The Mirror Crack'd From Side to Side (Miss Marple 9)

“Good morning, Miss Zielinsky,” she called in a friendly tone.

Ella Zielinsky jumped. It was not so much a jump, as a shy—the shy of a frightened horse. It surprised Mrs. Bantry.

“Good morning,” said Ella, and added quickly: “I came down to telephone. There’s something wrong with our line today.”

Mrs. Bantry felt more surprise. She wondered why Ella Zielinsky bothered to explain her action. She responded civilly. “How annoying for you. Do come in and telephone anytime you want to.”

“Oh—thank you very much…” Ella was interrupted by a fit of sneezing.

“You’ve got hay fever,” said Mrs. Bantry with immediate diagnosis. “Try weak bicarbonate of soda and water.”

“Oh, that’s all right. I have some very good patent stuff in an atomizer. Thank you all the same.”

She sneezed again as she moved away, walking briskly up the drive.

Mrs. Bantry looked after her. Then her eyes returned to her garden. She looked at it in a dissatisfied fashion. Not a weed to be seen anywhere.

“Othello’s occupation’s gone,” Mrs. Bantry murmured to herself confusedly. “I dare say I’m a nosy old woman but I would like to know if—”

A moment of irresolution and then Mrs. Bantry yielded to temptation. She was going to be a nosy old woman and the hell with it! She strode indoors to the telephone, lifted the receiver and dialled it. A brisk transatlantic voice spoke.

“Gossington Hall.”

“This is Mrs. Bantry, at the East Lodge.”

“Oh, good morning, Mrs. Bantry. This is Hailey Preston. I met you on the day of the fête. What can I do for you?”

“I thought perhaps I could do something for you. If your telephone’s out of order—”

His astonished voice interrupted her.

“Our telephone out of order? There’s been nothing wrong with it. Why did you think so?”

“I must have made a mistake,” said Mrs. Bantry. “I don’t always hear very well,” she explained unblushingly.

She put the receiver back, waited a minute, then dialled once more.

“Jane? Dolly here.”

“Yes, Dolly. What is it?”

“Well, it seems rather odd. The secretary woman was dialling from the public call box in the road. She took the trouble to explain to me quite unnecessarily that she was doing so because the line at Gossington Hall was out of order. But I’ve rung up there, and it isn’t….”

She paused, and waited for intelligence to pronounce.

“Indeed,” said Miss Marple thoughtfully. “Interesting.”

“For what reason, do you think?”

“Well, clearly, she didn’t want to be overheard—”

“Exactly.”

“And there might be quite a number of reasons for that.”

“Yes.”

“Interesting,” said Miss Marple again.

II

Nobody could have been more ready to talk than Donald McNeil. He was an amiable red-headed young man. He greeted Dermot Craddock with pleasure and curiosity.

“How are you getting along,” he asked cheerfully, “got any little special titbit for me?”

“Not as yet. Later perhaps.”

“Stalling as usual. You’re all the same. Affable oysters! Haven’t you come to the stage yet of inviting someone to come and ‘assist you in your inquiries’?”

“I’ve come to you,” said Dermot Craddock with a grin.

“Is there a nasty double entendre in that remark? Are you really suspicious that I murdered Heather Badcock and do you think I did it in mistake for Marina Gregg or that I meant to murder Heather Badcock and do you think I did it in mistake for Marina Gregg or that I meant to murder Heather Badcock all the time?”

“I haven’t suggested anything,” said Craddock.

“No, no, you wouldn’t do that, would you? You’d be very correct. All right. Let’s go into it. I was there. I had opportunity but had I any motive? Ah, that’s what you’d like to know. What was my motive?”

“I haven’t been able to find one so far,” said Craddock.

“That’s very gratifying. I feel safer.”

“I’m just interested in what you may have seen that day.”

