The Mirror Crack'd: from Side to Side (14 page)

“You haven't told me yet, Miss Gregg, why you should think anyone wanted to kill you.”

She was silent for a moment and then with a sudden brusque gesture, she stretched out for her handbag, opened it, took out a piece of paper and thrust it into his hand. He read it. Typed on it was one line of writing.

Don't think you'll escape next time.

Craddock said sharply, “When did you get this?” “It was on my dressing table when I came back from the bath.”

“So someone in the house—”

“Not necessarily. Someone could have climbed up the balcony outside my window and pushed it through there. I think they meant it to frighten me still more, but actually it didn't. I just felt furiously angry and sent word to you to come and see me.”

Dermot Craddock smiled. “Possibly a rather unexpected result for whoever sent it. Is this the first kind of message like that you've had?”

Again Marina hesitated. Then she said, “No, it isn't.”

“Will you tell me about any other?”

“It was three weeks ago, when we first came here. It came to the studio, not here. It was quite ridiculous. It was just a message. Not typewritten that time. In capital letters. It said, ‘
Prepare to die
.'” She laughed. There was perhaps a very faint tinge of hysteria in the laugh. The mirth was genuine enough. “It was so silly,” she said.
“Of course one often gets crank messages, threats, things like that. I thought it was probably religious you know. Someone who didn't approve of film actresses. I just tore it up and threw it into the wastepaper basket.”

“Did you tell anyone about it, Miss Gregg?”

Marina shook her head. “No, I never said a word to anyone. As a matter of fact, we were having a bit of worry at the moment about the scene we were shooting. I just couldn't have thought of anything but that at the moment. Anyway, as I say, I thought it was either a silly joke or one of those religious cranks who write and disapprove of playacting and things like that.”

“And after that, was there another?”

“Yes. On the day of the fête. One of the gardeners brought it to me, I think. He said someone had left a note for me and was there any answer? I thought perhaps it had to do with the arrangements. I just tore it open. It said
‘Today will be your last day on earth.'
I just crumpled it up and said,
‘No answer.'
Then I called the man back and asked him who gave it to him. He said it was a man with spectacles on a bicycle. Well, I mean, what could you think about that? I thought it was more silliness. I didn't think—I didn't think for a moment, it was a real genuine threat.”

“Where's that note now, Miss Gregg?”

“I've no idea. I was wearing one of those coloured Italian silk coats and I think, as far as I remember, that I crumpled it up and shoved it into the pocket of it. But it's not there now. It probably fell out.”

“And you've no idea who wrote these silly notes, Miss Gregg? Who inspired them? Not even now?”

Her eyes opened widely. There was a kind of innocent wonder
in them that he took note of. He admired it, but he did not believe in it.

“How can I tell? How can I possibly tell?”

“I think you might have quite a good idea, Miss Gregg.”

“I haven't. I assure you I haven't.”

“You're a very famous person,” said Dermot. “You've had great successes. Successes in your profession, and personal successes, too. Men have fallen in love with you, wanted to marry you, have married you. Women have been jealous and envied you. Men have been in love with you and been rebuffed by you. It's a pretty wild field, I agree, but I should think you must have
some
idea who could have written these notes.”

“It could have been anybody.”

“No, Miss Gregg, it couldn't have been
anybody
. It could possibly have been one of quite a lot of people. It could be someone quite humble, a dresser, an electrician, a servant; or it could be someone among the ranks of your friends, or so-called friends. But you must have some idea. Some name, more than one name, perhaps, to suggest.”

The door opened and Jason Rudd came in. Marina turned to him. She swept out an arm appealingly.

“Jinks, darling, Mr. Craddock is insisting that I must know who wrote those horrid notes. And I don't. You know I don't. Neither of us knows. We haven't got the least idea.”

“Very urgent about that,” thought Craddock. “Very urgent. Is Marina Gregg afraid of what her husband might say?”

Jason Rudd, his eyes dark with fatigue and the scowl on his face deeper than usual, came over to join them. He took Marina's hand in his.

