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

“What was it that she saw that day?”

“Frankly,” said Cherry, “what she told me seemed nonsense! I’ve wondered, perhaps, if she was just putting me off—and what she was going to see Mr. Giuseppe about was something quite different.”

“What did she say?” Miss Marple was patient and pursuing.

Cherry frowned. “She was talking about Mrs. Badcock and the cocktail and she said she was quite near her at the time. And she said she did it herself.”

“Did what herself?”

“Spilt her cocktail all down her dress, and ruined it.”

“You mean it was clumsiness?”

“No, not clumsiness. Gladys said she did it on purpose—that she meant to do it. Well, I mean, that doesn’t make sense, does it, however you look at it?”

Miss Marple shook her head, perplexed. “No,” she said. “Certainly not—no, I can’t see any sense in that.”

“She’d got on a new dress too,” said Cherry. “That’s how the subject came up. Gladys wondered whether she’d be able to buy it. Said it ought to clean all right but she didn’t like to go and ask Mr. Badcock herself. She’s very good at dressmaking, Gladys is, and she said it was lovely stuff. Royal blue artificial taffeta; and she said even if the stuff was ruined where the cocktail stained it, she could take out a seam—half a breadth say—because it was one of those full skirts.”

Miss Marple considered this dressmaking problem for a moment and then set it aside.

“But you think your friend Gladys might have been keeping something back?”

“Well, I just wondered because I don’t see if that’s all she saw— Heather Badcock deliberately spilling her cocktail over herself— I don’t see that there’d be anything to ask Mr. Giuseppe about, do you?”

“No, I don’t,” said Miss Marple. She sighed. “But it’s always interesting when one doesn’t see,” she added. “If you don’t see what a thing means you must be looking at it wrong way round, unless of course you haven’t got full information. Which is probably the case here.” She sighed. “It’s a pity she didn’t go straight to the police.”

The door opened and Miss Knight bustled in holding a tall tumbler with a delicious pale yellow froth on top.

“Now here you are, dear,” she said, “a nice little treat. We’re going to enjoy this.”

She pulled forward a little table and placed it beside her employer. Then she turned a glance on Cherry. “The vacuum cleaner,” she said coldly, “is left in a most difficult position in the hall. I nearly fell over it. Anyone might have an accident.”

“Right-ho,” said Cherry. “I’d better get on with things.”

She left the room.

“Really,” said Miss Knight, “that Mrs. Baker! I’m continually having to speak to her about something or other. Leaving vacuum cleaners all over the place and coming in here chattering to you when you want to be quiet.”

“I called her in,” said Miss Marple. “I wanted to speak to her.”

“Well, I hope you mentioned the way the beds are made,” said Miss Knight. “I was quite shocked when I came to turn down your bed last night. I had to make it all over again.”

“That was very kind of you,” said Miss Marple.

“Oh, I never grudge being helpful,” said Miss Knight. “That’s why I’m here, isn’t it. To make a certain person we know as comfortable and happy as possible. Oh dear, dear,” she added, “you’ve pulled out a lot of your knitting again.”

Miss Marple leaned back and closed her eyes. “I’m going to have a little rest,” she said. “Put the glass here—thank you. And please don’t come in and disturb me for at least three-quarters of an hour.”

“Indeed I won’t, dear,” said Miss Knight. “And I’ll tell that Mrs. Baker to be very quiet.”

She bustled out purposefully.

II

The good-looking young American glanced round him in a puzzled way.

The ramifications of the housing estate perplexed him.

He addressed himself politely to an old lady with white hair and pink cheeks who seemed to be the only human being in sight.

“Excuse me, ma’am, but could you tell me where to find Blenheim Close?”

The old lady considered him for a moment. He had just begun to wonder if she was deaf, and had prepared himself to repeat his demand in a louder voice, when she spoke.

“Along here to the right, then turn left, second to the right again, and straight on. What number do you want?”

“No. 16.” He consulted a small piece of paper. “Gladys Dixon.”

“That’s right,” said the old lady. “But I believe she works at the Hellingforth Studios. In the canteen. You’ll find her there if you want her.”