“You’ve had that already. The local police had that straight away. It’s humiliating. There I was on the scene of a murder. I practically saw the murder committed, must have done, and yet I’ve no idea who did it. I’m ashamed to confess that the first I knew about it was seeing the poor, dear woman sitting on a chair gasping for breath and then pegging out. Of course it made a very good eyewitness account. It was a good scoop for me—and all that. But I’ll confess to you that I feel humiliated that I don’t know more. I ought to know more. And you can’t kid me that the dose was meant for Heather Badcock. She was a nice woman who talked too much, but nobody gets murdered for that—unless of course they give away secrets. But I don’t think anybody would ever have told Heather Badcock a secret. She wasn’t the kind of woman who’d have been interested in other people’s secrets. My view of her is of a woman who invariably talked about herself.”

“That seems to be the generally accepted view,” agreed Craddock.

“So we come to the famous Marina Gregg. I’m sure there are lots of wonderful motives for murdering Marina. Envy and jealousy and love tangles—all the stuff of drama. But who did it? Someone with a screw loose, I presume. There! You’ve had my valuable opinion. Is that what you wanted?”

“Not that alone. I understand that you arrived and came up the stairs about the same time as the vicar and the mayor.”

“Quite correct. But that wasn’t the first time I’d arrived. I’d been there earlier.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Yes. I was on a kind of roving commission, you know, going here and there. I had a photographer with me. I’d gone down to take a few local shots of the mayor arriving and throwing a hoopla and putting in a peg for buried treasure and that kind of thing. Then I went back up again, not so much on the job as to get a drink or two. The drink was good.”

“I see. Now can you remember who else was on the staircase when you went up?”

“Margot Bence from London was there with her camera.”

“You know her well?”

“Oh I just run against her quite often. She’s a clever girl, who makes a success of her stuff. She takes all the fashionable things— First Nights, Gala Performances—specializes in photographs from unusual angles. Arty! She was in a corner of the half landing very well placed for taking anyone who came up and for taking the greetings going on at the top. Lola Brewster was just ahead of me on the stairs. Didn’t know her at first. She’s got a new rust-red hairdo. The very latest Fiji Islander type. Last time I saw her it was lank waves falling round her face and chin in a nice shade of auburn. There was a big dark man with her, American. I don’t know who he was but he looked important.”

“Did you look at Marina Gregg herself at all as you were coming up?”

“Yes, of course I did.”

“She didn’t look upset or as though she’d had a shock or was frightened?”

“It’s odd you should say that. I did think for a moment or two she was going to faint.”

“I see,” said Craddock thoughtfully. “Thanks. There’s nothing else you’d like to tell me?”

McNeil gave him a wide innocent stare.

“What could there be?”

“I don’t trust you,” said Craddock.

“But you seem quite sure I didn’t do it. Disappointing. Suppose I turn out to be her first husband. Nobody knows who he was except that he was so insignicant that even his name’s been forgotten.”

Dermot grinned.

“Married from your prep school?” he asked. “Or possibly in rompers! I must hurry. I’ve got a train to catch.”

III

There was a neatly docketed pile of papers on Craddock’s desk at New Scotland Yard. He gave a perfunctory glance throu

gh them, then threw a question over his shoulder.

“Where’s Lola Brewster staying?”

“At the Savoy, sir. Suite 1800. She’s expecting you.”

“And Ardwyck Fenn?”

“He’s at the Dorchester. First floor, 190.”

“Good.”

He picked up some cablegrams and read through them again before shoving them into his pocket. He smiled a moment to himself over the last one. “Don’t say I don’t do my stuff, Aunt Jane,” he murmured under his breath.

He went out and made his way to the Savoy.

In Lola Brewster’s suite Lola went out of her way to welcome him effusively. With the report he had just read in his mind, he studied her carefully. Quite a beauty still, he thought, in a lush kind of way, what you might call a trifie overblown, perhaps, but they still liked them that way. A completely different type, of course, from Marina Gregg. The amenities over, Lola pushed back her Fiji Islander hair, drew her generous lipsticked mouth into a provocative pout, and flickering blue eyelids over wide brown eyes, said: