The Mirror Crack'd: from Side to Side (5 page)

“That's what I should have thought,” said Ella Zielinsky. She cast a quick direct look at Mrs. Bantry. “Talking of atmosphere, when did the murder take place here?”

“No murder ever took place here,” said Mrs. Bantry.

“Oh come now. The stories I've heard. There are always stories, Mrs. Bantry. On the hearthrug, right there, wasn't it?” said Miss Zielinsky nodding towards the fireplace.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Bantry. “That was the place.”

“So there
was
a murder?”

Mrs. Bantry shook her head. “The murder didn't take place here. The girl who had been killed was brought here and planted in this room. She'd nothing to do with us.”

Miss Zielinsky looked interested.

“Possibly you had a bit of difficulty making people believe that?” she remarked.

“You're quite right there,” said Mrs. Bantry.

“When did you find it?”

“The housemaid came in in the morning,” said Mrs. Bantry, “with early morning tea. We had housemaids then, you know.”

“I know,” said Miss Zielinksy, “wearing print dresses that rustled.”

“I'm not sure about the print dress,” said Mrs. Bantry, “it may have been overalls by then. At any rate, she burst in and said there was a body in the library. I said ‘nonsense,' then I woke up my husband and we came down to see.”

“And there it was,” said Miss Zielinsky. “My, the way things happen.” She turned her head sharply towards the door and then back again. “Don't talk about it to Miss Gregg, if you don't mind,” she said. “It's not good for her, that sort of thing.”

“Of course. I won't say a word,” said Mrs. Bantry. “I never do talk about it, as a matter of fact. It all happened so long ago. But won't she—Miss Gregg I mean—won't she hear it anyway?”

“She doesn't come very much in contact with reality,” said Ella Zielinsky. “Film stars can lead a fairly insulated life, you know. In fact very often one has to take care that they do. Things upset them. Things upset
her
. She's been seriously ill the last year or two, you know. She only started making a comeback a year ago.”

“She seems to like the house,” said Mrs. Bantry, “and to feel she will be happy here.”

“I expect it'll last a year or two,” said Ella Zielinsky.

“Not longer than that?”

“Well, I rather doubt it. Marina is one of those people, you know, who are always thinking they've found their heart's desire. But life isn't as easy as that, is it?”

“No,” said Mrs. Bantry forcefully, “it isn't.”

“It'll mean a lot to him if she's happy here,” said Miss Zielinsky.
She ate two more sandwiches in an absorbed, rather gobbling fashion in the manner of one who crams food into themselves as though they had an important train to catch. “He's a genius, you know,” she went on. “Have you seen any of the pictures he's directed?”

Mrs. Bantry felt slightly embarrassed. She was of the type of woman who when she went to the cinema went entirely for the picture. The long lists of casts, directors, producers, photography and the rest of it passed her by. Very frequently, indeed, she did not even notice the names of the stars. She was not, however, anxious to call attention to this failing on her part.

“I get mixed-up,” she said.

“Of course he's got a lot to contend with,” said Ella Zielinsky. “He's got her as well as everything else and she's not easy. You've got to keep her happy, you see; and it's not really easy, I suppose, to keep people happy. Unless—that is—they—they are—” she hesitated.

“Unless they're the happy kind,” suggested Mrs. Bantry. “Some people,” she added thoughtfully, “enjoy being miserable.”

“Oh, Marina isn't like that,” said Ella Zielinsky, shaking her head. “It's more that her ups and downs are so violent. You know—far too happy one moment, far too pleased with everything and delighted with everything and how wonderful she feels. Then of course some little thing happens and down she goes to the opposite extreme.”

“I suppose that's temperament,” said Mrs. Bantry vaguely.

“That's right,” said Ella Zielinsky. “Temperament. They've all got it, more or less, but Marina Gregg has got it more than most people. Don't we know it! The stories I could tell you!” She ate the last sandwich. “Thank God I'm only the social secretary.”

T
he throwing open of the grounds of Gossington Hall for the benefit of the St. John Ambulance Association was attended by a quite unprecedented number of people. Shilling admission fees mounted up in a highly satisfactory fashion. For one thing, the weather was good, a clear sunny day. But the preponderant attraction was undoubtedly the enormous local curiosity to know exactly what these “film people” had done to Gossington Hall. The most extravagant assumptions were entertained. The swimming pool in particular caused immense satisfaction. Most people's ideas of Hollywood stars were of sunbathing by a pool in exotic surroundings and in exotic company. That the climate of Hollywood might be more suited to swimming pools than that of St. Mary Mead failed to be considered. After all, England always has one fine hot week in the summer and there is always one day that the Sunday papers publish articles on How to Keep Cool, How to Have Cool Suppers and How to Make Cool Drinks. The pool was almost exactly what everyone had imagined it might be. It was large, its waters were blue, it had a kind
of exotic pavilion for changing and was surrounded with a highly artificial plantation of hedges and shrubs. The reactions of the multitude were exactly as might have been expected and hovered over a wide range of remarks.

“O-oh, isn't it lovely!”

“Two penn'orth of splash here, all right!”

“Reminds me of that holiday camp I went to.”

