They Do It With Mirrors (Miss Marple 6)

He had added that it was usually hard lines on the adopted child.

But that had not been so in this case. Both Gulbrandsen and his wife had adored little Pippa. She had made her place too firmly in their hearts to be lightly set aside. Gulbrandsen was already a father. Paternity meant nothing new to him. Carrie Louise’s maternal yearnings had been assuaged by Pippa. Her pregnancy had been uncomfortable and the actual birth difficult and prolonged. Possibly Carrie Louise, who had never cared for reality, did not enjoy her first brush with it.

There remained two little girls growing up, one pretty and amusing, the other plain and dull. Which again, Miss Marple thought, was quite natural. For when people adopt a baby girl, they choose a pretty one. And though Mildred might have been lucky and taken after the Martins who had produced handsome Ruth and dainty Carrie Louise, Nature elected that she should take after the Gulbrandsens who were large and stolid and uncompromisingly plain.

Moreover Carrie Louise was determined that the adopted child should never feel her position and in making sure of this she was overindulgent to Pippa and sometimes less than fair to Mildred.

Pippa had married and gone away to Italy, and Mildred, for a time, had been the only daughter of the house. But then Pippa had died and Carrie Louise had brought Pippa’s baby back to Stonygates and once more Mildred had been out of it. There had been the new marriage—the Restarick boys. In 1934 Mildred had married Canon Strete, a scholarly antiquarian about ten or fifteen years older, and had gone away to live in the south of England. Presumably she had been happy—but one did not really know. There had been no children. And now here she was, back again in the same house where she had been brought up. And once again, Miss Marple thought, not particularly happy in it.

Gina, Stephen, Wally, Mildred, Miss Bellever who liked an ordered routine and was unable to enforce it. Lewis Serrocold, who was clearly blissfully and wholeheartedly happy, an idealist able to translate his ideals into practical measures. In none of these personalities did Miss Marple find what Ruth’s words had led her to believe she might find. Carrie Louise seemed secure, remote at the heart of the whirlpool—as she had been all her life. What then, in that atmosphere, had Ruth felt to be wrong …? Did she, Jane Marple, feel it also?

What of the outer personalities of the whirlpool—the occupational therapists, the schoolmasters, earnest, harmless young men, confident young Dr. Maverick, the three pink-faced, innocent-eyed young delinquents—Edgar Lawson….

And here, just before she fell asleep, Miss Marple’s thoughts stopped and revolved speculatively round the figure of Edgar Lawson. Edgar Lawson reminded her of someone or something. There was something a little wrong about Edgar Lawson—perhaps more than a little. Edgar Lawson was maladjusted—that was the phrase, wasn’t it? But surely that didn’t, and couldn’t, touch Carrie Louise?

Mentally, Miss Marple shook her head.

What worried her was something more than that.

Five

1

Gently eluding her hostess the next morning, Miss Marple went out into the gardens. Their condition distressed her. They had once been an ambitiously set-out achievement. Clumps of rhododendrons, smooth slopes of lawn, massed borders of herbaceous plants, clipped box-hedges surrounding a formal rose garden. Now all was largely derelict, the lawns raggedly mown, the borders full of weeds with tangled flowers struggling through them, the paths moss-covered and neglected. The kitchen gardens on the other hand, enclosed by red brick walls, were prosperous and well stocked. That, presumably, was because they had a utility value. So, also, a large portion of what had once been lawn and flower garden, was now fenced off and laid out in tennis courts and a bowling green.

Surveying the herbaceous border, Miss Marple clicked her tongue vexedly and pulled up a flourishing plant of groundsel.

As she stood with it in her hand, Edgar Lawson came into view. Seeing Miss Marple, he stopped and hesitated. Miss Marple had no mind to let him escape. She called him briskly. When he came she asked him if he knew where any gardening tools were kept.

Edgar said vaguely that there was a gardener somewhere who would know.

