They Do It With Mirrors (Miss Marple 6)

“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.”