They Do It With Mirrors (15 page)

“So he ought to be,” said Miss Bellever. “Now, Cara, I've got all your letters here and a parcel. I was going to bring them up to you.”

“Bring them into the library,” said Carrie Louise.

All four of them went into the library.

Carrie Louise sat down and began opening her letters. There were about twenty or thirty of them.

As she opened them, she handed them to Miss Bellever who sorted them into heaps, explaining to Miss Marple as she did so, “Three main categories. One—from relations of the boys. Those I hand over to Dr. Maverick. Begging letters I deal with myself. And the rest are personal—and Cara gives me notes on how to deal with them.”

The correspondence once disposed of, Mrs. Serrocold turned her attention to the parcel, cutting the string with scissors.

Out of the neat wrappings, there appeared an attractive box of chocolates tied up with a gold ribbon.

“Someone must think it's my birthday,” said Mrs. Serrocold with a smile.

She slipped off the ribbon and opened the box. Inside was a visiting card. Carrie Louise looked at it with slight surprise.

“With love from Alex,”
she read. “How odd of him to send me a box of chocolates by post on the same day he was coming down here.”

Uneasiness stirred in Miss Marple's mind.

She said quickly:

“Wait a minute, Carrie Louise. Don't eat one yet.”

Mrs. Serrocold looked faintly surprised.

“I was going to hand them round.”

“Well, don't. Wait while I ask—is Alex about the house, do you know, Gina?”

Gina said quickly, “Alex was in the Hall just now, I think.”

She went across, opened the door, and called him.

Alex Restarick appeared in the doorway a moment later.

“Madonna darling! So you're up. None the worse?”

He came across to Mrs. Serrocold and kissed her gently on both cheeks.

Miss Marple said:

“Carrie Louise wants to thank you for the chocolates.”

Alex looked surprised.

“What chocolates?”

“These chocolates,” said Carrie Louise.

“But I never sent you any chocolates, darling.”

“The box has got your card in,” said Miss Bellever.

Alex peered down.

“So it has. How odd. How very odd … I certainly didn't send them.”

“What a very extraordinary thing,” said Miss Bellever.

“They look absolutely scrumptious,” said Gina, peering into the box. “Look, Grandam, there are your favourite Kirsch ones in the middle.”

Miss Marple gently but firmly took the box away from her. Without a word she took it out of the room and went to find Lewis Serrocold. It took her some time because he had gone over to the College—she found him in Dr. Maverick's room there. She put the box on the table in front of him. He listened to her brief account of the circumstances. His face grew suddenly stern and hard.

Carefully, he and the doctor lifted out chocolate after chocolate and examined them.

“I think,” said Dr. Maverick, “that these ones I have put aside have almost certainly been tampered with. You see the unevenness of the chocolate coating underneath? The next thing to do is to get them analysed.”

“But it seems incredible,” said Miss Marple. “Why, everyone in the house might have been poisoned!”

Lewis nodded. His face was still white and hard.

“Yes. There is a ruthlessness—a disregard—” he broke off. “Actually, I think all these particular chocolates are Kirsch flavouring. That is Caroline's favourite. So, you see, there is knowledge behind this.”

Miss Marple said quietly:

“If it is as you suspect—if there is—
poison
—in these chocolates, then I'm afraid Carrie Louise will have to know what is going on. She must be put upon her guard.”

Lewis Serrocold said heavily:

“Yes. She will have to know that someone wants to kill her. I think that she will find it almost impossible to believe.”

1

“'E
re, Miss. Is it true as there's an 'ideous poisoner at work?”

Gina pushed the hair back from her forehead, and jumped as the hoarse whisper reached her. There was paint on her cheek and paint on her slacks. She and her selected helpers had been busy on the backcloth of the Nile at sunset for their next theatrical production.

It was one of these helpers who was now asking the question. Ernie, the boy who had given her such valuable lessons in the manipulations of locks. Ernie's fingers were equally dextrous at stage carpentry, and he was one of the most enthusiastic theatrical assistants.

His eyes now were bright and beady with pleasurable anticipation.

“Where on earth did you get that idea?” asked Gina indignantly.

Ernie shut one eye.

“It's all round the dorms,” he said. “But look 'ere, Miss, it wasn't one of
us.
Not a thing like that. And nobody wouldn't do a thing to Mrs. Serrocold. Even Jenkins wouldn't cosh
her.
'Tisn't
as though it was the old bitch. Wouldn't 'alf like to poison 'er, I wouldn't.”

“Don't talk like that about Miss Bellever.”

“Sorry, Miss. It slipped out. What poison was it, Miss? Strickline, was it? Makes you arch your back and die in agonies, that does. Or was it Prussian acid?”

“I don't know what you're talking about, Ernie.”

Ernie winked again.

“Not 'alf you don't. Mr. Alex it was done it, so they say. Brought them chocs down from London. But that's a lie. Mr. Alex wouldn't do a thing like that, would he, Miss?”

“Of course he wouldn't,” said Gina.

“Much more likely to be Mr. Birnbaum. When he's giving us P.T. he makes the most awful faces and Don and I think as he's batty.”

“Just move that turpentine out of the way.”

Ernie obeyed, murmuring to himself:

“Don't 'arf see life 'ere! Old Gulbrandsen done in yesterday and now a secret poisoner. D'you think it's the same person doing both? What ud you say, Miss, if I told you as I know oo it was done 'im in?”