“It’s such a pity to see this border so neglected,” twittered Miss Marple. “I’m so fond of gardens.” And since it was not her intention that Edgar should go in search of any necessary implement she went on quickly:

“It’s about all an old and useless woman can find to do. Now I don’t suppose you ever bother your head about gardens, Mr. Lawson. You have so much real and important work to do. Being in a responsible position here, with Mr. Serrocold. You must find it all most interesting.”

He answered quickly, almost eagerly:

“Yes—yes—it is interesting.”

“And you must be of the greatest assistance to Mr. Serrocold.”

His face darkened.

“I don’t know. I can’t be sure. It’s what’s behind it all—”

He broke off. Miss Marple watched him thoughtfully. A pathetic undersized young man, in a neat dark suit. A young man that few people would look at twice, or remember if they did look….

There was a garden seat nearby and Miss Marple drifted towards it and sat. Edgar stood frowning in front of her.

“I’m sure,” said Miss Marple brightly, “that Mr. Serrocold relies on you a great deal.”

“I don’t know,” said Edgar. “I really don’t know.” He frowned and almost absently sat down beside her. “I’m in a very difficult position.”

“Yes?” said Miss Marple.

The young man Edgar sat staring in front of him.

“This is all highly confidential,” he said suddenly.

“Of course,” said Miss Marple.

“If I had my rights—”

“Yes?”

“I might as well tell you … you won’t let it go any further I’m sure?”

“Oh no.” She noticed he did not wait for her disclaimer.

“My father—actually, my father is a very important man.”

This time there was no need to say anything. She had only to listen.

“Nobody knows except Mr. Serrocold. You see, it might prejudice my father’s position if the story got out.” He turned to her. He smiled. A sad, dignified smile. “You see, I’m Winston Churchill’s son.”

“Oh,” said Miss Marple. “I see.”

And she did see. She remembered a rather sad story in St. Mary Mead—and the way it had gone.

Edgar Lawson went on, and what he said had the familiarity of a stage scene.

“There were reasons. My mother wasn’t free. Her own husband was in an asylum—there could be no divorce—no question of marriage. I don’t really blame them. At least, I think I don’t … He’s done, always, everything he could. Discreetly, of course. And that’s where the trouble has arisen. He’s got enemies—and they’re against me, too. They’ve managed to keep us apart. They watch me. Wherever I go, they spy on me. And they make things go wrong for me.”

Miss Marple shook her head.

“Dear, dear,” she said.

“In London I was studying to be a doctor. They tampered with my exams—they altered the answers. They wanted me to fail. They followed me about the streets. They told things about me to my landlady. They hound me wherever I go.”

“Oh, but you can’t be sure of that,” said Miss Marple soothingly.

“I tell you I know! Oh they’re very cunning. I never get a glimpse of them or find out who they are. But I shall find out … Mr. Serrocold took me away from London and brought me down here. He was kind—very kind. But even here, you know, I’m not safe. They’re here, too. Working against me. Making the others dislike me. Mr. Serrocold says that isn’t true—but Mr. Serrocold doesn’t know. Or else—I wonder—sometimes I’ve thought—”

He broke off. He got up.

“This is all confidential,” he said. “You do understand that, don’t you? But if you notice anyone following me—spying, I mean—you might let me know who it is!”

/> He went away, then—neat, pathetic, insignificant. Miss Marple watched him and wondered….

A voice spoke.

“Nuts,” it said. “Just nuts.”

Walter Hudd was standing beside her. His hands were thrust deep in his pockets and he was frowning as he stared after Edgar’s retreating figure.

“What kind of a joint is this, anyway?” he said. “They’re all bughouse, the whole lot of them.”

Miss Marple said nothing and Walter went on.

“That Edgar guy—what do you make of him? Says his father’s really Lord Montgomery. Doesn’t seem likely to me! Not Monty! Not from all I’ve heard about him.”

“No,” said Miss Marple. “It doesn’t seem very likely.”