Inspector Curry, observing her scarlet shirt and dark green slacks said drily:
“I see you’re not wearing mourning, Mrs. Hudd?”
“I haven’t got any,” said Gina. “I know everyone is supposed to have a little black number and wear it with pearls. But I don’t. I hate black. I think it’s hideous, and only receptionists and housekeepers and people like that ought to wear it. Anyway Christian Gulbrandsen wasn’t really a relation. He’s my grandmother’s stepson.”
“And I suppose you didn’t know him very well?”
Gina shook her head.
“He came here three or four times when I was a child, but then in the war I went to America, and I only came back here to live about six months ago.”
“You have definitely come back here to live? You’re not just on a visit?”
“I haven’t really thought,” said Gina.
“You were in the Great Hall last night, when Mr. Gulbrandsen went to his room?”
“Yes. He said good night and went away. Grandam asked if he had everything he wanted and he said yes—that Jolly had fixed him up fine. Not those words, but that kind of thing. He said he had letters to write.”
“And then?”
Gina described the scene between Lewis and Edgar Lawson. It was the same story as Inspector Curry had by now heard many times, but it took an added colour, a new gusto, under Gina’s handling. It became drama.
“It was Wally’s revolver,” she said. “Fancy Edgar’s having the guts to go and pinch it out of his room. I’d never have believed he’d have the guts.”
“Were you alarmed when they went into the study and Edgar Lawson locked the door?”
“Oh no,” said Gina, opening her enormous brown eyes very wide. “I loved it. It was so ham, you know, and so madly theatrical. Everything Edgar does is always ridiculous. One can’t take him seriously for a moment.”
“He did fire the revolver, though?”
“Yes. We all thought then that he’d shot Lewis after all.”
“And did you enjoy that?” Inspector Curry could not refrain from asking.
“Oh no, I was terrified, then. Everyone was, except Grandam. She never turned a hair.”
“That seems rather remarkable.”
“Not really. She’s that kind of person. Not quite in this world. She’s the sort of person who never believes anything bad can happen. She’s sweet.”
“During all this scene, who was in the Hall?”
“Oh, we were all there. Except Uncle Christian, of course.”
“Not all, Mrs. Hudd. People went in and out.”
“Did they?” asked Gina vaguely.
“Your husband, for instance, went out to fix the lights.”
“Yes. Wally’s great at fixing things.”
“During his absence, a shot was heard, I understand. A shot that you all thought came from the park?”
“I don’t remember that … Oh yes, it was just after the lights had come on again and Wally had come back.”
“Did anyone else leave the Hall?”
“I don’t think so. I don’t remember.”
“Where were you sitting, Mrs. Hudd?”
“Over by the window.”
“Near the door to the library?”
“Yes.”
“Did you yourself leave the Hall at all?”
“Leave? With all the excitement? Of course not.”
Gina sounded scandalised by the idea.
“Where were the others sitting?”
“Mostly round the fireplace, I think. Aunt Mildred was knitting and so was Aunt Jane—Miss Marple, I mean—Grandam was just sitting.”
“And Mr. Stephen Restarick?”
“Stephen? He was playing the piano to begin with. I don’t know where he went later.”
“And Miss Bellever?”
“Fussing about, as usual. She practically never sits down. She was looking for keys or something.”
She said suddenly:
“What’s all this about Grandam’s tonic? Did the chemist make a mistake in making it up or something?”
“Why should you think that?”
“Because the bottle’s disappeared and Jolly’s been fussing round madly looking for it, in no end of a stew. Alex told her the police had taken it away. Did you?”
Instead of replying to the question, Inspector Curry said:
“Miss Bellever was upset, you say?”
“Oh! Jolly always fusses,” said Gina carelessly. “She likes fussing. Sometimes I wonder how Grandam can stand it.”
“Just one last question, Mrs. Hudd. You’ve no ideas yourself as to who killed Christian Gulbrandsen and why?”
“One of the queers did it, I should think. The thug ones are really quite sensible. I mean they only cosh people so as to rob a till or get money or jewelry—not just for fun. But one of the queers—you know, what they call mentally maladjusted—might do it for fun, don’t you think? Because I can’t see what other reason there could be for killing Uncle Christian except fun, do you? At least I don’t mean fun, exactly—but—”
“You can’t think of a motive?”
“Yes, that’s what I mean,” said Gina gratefully. “He wasn’t robbed or anything, was he?”
“But you know, Mrs. Hudd, the College buildings were locked and barred. Nobody could get out from there without a pass.”
“Don’t you believe it,” Gina laughed merrily. “Those boys could get out from anywhere! They’ve taught me a lot of tricks.”
“She’s a lively one,” said Lake when Gina had departed. “First time I’ve seen her close up. Lovely figure, hasn’t she. Sort of a foreign figure, if you know what I mean.”
Inspector Curry threw him a cold glance. Sergeant Lake said hastily that she was a merry one. “Seems to have enjoyed it all, as you might say.”
“Whether Stephen Restarick is right or not about her marriage breaking up, I notice that she went out of her way to mention that Walter Hudd was back in the Great Hall, before that shot was heard.”
“Which, according to everyone else, isn’t so?”
“Exactly.”
“She didn’t mention Miss Bellever leaving the Hall to look for keys, either.”
“No,” said the Inspector thoughtfully, “she didn’t….”
Fourteen
1
Mrs. Strete fitted into the library very much better than Gina Hudd had done. There was nothing exotic about Mrs. Strete. She wore black with onyx beads, and she wore a hairnet over carefully arranged grey hair.
She looked, Inspector Curry reflected, exactly as the relict of a canon of the Established Church should look—which was almost odd, because so few people ever did look like what they really were.
Even the tight line of her lips had an ascetic ecclesiastical flavour. She expressed Christian Endurance, and possibly Christian Fortitude. But not, Curry thought, Christian Charity.
Moreover it was clear that Mrs. Strete was offended.
“I should have thought that you could have given me some idea of when you would want me, Inspector. I have been forced to sit around waiting all the morning.”
It was, Curry judged, her sense of importance that was hurt. He hastened to pour oil on the troubled waters.
“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Strete. Perhaps you don’t quite know how we set about these things. We start, you know, with the less important evidence—get it out of the way, so to speak. It’s valuable to keep to the last a person on whose judgement we can rely—a good observer—by whom we can check what has been told us up to date.”
Mrs. Strete softened visibly.
“Oh, I see. I hadn’t quite realised….”
“Now you’re a woman of mature judgement, Mrs. Strete. A woman of the world. And then this is your home—you’re the daughter of the house, and you can tell me all about the people who are in it.”
“I can certainly do that,” said Mildred Strete.
“So you see that when we come to the question of w
ho killed Christian Gulbrandsen, you can help us a great deal.”
“But is there any question? Isn’t it perfectly obvious who killed my brother?”
Inspector Curry leant back in his chair. His hand stroked his small neat moustache.