“You can't possibly know anything about it.”

“Coo, carn't I neither? Supposin' I was outside last night and saw something.”

“How could you have been out? The College is locked up after roll call at seven.”

“Roll call … I can get out whenever I likes, Miss. Locks don't mean nothing to me. Get out and walk round the grounds just for the fun of it, I do.”

Gina said:

“I wish you'd stop telling lies, Ernie.”

“Who's telling lies?”

“You are. You tell lies and you boast about things that you've never done at all.”

“That's what you say, Miss. You wait till the coppers come round and arsk me all about what I saw last night.”

“Well, what did you see?”

“Ah,” said Ernie, “wouldn't you like to know?”

Gina made a rush at him and he beat a strategic retreat. Stephen came over from the other side of the theatre and joined Gina. They discussed various technical matters and then, side by side, they walked back towards the house.

“They all seem to know about Grandam and the chocs,” said Gina. “The boys, I mean. How do they get to know?”

“Local grapevine of some kind.”

“And they knew about Alex's card. Stephen, surely it was very stupid to put Alex's card in the box when he was actually coming down here.”

“Yes, but who knew he was coming down here? He decided to come on the spur of the moment and sent a telegram. Probably the box was posted by then. And if he hadn't come down, putting his card in would have been quite a good idea. Because he does send Caroline chocolates sometimes.”

He went on slowly:

“What I simply can't understand is—”

“Is why anyone should want to poison Grandam,” Gina cut in. “I know. It's
inconceivable!
She's so adorable—and absolutely everyone
does
adore her.”

Stephen did not answer. Gina looked at him sharply.

“I know what you're thinking, Steve!”

“I wonder.”

“You're thinking that Wally—doesn't adore her. But Wally would never poison anyone. The idea's laughable.”

“The loyal wife!”

“Don't say that in that sneering tone of voice.”

“I didn't mean to sneer. I think you
are
loyal. I admire you for it. But, darling Gina, you can't keep it up, you know.”

“What do you mean, Steve?”

“You know quite well what I mean. You and Wally don't belong together. It's just one of those things that doesn't work. He knows it, too. The split is going to come any day now. And you'll both be much happier when it has come.”

Gina said:

“Don't be idiotic.”

Stephen laughed.

“Come now, you can't pretend that you're suited to each other or that Wally's happy here.”

“Oh, I don't know what's the matter with him,” cried Gina. “He sulks the whole time. He hardly speaks. I—I don't know what to do about him. Why can't he enjoy himself here? We had such fun together once—everything was fun—and now he might be a different person. Why do people have to change so?”

“Do I change?”

“No, Steve darling. You're always Steve. Do you remember how I used to tag round after you in the holidays?”

“And what a nuisance I used to think you—that miserable little kid Gina. Well, the tables are turned now. You've got me where you want me, haven't you, Gina?”

Gina said quickly:

“Idiot.” She went on hurriedly, “Do you think Ernie was lying? He was pretending he was roaming about in the fog last night, and hinting that he could tell things about the murder. Do you think that might be true?”

“True? Of course not. You know how he boasts. Anything to make himself important.”

“Oh I know. I only wondered—”

They walked along side by side without speaking.

2

The setting sun illumined the west façade of the house. Inspector Curry looked towards it.

“Is this about the place where you stopped your car last night?” he asked.

Alex Restarick stood back a little as though considering.

“Near enough,” he said. “It's difficult to tell exactly because of the fog. Yes, I should say this was the place.”

Inspector Curry stood looking round with an appraising eye.

The gravelled sweep of drive swept round in a slow curve, and at this point, emerging from a screen of rhododendrons, the west façade of the house came suddenly into view with its terrace and yew hedges and steps leading down to the lawns. Thereafter the drive continued in its curving progress, sweeping through a belt of trees and round between the lake and the house until it ended in the big gravel sweep at the east side of the house.

“Dodgett,” said Inspector Curry.

Police Constable Dodgett, who had been holding himself at the ready, started spasmodically into motion. He hurled himself across
the intervening space of lawn in a diagonal line towards the house, reached the terrace, and went in by the side door. A few moments later, the curtains of one of the windows were violently agitated. Then Constable Dodgett reappeared out of the garden door, and ran back to rejoin them, breathing like a steam engine.

“Two minutes and forty-two seconds,” said Inspector Curry, clicking the stop watch with which he had been timing him. “They don't take long, these things, do they?”

His tone was pleasantly conversational.

“I don't run as fast as your constable,” said Alex. “I presume it
is
my supposed movements you have been timing?”

“I'm just pointing out that you had the opportunity to do murder. That's all, Mr. Restarick. I'm not making any accusations—as yet.”

Alex Restarick said kindly to Constable Dodgett who was still panting:

“I can't run as fast as you can, but I believe I'm in better training.”

“It's since 'aving the bronchitis last winter,” said Dodgett.

Alex turned back to the Inspector.

“Seriously, though, in spite of trying to make me uncomfortable and observing my reactions—and you must remember that we artistic folk are oh! so sensitive, such tender plants!”—his voice took on a mocking note—“you can't really believe I had anything to do with all this? I'd hardly send a box of poisoned chocolates to Mrs. Serrocold and put my card inside, would I?”

“That might be what we are meant to think. There's such a thing as a double bluff, Mr. Restarick.”

“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?”