“She didn’t turn up this morning,” explained the young man. “I want to get hold of her to come up to Gossington Hall. We’re very shorthanded there today.”

“Of course,” said the old lady. “The butler was shot last night, wasn’t he?”

The young man was slightly staggered by this reply.

“I guess news gets round pretty quickly in these parts,” he said.

“It does indeed,” said the old lady. “Mr. Rudd’s secretary died of some kind of seizure yesterday, too, I understand.” She shook her head. “Terrible. Quite terrible. What are we coming to?”

Twenty

I

A little later in the day yet another visitor found his way to 16 Blenheim Close. Detective-Sergeant William (Tom) Tiddler.

In reply to his sharp knock on the smart yellow painted door, it was opened to him by a girl of about fifteen. She had long straggly fair hair and was wearing tight black pants and an orange sweater.

“Miss Gladys Dixon live here?”

“You want Gladys? You’re unlucky. She isn’t here.”

“Where is she? Out for the evening?”

“No. She’s gone away. Bit of a holiday like.”

“Where’s she gone to?”

“That’s telling,” said the girl.

Tom Tiddler smiled at her in his most ingratiating manner. “May I come in? Is your mother at home?”

“Mum’s out at work. She won’t be in until half past seven. But she can’t tell you anymore than I can. Gladys has gone off for a holiday.”

“Oh, I see. When did she go?”

“This morning. All of a sudden like. Said she’d got the chance of a free trip.”

“Perhaps you wouldn’t mind giving me her address.”

The fair-haired girl shook her head. “Haven’t got an address,” she said. “Gladys said she’d send us her address as soon as she knew where she was going to stay. As like as not she won’t though,” she added. “Last summer she went to Newquay and never sent us as much as a postcard. She’s slack that way and besides, she says, why do mothers have to bother all the time?”

“Did somebody stand her this holiday?”

“Must have,” said the girl. “She’s pretty hard up at the moment. Went to the sales last week.”

“And you’ve no idea at all who gave her this trip or—er—paid for her going there?”

The fair girl bristled suddenly.

“Now don’t get any wrong ideas. Our Gladys isn’t that sort. She and her boyfriend may like to go to the same place for holidays in August, but there’s nothing wrong about it. She pays for herself. So don’t you get ideas, mister.”

Tiddler said meekly that he wouldn’t get ideas but he would like the address if Gladys Dixon should send a postcard.

He returned to the station with the result of his various inquiries. From the studios, he had learnt that Gladys Dixon had rung up that day and said she wouldn’t be able to come to work for about a week. He had also learned some other things.

“No end of a shemozzle there’s been there lately,” he said. “Marina Gregg’s been having hysterics most days. Said some coffee she was given was poisoned. Said it tasted bitter. Awful state of nerves she was in. Her husband took it and thre

w it down the sink and told her not to make so much fuss.”

“Yes?” said Craddock. It seemed plain there was more to come.

“But word went round as Mr. Rudd didn’t throw it all away. He kept some and had it analysed and it was poison.”

“It sounds to me,” said Craddock, “very unlikely. I’ll have to ask him about that.”

II

Jason Rudd was nervous, irritable.

“Surely, Inspector Craddock,” he said, “I was only doing what I had a perfect right to do.”

“If you suspected anything was wrong with that coffee, Mr. Rudd, it would have been much better if you’d turned it over to us.”

“The truth of it is that I didn’t suspect for a moment that anything was wrong with it.”

“In spite of your wife saying that it tasted odd?”

“Oh, that!” A faintly rueful smile came to Rudd’s face. “Ever since the date of the fête everything that my wife has eaten or drunk has tasted odd. What with that and the threatening notes that have been coming—”

“There have been more of them?”

“Two more. One through the window down there. The other one was slipped in the letter box. Here they are if you would like to see them.”

Craddock looked. They were printed, as the first one had been. One ran:

It won’t be long now. Prepare yourself.

The other had a rough drawing of a skull and crossbones and below it was written: This means you, Marina.

Craddock’s eyebrows rose.

“Very childish,” he said.