

Stephen considered.

“Probably not. That is, if they just tiptoed out and back again. It was so dark in the Hall—and there was the fight to which we were all listening avidly.”

“Is there anyone you are sure was there the whole time?”

“Mrs. Serrocold—yes, and Gina. I’d swear to them.”

“Thank you, Mr. Restarick.”

Stephen went towards the door. Then he hesitated and came back.

“What’s all this,” he said, “about arsenic?”

“Who mentioned arsenic to you?”

“My brother.”

“Ah—yes.”

Stephen said:

“Has somebody been giving Mrs. Serrocold arsenic?”

“Why should you mention Mrs. Serrocold?”

“I’ve read of the symptoms of arsenic poisoning. Peripheral neuritis, isn’t it? It would square more or less with what she’s been suffering from lately. And then Lewis snatching away her tonic last night. Is that what’s been going on here?”

“The matter is under investigation,” said Inspector Curry in his most official manner.

“Does she know about it herself?”

“Mr. Serrocold was particularly anxious that she should not be—alarmed.”

“Alarmed isn’t the right word, Inspector. Mrs. Serrocold is never alarmed … Is that what lies behind Christian Gulbrandsen’s death? Did he find out she was being poisoned—but how could he find out? Anyway, the whole thing seems most improbable. It doesn’t make sense.”

“It surprises you very much, does it, Mr. Restarick?”

“Yes, indeed. When Alex spoke to me, I could hardly believe it.”

“Who, in your opinion, would be likely to administer arsenic to Mrs. Serrocold?”

For a moment, a grin appeared upon Stephen Restarick’s handsome face.

“Not the usual person. You can wash out the husband. Lewis Serrocold’s got nothing to gain. And also he worships that woman. He can’t bear her to have an ache in her little finger.”

“Who then? Have you any idea?”

“Oh yes. I’d say it was a certainty.”

“Explain please.”

Stephen shook his head.

“It’s a certainty psychologically speaking. Not in any other way. No evidence of any kind. And you probably wouldn’t agree.”

Stephen Restarick went out nonchalantly, and Inspector Curry drew cats on the sheet of paper in front of him.

He was thinking three things. A, that Stephen Restarick thought a good deal of himself, B, that Stephen Restarick and his brother presented a united front; and C, that Stephen Restarick was a handsome man where Walter Hudd was a plain one.

He wondered about two other things—what Stephen meant by “psychologically speaking” and whether Stephen could possibly have seen Gina from his seat at the piano. He rather thought not.

3

Into the Gothic gloom of the library, Gina brought an exotic glow. Even Inspector Curry blinked a little at the radiant young woman who sat down, leaned forward over the table and said expectantly, “Well?”