“I know it sounds unbelievable to you, Inspector,” he said, “but honestly neither Marina nor I have any idea about this business.”

“So you're in the happy position of having no enemies, is that it?” The irony was manifest in Dermot's voice.

Jason Rudd flushed a little. “Enemies? That's a very biblical word, Inspector. In that sense, I can assure you I can think of no enemies. People who dislike one, would like to get the better of one, would do a mean turn to one if they could, in malice and uncharitableness, yes. But it's a long step from that to putting an overdose of poison in a drink.”

“Just now, in speaking to your wife, I asked her who could have written or inspired those letters. She said she didn't know. But when we come to the actual action, it narrows it down.
Somebody actually put the poison in that glass
. And that's a fairly limited field, you know.”

“I saw nothing,” said Jason Rudd.

“I certainly didn't,” said Marina. “Well, I mean—if I had seen anyone putting anything in my glass, I wouldn't have drunk the stuff, would I?”

“I can't help believing, you know,” said Dermot Craddock gently, “that you do know a little more than you're telling me.”

“It's not
true,
” said Marina. “Tell him that that isn't true, Jason.”

“I assure you,” said Jason Rudd, “that I am completely and absolutely at a loss. The whole thing's fantastic. I might believe it was a joke—a joke that had somehow gone wrong—that had proved dangerous, done by a person who never dreamt that it would be dangerous….”

There was a slight question in his voice, then he shook his head. “No. I see that idea doesn't appeal to you.”

“There's one more thing I should like to ask you,” said Dermot
Craddock. “You remember Mr. and Mrs. Badcock's arrival, of course. They came immediately after the vicar. You greeted them, I understand, Miss Gregg, in the same charming way as you had received all your guests. But I am told by an eyewitness that immediately after greeting them you looked over Mrs. Badcock's shoulder and that you saw something which seemed to alarm you. Is that true, and if so, what was it?”

Marina said quickly, “Of course it isn't true. Alarm me—what should have alarmed me?”

“That's what we want to know,” said Dermot Craddock patiently. “My witness is very insistent on the point, you know.”

“Who was your witness? What did he or she say she saw?”

“You were looking at the staircase,” said Dermot Craddock. “There were people coming up the staircase. There was a journalist, there was Mr. Grice and his wife, elderly residents in this place, there was Mr. Ardwyck Fenn who had just arrived from the States and there was Miss Lola Brewster. Was it the sight of one of those people that upset you, Miss Gregg?”

“I tell you I wasn't upset.” She almost barked the words.

“And yet your attention wavered from greeting Mrs. Badcock. She had said something to you which you left unanswered because you were staring past her at something else.”

Marina Gregg took hold on herself. She spoke quickly and convincingly.

“I can explain, I really can. If you knew anything about acting you'd be able to understand quite easily. There comes a moment, even when you know a part well—in fact it usually happens when you
do
know a part well—when you go on with it mechanically. Smiling, making the proper movements and gestures, saying the
words with the usual inflexions. But your mind isn't on it. And quite suddenly there's a horrible blank moment when you don't know where you are, where you've got to in the play, what your next lines are! Drying up, that's what we call it. Well, that's what happened to me. I'm not terribly strong, as my husband will tell you. I've had rather a strenuous time, and a good deal of nervous apprehension about this film. I wanted to make a success of this fête and to be nice and pleasant and welcoming to everybody. But one does say the same things over and over again, mechanically, to the people who are always saying the same things to you. You know, how they've always wanted to meet you. How they once saw you outside a theatre in San Francisco—or travelled in a plane with you. Something silly really, but one has to be nice about it and say things. Well, as I'm telling you, one does that automatically. One doesn't need to think what to say because one's said it so often before. Suddenly, I think, a wave of tiredness came over me. My brain went blank. Then I realized that Mrs. Badcock had been telling me a long story which I hadn't really heard at all, and was now looking at me in an eager sort of way and that I hadn't answered her or said any of the proper things. It was just tiredness.”

“Just tiredness,” said Dermot Craddock slowly. “You insist on that, Miss Gregg?”

“Yes, I do. I can't see why you don't believe me.”

