“Oh, I see. How ingenious you are. By the way, those chocolates were poisoned?”
“The six chocolates containing Kirsch flavouring in the top layer were poisoned, yes. They contained aconitine.”
“Not one of my favourite poisons, Inspector. Personally, I have a weakness for curare.”
“Curare has to be introduced into the bloodstream, Mr. Restarick, not into the stomach.”
“How wonderfully knowledgeable the police force are,” said Alex admiringly.
Inspector Curry cast a quiet sideways glance at the young man. He noted the slightly pointed ears, the un-English Mongolian type of face. The eyes that danced with mischievous mockery. It would have been hard at any time to know what Alex Restarick was thinking. A satyr—or did he mean a faun? An overfed faun, Inspector Curry thought suddenly, and somehow there was an unpleasantness about that idea.
A twister with brains—that’s how he would sum up Alex Restarick. Cleverer than his brother. Mother had been a Russian or so he had heard. “Russians” to Inspector Curry were what “Bony” had been in the early days of the nineteenth century and what “the Huns” had been in the early twentieth century. Anything to do with Russia was bad in Inspector Curry’s opinion, and if Alex Restarick had murdered Gulbrandsen he would be a very satisfactory criminal. But unfortunately Curry was by no means convinced that he had.
Constable Dodgett, having recovered his breath, now spoke.
“I moved the curtains as you told me, sir,” he said. “And counted thirty. I noticed that the curtains have a hook torn off at the top. Means that there’s a gap. You’d see the light in the room from outside.”
Inspector Curry said to Alex:
“Did you notice light streaming out from that window last night?”
“I couldn’t see the house at all because of the fog. I told you so.”
“Fog’s patchy, though. Sometimes it clears for a minute here and there.”
“It never cleared so that I could see the house—the main part, that is. The gymnasium building close at hand loomed up out of the mist in a deliciously unsubstantial way. It gave a perfect illusion of dock warehouses. As I told you, I am putting on a Limehouse Ballet and—”
“You told me,” agreed Inspector Curry.
“One gets in the habit, you know, of looking at things from the point of view of a stage set, rather than from the point of view of reality.”
“I daresay. And yet a stage set’s real enough, isn’t it, Mr. Restarick?”
“I don’t see exactly what you mean, Inspector.”
“Well, it’s made of real materials—canvas and wood and paint and cardboard. The illusion is in the eye of the beholder, not in the set itself. That, as I say, is real enough, as real behind the scenes as it is in front.”
Alex stared at him.
“Now that, you know, is a very penetrating remark, Inspector. It’s given me an idea.”
“For another ballet?”
“No, not for another ballet … Dear me, I wonder if we’ve all been rather stupid?”
3
The Inspector and Dodgett went back to the house across the lawn. (Looking for footprints, Alex said to himself. But here he was wrong. They had looked for footprints very early that morning and had been unsuccessful because it had rained heavily at 2 A.M.) Alex walked slowly up the drive, turning over in his mind the possibilities of his new idea.
He was diverted from this however by the sight of Gina walking on the path by the lake. The house was on a slight eminence, and the ground sloped gently down from the front sweeps of gravel to the lake, which was bordered by rhododendrons and other shrubs. Alex ran down the gravel and found Gina.
“If you could black out that absurd Victorian monstrosity,” he said, screwing up his eyes, “this would make a very good Swan Lake, with you, Gina, as the Swan Maiden. You are more like the Snow Queen though, when I come to think of it. Ruthless, determined to have your own way, quite without pity or kindliness or the rudiments of compassion. You are very very feminine, Gina dear.”
“How malicious you are, Alex dear!”
“Because I refuse to be taken in by you? You’re very pleased with yourself, aren’t you, Gina? You’ve got us all where you want us. Myself, Stephen, and that large, simple husband of yours.”
“You’re talking nonsense.”
“Oh no, I’m not. Stephen’s in love with you, I’m in love with you, and Wally’s desperately miserable. What more could a woman want?”
Gina looked at him and laughed.
Alex nodded his head vigorously.
“You have the rudiments of honesty, I’m glad to see. That’s the Latin in you. You don’t go to the trouble of pretending that you’re not attractive to men—and that you’re terribly sorry about it if they are attracted to you. You like having men in love with you, don’t you, cruel Gina? Even miserable little Edgar Lawson!”
Gina looked at him steadily.
She said in a quiet serious tone:
“It doesn’t last very long, you know. Women have a much worse time of it in the world than men do. They’re more vulnerable. They have children, and they mind—terribly—about their children. As soon as they lose their looks, the men they love don’t love them anymore. They’re betrayed and deserted and pushed aside. I don’t blame men. I’d be the same myself. I don’t like people who are old or ugly or ill, or who whine about their troubles, or who are ridiculous like Edgar, strutting about and pretending he’s important and worthwhile. You say I’m cruel? It’s a cruel world! Sooner or later it will be cruel to me! But now I’m young and I’m nice looking and people find me attractive.” Her teeth flashed out in her peculiar, warm sunny smile. “Yes, I enjoy it, Alex. Why shouldn’t I?”
“Why indeed?” said Alex. “What I want to know is what you are going to do about it. Are you going to marry Stephen or are you going to marry me?”
“I’m married to Wally.”
“Temporarily. Every woman should make one mistake matrimonially—but there’s no need to dwell on it. Having tried out the show in the provinces, the time has come to bring it to the West End.”
“And you’re the West End?”
“Indubitably.”
“Do you really want to marry me? I can’t imagine you married.”
“I insist on marriage. Affaires, I always think, are so very old-fashioned. Difficulties with passports and hotels and all that. I shall never have a mistress unless I can’t get her any other way!”
Gina’s laugh rang out fresh and clear.
“You do amuse me, Alex.”
“It is my principal asset. Stephen is much better looking than I am. He’s extremely handsome and very intense which, of course, women adore. But intensity is fatiguing in the home. With me, Gina, you will find life entertaining.”
“Aren’t you going to say you love me madly?”
“However true that may be, I shall certainly not say it. It would be one up to you and one down to me if I did. No, all I am prepared to do is to make you a businesslike offer of marriage.”
“I shall have to think about it,” said Gina, smiling.
“Naturally. Besides, you’ve got to put Wally out of his misery first. I’ve a lot of sympathy with Wally. It must be absolute hell for him to be married to you and trailed along at your chariot wheels into this heavy, family atmosphere of philanthropy.”
“What a beast you are, Alex!”
“A perceptive beast.”
“Sometimes,” said Gina, “I don’t think Wally cares for me one little bit. He just doesn’t notice me anymore.”
“You’ve stirred him up with a stick and he doesn’t respond? Most annoying.”
Like a flash, Gina swung her palm and delivered a ringing slap on Alex’s smooth cheek.
“Touché!” cried Alex.
With a quick, deft movement, he gathered her into his arms and before she could resist, his lips fastened on hers in a long ardent kiss. She struggled a moment and then relaxed….
/>
“Gina!”
They sprang apart. Mildred Strete, her face red, her lips quivering, glared at them balefully. For a moment, the eagerness of her words choked their utterance.
“Disgusting … disgusting … you abandoned beastly girl … you’re just like your mother … You’re a bad lot … I always knew you were a bad lot … utterly depraved … and you’re not only an adulteress—you’re a murderess too. Oh yes, you are. I know what I know!”
“And what do you know? Don’t be ridiculous, Aunt Mildred.”
“I’m no aunt of yours, thank goodness. No blood relation to you. Why you don’t even know who your mother was or where she came from! But you know well enough what my father was like and my mother. What sort of a child do you think they would adopt? A criminal’s child or a prostitute’s probably! That’s the sort of people they were. They ought to have remembered that bad blood will tell. Though I daresay that it’s the Italian in you that makes you turn to poison.”
“How dare you say that?”
“I shall say what I like. You can’t deny now, can you, that somebody tried to poison Mother? And who’s the most likely person to do that? Who comes into an enormous fortune if Mother dies? You do, Gina, and you may be sure that the police have not overlooked that fact.”
Still trembling, Mildred moved rapidly away.
“Pathological,” said Alex. “Definitely pathological. Really most interesting. It makes one wonder about the late Canon Strete … religious scruples, perhaps?… Or would you say impotent?”
“Don’t be disgusting, Alex. Oh I hate her, I hate her, I hate her.”
Gina clenched her hands and shook with fury.
“Lucky you hadn’t got a knife in your stocking,” said Alex. “If you had, dear Mrs. Strete might have known something about murder from the point of view of the victim. Calm down, Gina. Don’t look so melodramatic and like Italian Opera.”
“How dare she say I tried to poison Grandam?”
“Well, darling, somebody tried to poison her. And from the point of view of motive you’re well in the picture, aren’t you?”
“Alex!” Gina stared at him, dismayed. “Do the police think so?”
“It’s extremely difficult to know what the police think … They keep their own counsel remarkably well. They’re by no means fools, you know. That reminds me—”
“Where are you going?”
“To work out an idea of mine.”
Seventeen
1
“You say somebody has been trying to poison me?”
Carrie Louise’s voice held bewilderment and disbelief.
“You know,” she said, “I can’t really believe it….”
She waited a few moments, her eyes half closed.
Lewis said gently, “I wish I could have spared you this, dearest.”
Almost absently she stretched out a hand to him and he took it.
Miss Marple, sitting close by, shook her head sympathetically.
Carrie Louise opened her eyes.
“Is it really true, Jane?” she asked.
“I’m afraid so, my dear.”
“Then everything—” Carrie Louise broke off.
She went on:
“I’ve always thought I knew what was real and what wasn’t …This doesn’t seem real—but it is … so I may be wrong everywhere … but who could want to do such a thing to me? Nobody in this house could want to—kill me?”
Her voice still held incredulity.
“That’s what I would have thought,” said Lewis. “I was wrong.”
“And Christian knew about it? That explains it.”
“Explains what?” asked Lewis.
“His manner,” said Carrie Louise. “It was very odd, you know. Not at all his usual self. He seemed—upset about me—and as though he was wanting to say something to me—and then not saying it. And he asked me if my heart was strong. And if I’d been well lately. Trying to hint to me, perhaps. But why not say something straight out? It’s so much simpler just to say straight out.”
“He didn’t want to—cause you pain, Caroline.”
“Pain? But why—Oh I see …” Her eyes widened. “So that’s what you believe. But you’re wrong, Lewis, quite wrong. I can assure you of that.”
Her husband avoided her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” said Mrs. Serrocold after a moment or two. “But I can’t believe anything of what has happened lately is true. Edgar shooting at you. Gina and Stephen. That ridiculous box of chocolates. It just isn’t true.”
Nobody spoke.
Caroline Louise Serrocold sighed.
“I suppose,” she said, “that I must have lived outside reality for a long time … Please, both of you, I think I would like to be alone … I’ve got to try and understand….”
2
Miss Marple came down the stairs and into the Great Hall to find Alex Restarick standing near the large, arched entrance door with his hand flung out in a somewhat flamboyant gesture.
“Come in, come in,” said Alex happily and as though he were the owner of the Great Hall. “I’m just thinking about last night.”
Lewis Serrocold, who had followed Miss Marple down from Carrie Louise’s sitting room, crossed the Great Hall to his study and went in and shut the door.
“Are you trying to reconstruct the crime?” asked Miss Marple with subdued eagerness.
“Eh?” Alex looked at her with a frown. Then his brow cleared.
