“And after her death?”
“After her death it was to be divided equally between Mildred and Pippa—or their children, if they themselves had predeceased Caroline.”
“So that, in fact, it goes to Mrs. Strete and to Gina.”
“Yes. Caroline has also quite a considerable fortune of her own—though not in the Gulbrandsen class. Half of this she made over to me four years ago. Of the remaining amount, she left ten thousand pounds to Juliet Bellever, and the rest equally divided between Alex and Stephen Restarick, her two stepsons.”
“Oh dear,” said Miss Marple. “That’s bad. That’s very bad.”
“You mean?”
“It means everyone in the house had a financial motive.”
“Yes. And yet, you know, I can’t believe that any of these people would do murder. I simply can’t … Mildred is her daughter—and already quite well provided for. Gina is devoted to her grandmother. She is generous and extravagant, but has no acquisitive feelings. Jolly Bellever is fanatically devoted to Caroline. The two Restaricks care for Caroline as though she were really their mother. They have no money of their own to speak of, but quite a lot of Caroline’s income has gone towards financing their enterprises—especially so with Alex. I simply can’t believe either of those two would deliberately poison her for the sake of inheriting money at her death. I just can’t believe any of it, Miss Marple.”
“There’s Gina’s husband, isn’t there?”
“Yes,” said Lewis gravely. “There is Gina’s husband.”
“You don’t really know much about him. And one can’t help seeing that he’s a very unhappy young man.”
Lewis sighed.
“He hasn’t fitted in here—no. He’s no interest in or sympathy for what we’re trying to do. But after all, why should he? He’s young, crude, and he comes from a country where a man is esteemed by the success he makes of life.”
“Whilst here we are so very fond of failures,” said Miss Marple.
Lewis Serrocold looked at her sharply and suspiciously.
She flushed a little and murmured rather incoherently:
“I think sometimes, you know, one can overdo things the other way … I mean the young people with a good heredity, and brought up wisely in a good home—and with grit and pluck and the ability to get on in life—well, they are really, when one comes down to it—the sort of people a country needs.”
Lewis frowned and Miss Marple hurried on, getting pinker and pinker and more and more incoherent.
“Not that I don’t appreciate—I do indeed—you and Carrie Louise—a really noble work—real compassion—and one should have compassion—because after all it’s what people are that counts—good and bad luck—and much more expected (and rightly) of the lucky ones. But I do think sometimes one’s sense of proportion—oh, I don’t mean you, Mr. Serrocold. Really I don’t know what I mean—but the English are rather odd that way. Even in war, so much prouder of their defeats and their retreats than of their victories. Foreigners never can understand why we’re so proud of Dunkerque. It’s the sort of thing they’d prefer not to mention themselves. But we always seem to be almost embarrassed by a victory—and treat it as though it weren’t quite nice to boast about it. And look at all our poets! ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade.’ And the little Revenge went down in the Spanish Main. It’s really a very odd characteristic when you come to think of it!”
Miss Marple drew a fresh breath.
“What I really mean is that everything here must seem rather peculiar to young Walter Hudd.”
“Yes,” Lewis allowed. “I see your point. And Walter has certainly a fine war record. There’s no doubt about his bravery.”
“Not that that helps,” said Miss Marple candidly. “Because war is one thing, and everyday life is quite another. And actually to commit a murder, I think you do need bravery—or perhaps, more often, just conceit. Yes, conceit.”
“But I would hardly say that Walter Hudd had a sufficient motive.”
“Wouldn’t you?” said Miss Marple. “He hates it here. He wants to get away. He wants to get Gina away. And if it’s really money he wants, it would be important for Gina to get all the money before she—er—definitely forms an attachment to someone else.”
“An attachment to someone else,” said Lewis, in an astonished voice.
Miss Marple wondered at the blindness of enthusiastic social reformers.
“That’s what I said. Both the Restaricks are in love with her, you know.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Lewis absently.
He went on:
“Stephen’s invaluable to us—quite invaluable. The way he’s got those lads coming along—keen—interested. They gave a splendid show last month. Scenery, costumes, everything. It just shows, as I’ve always said to Maverick, that it’s lack of drama in their lives that leads these boys to crime. To dramatise yourself is a child’s natural instinct. Maverick says—ah yes, Maverick—”
Lewis broke off.
“I want Maverick to see Inspector Curry about Edgar. The whole thing is so ridiculous really.”
“What do you really know about Edgar Lawson, Mr. Serrocold?”
“Everything,” said Lewis positively. “Everything, that is, that one needs to know. His background, upbringing—his deep-seated lack of confidence in himself—”
Miss Marple interrupted.
“Couldn’t Edgar Lawson have poisoned Mrs. Serrocold?” she asked.
“Hardly. He’s only been here a few weeks. And anyway, it’s ridiculous! Why should Edgar want to poison my wife? What could he possibly gain by doing so?”
“Nothing material, I know. But he might have—some odd reason. He is odd, you know.”
“You mean unbalanced?”
“I suppose so. No, I don’t—not quite. What I mean is, he’s all wrong.”
It was not a very lucid exposition of what she felt. Lewis Serrocold accepted the words at their face value.
“Yes,” he said with a sigh. “He’s all wrong, poor lad. And he was showing such marked improvement. I can’t really understand why he had this sudden setback….”
Miss Marple leaned forward eagerly.
“Yes, that’s what I wondered. If—”
She broke off as Inspector Curry came into the room.
Twelve
1
Lewis Serrocold went away and Inspector Curry sat down and gave Miss Marple a rather peculiar smile.
“So Mr. Serrocold has been asking you to act as watchdog,” he said.
“Well, yes,” she added apologetically. “I hope you don’t mind—”
“I don’t mind. I think it’s a very good idea. Does Mr. Serrocold know just how well qualified you are for the post?”
“I don’t quite understand, Inspector.”
“I see. He thinks you’re just a very nice, elderly lady who was at school with his wife.” He shook his head at her. “We know you’re a bit more than that, Miss Marple, aren’t you? Crime is right down your street. Mr. Serrocold only knows one aspect of crime—the promising beginners. Makes me a bit sick, sometimes. Daresay I’m wrong and old-fashioned. But there are plenty of good decent lads about, lads who could do with a start in life. But there, honesty has to be its own reward—millionaires don’t leave trust funds to help the worthwhile. Well—well, don’t pay any attention to me. I’m old-fashioned. I’ve seen boys—and girls—with everything against them, bad homes, bad luck, every disadvantage, and they’ve had the grit to win through. That’s the kind I shall leave my packet to, if I ever have one. But then, of course, that’s what I never shall have. Just my pension and a nice bit of garden.”
He nodded his head at Miss Marple.
“Superintendent Blacker told me about you last night. Said you’d had a lot of experience of the seamy side of human nature. Well now, let’s have your point of view. Who’s the nigger in the woodpile? The G.I. husband?”
“That,” said Miss Marple, “would be very convenient
for everybody.”
Inspector Curry smiled softly to himself.
“A G.I. pinched my best girl,” he said reminiscently. “Naturally, I’m prejudiced. His manner doesn’t help. Let’s have the amateur point of view. Who’s been secretly and systematically poisoning Mrs. Serrocold?”
“Well,” said Miss Marple judicially, “one is always inclined, human nature being what it is, to think of the husband. Or if it’s the other way round, the wife. That’s the first assumption, don’t you think, in a poisoning case?”