Dermot Craddock turned towards Jason Rudd. “Mr. Rudd,” he said, “I think you're more likely to understand my meaning than your wife is. I am concerned, very much concerned, for your wife's safety. There has been an attempt on her life, there have been threatening letters. That means, doesn't it, that there is someone who was here on the day of the fête and possibly is still here, someone in very close
touch with this house and what goes on in it. That person, whoever it is, may be slightly insane. It's not just a question of threats. Threatened men live long, as they say. The same goes for women. But whoever it was didn't stop at threats. A deliberate attempt was made to poison Miss Gregg. Don't you see in the whole nature of things, that the attempt is bound to be repeated? There's only one way to achieve safety. That is to give me all the clues you possibly can. I don't say that you
know
who that person is, but I think that you must be able to give a guess or to have a vague idea. Won't you tell me the truth? Or if, which is possible, you yourself do not know the truth, won't you urge your wife to do so. It's in the interests of her own safety that I'm asking you.”

Jason Rudd turned his head slowly. “You hear what Inspector Craddock says, Marina,” he said. “It's possible, as he says, that you may know something that I do not. If so, for God's sake, don't be foolish about it. If you've the least suspicion of
anyone,
tell it to us now.”

“But I haven't.” Her voice rose in a wail. “You must believe me.”

“Who were you afraid of that day?” asked Dermot.

“I wasn't afraid of anyone.”

“Listen, Miss Gregg, of the people on the stairs or coming up it, there were two friends whom you were surprised to see, whom you had not seen for a long time and whom you did not expect to see that day. Mr. Ardwyck Fenn and Miss Brewster. Had you any special emotions when you suddenly saw them coming up the stairs? You didn't know they were coming, did you?”

“No, we'd no idea they were even in England,” said Jason Rudd.

“I was delighted,” said Marina, “absolutely delighted!”

“Delighted to see Miss Brewster?”

“Well—” She shot him a quick, faintly suspicious glance.

Craddock said, “Lola Brewster was, I believe, originally married to your third husband Robert Truscott?”

“Yes, that's so.”

“He divorced her in order to marry you.”

“Oh, everyone knows about that,” said Marina Gregg impatiently. “You needn't think it's anything you've found out. There was a bit of a rumpus at the time, but there wasn't any bad feeling about it in the end.”

“Did she make threats against you?”

“Well—in a way, yes. But, oh dear, I wish I could explain. No one takes those sort of threats
seriously
. It was at a party, she'd had a lot of drink. She might have taken a pot-shot at me with a pistol if she'd had one. But luckily she didn't. All that was
years
ago! None of these things last, these emotions! They don't, really they don't. That's true, isn't it, Jason?”

“I'd say it was true enough,” said Jason Rudd, “and I can assure you, Mr. Craddock, that Lola Brewster had no opportunity on the day of the fête of poisoning my wife's drink. I was close beside her most of the time. The idea that Lola would suddenly, after a long period of friendliness, come to England, and arrive at our house all prepared to poison my wife's drink—why the whole idea's absurd.”

“I appreciate your point of view,” said Craddock.

“It's not only that, it's a matter of
fact
as well. She was nowhere near Marina's glass.”

“And your other visitor— Ardwyck Fenn?”

There was, he thought, a very slight pause before Jason Rudd spoke.

“He's a very old friend of ours,” he said. “We haven't seen him
for a good many years now, though we occasionally correspond. He's quite a big figure in American television.”

“Was he an old friend of yours too?” Dermot Craddock asked Marina.

Her breath came rather quickly as she replied. “Yes, oh yes. He—he was quite a friend of mine always, but I've rather lost sight of him of late years.” Then with a sudden quick rush of words, she went on, “If you think that I looked up and saw Ardwyck and was frightened of him, it's nonsense. It's absolute
nonsense
. Why should I be frightened of him, what reason would I have to be frightened of him? We were great friends. I was just very, very pleased when I suddenly saw him. It was a delightful surprise, as I told you. Yes, a delightful surprise.” She raised her head, looking at him, her face vivid and defiant.