“Oh, that,” he said. “No, not exactly. I was looking at the whole thing from an entirely different point of view. I was thinking of this place in the terms of the theatre. Not reality, but artificiality! Just come over here. Think of it in the terms of a stage set. Lighting, entrances, exits. Dramatis Personae. Noises off. All very interesting. Not all my own idea. The Inspector gave it to me. I think he’s rather a cruel man. He did his best to frighten me this morning.”
“And did he frighten you?”
“I’m not sure.”
Alex described the Inspector’s experiment and the timing of the performance of the puffing Constable Dodgett.
“Time,” he said, “is so very misleading. One thinks things take such a long time, but really, of course, they don’t.”
“No,” said Miss Marple.
Representing the audience, she moved to a different position. The stage set now consisted of a vast, tapestry-covered wall going up to dimness, with a grand piano up L. and a window and window seat up R. Very near the window seat was the door into the library. The piano stool was only about eight feet from the door into the square lobby, which led to the corridor. Two very convenient exits! The audience, of course, had an excellent view of both of them….
But last night there had been no audience. Nobody, that is to say, had been facing the stage set that Miss Marple was now facing. The audience, last night, had been sitting with their backs to that particular stage.
How long, Miss Marple wondered, would it have taken to slip out of the room, run along the corridor, shoot Gulbrandsen and come back? Not nearly so long as one would think. Measured in minutes and seconds, a very short time indeed….
What had Carrie Louise meant when she had said to her husband: “So that’s what you believe—but you’re wrong, Lewis!”
“I must say that that was a very penetrating remark of the Inspector’s,” Alex’s voice cut in on her meditations. “About a stage set being real. Made of wood and cardboard and stuck together with glue and as real on the unpainted as on the painted side. ‘The illusion,’ he pointed out, ‘is in the eyes of the audience.’”
“Like conjurers,” Miss Marple murmured vaguely. “They do it with mirrors is, I believe, the slang phrase.”
Stephen Restarick came in, slightly out of breath.
“Hullo, Alex,” he said. “That little rat, Ernie Gregg—I don’t know if you remember him?”
“The one who played Feste when you did Twelfth Night? Quite a bit of talent there I thought.”
“Y
es, he’s got talent of a sort. Very good with his hands, too. Does a lot of our carpentry. However, that’s neither here nor there. He’s been boasting to Gina that he gets out at night and wanders about the grounds. Says he was wandering round last night and boasts he saw something.”
Alex spun round.
“Saw what?”
“Says he’s not going to tell! Actually, I’m pretty certain he’s only trying to show off and get into the limelight. He’s an awful liar, but I thought perhaps he ought to be questioned.”
Alex said sharply, “I should leave him for a bit. Don’t let him think we’re too interested.”
“Perhaps—yes I think you may be right there. This evening, perhaps.”
Stephen went on into the library.
Miss Marple, moving gently round the Hall in her character of mobile audience, collided with Alex Restarick as he stepped back suddenly.
Miss Marple said, “I’m so sorry.”
Alex frowned at her, said in an absent sort of way,
“I beg your pardon,” and then added in a surprised voice, “Oh, it’s you.”
It seemed to Miss Marple an odd remark for someone with whom she had been conversing for some considerable time.
“I was thinking of something else,” said Alex Restarick. “That boy Ernie—” He made vague motions with both hands.
Then, with a sudden change of manner, he crossed the Hall and went through the library door shutting it behind him.
The murmur of voices came from behind the closed door, but Miss Marple hardly noticed them. She was uninterested in the versatile Ernie and what he had seen or pretended to see. She had a shrewd suspicion that Ernie had seen nothing at all. She did not believe for a moment that on a cold raw foggy night like last night, Ernie would have troubled to use his picklocking activities and wander about in the park. In all probability, he never had got out at night. Boasting, that was all it had been.
“Like Johnnie Backhouse,” thought Miss Marple who always had a good storehouse of parallels to draw upon, selected from inhabitants of St. Mary Mead.
“I seen you last night,” had been Johnnie Backhouse’s unpleasant taunt to all he thought it might affect.