“Wicked luxury
I
call it. It oughtn't to be allowed.”

“Look at all that fancy marble. It must have cost the earth!”

“Don't see why these people think they can come over here and spend all the money they like.”

“Perhaps this'll be on the telly sometime. That'll be fun.”

Even Mr. Sampson, the oldest man in St. Mary Mead, boasting proudly of being ninety-six though his relations insisted firmly that he was only eighty-six, had staggered along supporting his rheumatic legs with a stick, to see this excitement. He gave it his highest praise: “Ah, there'll be a lot of wickedness here, I don't doubt. Naked men and women drinking and smoking what they call in the papers them reefers. There'll be all that, I expect. Ah yes,” said Mr. Sampson with enormous pleasure, “there'll be a lot of wickedness.”

It was felt that the final seal of approval had been set on the afternoon's entertainment. For an extra shilling people were allowed to go into the house, and study the new music room, the drawing room, the completely unrecognizable dining room, now done in dark oak and Spanish leather, and a few other joys.

“Never think this was Gossington Hall, would you, now?” said Mr. Sampson's daughter-in-law.

Mrs. Bantry strolled up fairly late and observed with pleasure
that the money was coming in well and that the attendance was phenomenal.

The large marquee in which tea was being served was jammed with people. Mrs. Bantry hoped the buns were going to go round. There seemed some very competent women, however, in charge. She herself made a beeline for the herbaceous border and regarded it with a jealous eye. No expense had been spared on the herbacous border, she was glad to note, and it was a proper herbaceous border, well planned and arranged and expensively stocked. No personal labours had gone into it, she was sure of that. Some good gardening firm had been given the contract, no doubt. But aided by
carte blanche
and the weather, they had turned out a very good job.

Looking round her, she felt there was a faint flavour of a Buckingham Palace garden party about the scene. Everybody was craning to see all they could see, and from time to time a chosen few were led into one of the more secret recesses of the house. She herself was presently approached by a willowy young man with long wavy hair.

“Mrs. Bantry? You
are
Mrs. Bantry?”

“I'm Mrs. Bantry, yes.”

“Hailey Preston.” He shook hands with her. “I work for Mr. Rudd. Will you come up to the second floor? Mr. and Mrs. Rudd are asking a few special friends up there.”

Duly honoured Mrs. Bantry followed him. They went in through what had been called in her time the garden door. A red cord cordoned off the bottom of the main stairs. Hailey Preston unhooked it and she passed through. Just in front of her Mrs. Bantry observed Councillor and Mrs. Allcock. The latter who was stout was breathing heavily.

“Wonderful what they've done, isn't it, Mrs. Bantry?” panted
Mrs. Allcock. “I'd like to have a look at the bathrooms, I must say, but I suppose I shan't get the chance.” Her voice was wistful.

At the top of the stairs Marina Gregg and Jason Rudd were receiving this specially chosen élite. What had once been a spare bedroom had been thrown into the landing so as to make a wide lounge-like effect. Giuseppe the butler was officiating with drinks.

A stout man in livery was announcing guests.

“Councillor and Mrs. Allcock,” he boomed.

Marina Gregg was being, as Mrs. Bantry had described her to Miss Marple, completely natural and charming. She could already hear Mrs. Allcock saying later: “—and so
unspoiled,
you know, in spite of being so famous.”

How very nice of Mrs. Allcock to come,
and
the Councillor, and she did hope they'd enjoy their afternoon. “Jason please look after Mrs. Allcock.”

Councillor and Mrs. Allcock were passed on to Jason and drinks.

“Oh, Mrs. Bantry, it
is
nice of you to come.”

“I wouldn't have
missed
it for the world,” said Mrs. Bantry and moved on purposefully towards the Martinis.

The young man called Hailey Preston ministered to her in a tender manner and then made off, consulting a little list in his hand, to fetch, no doubt, more of the Chosen to the Presence. It was all being managed very well, Mrs. Bantry thought, turning, Martini in hand, to watch the next arrivals. The vicar, a lean, ascetic man, was looking vague and slightly bewildered. He said earnestly to Marina Gregg:

“Very nice of you to ask me. I'm afraid, you know, I haven't got
a television set myself, but of course I—er—I—well, of course my young people keep me up to the mark.”

Nobody knew what he meant. Miss Zielinsky, who was also on duty, administered a lemonade to him with a kindly smile. Mr. and Mrs. Badcock were next up the stairs. Heather Badcock, flushed and triumphant, came a little ahead of her husband.

“Mr. and Mrs. Badcock,” boomed the man in livery.

“Mrs. Badcock,” said the vicar, turning back, lemonade in his hand, “the indefatigable secretary of the association. She's one of our hardest workers. In fact I don't know what the St. John would do without her.”

“I'm sure you've been wonderful,” said Marina.

“You don't remember me?” said Heather, in an arch manner. “How should you, with all the hundreds of people you meet. And anyway, it was years ago. In Bermuda of all places in the world. I was there with one of our ambulance units. Oh, it's a long time ago now.”

“Of course,” said Marina Gregg, once more all charm and smiles.

“I remember it all so well,” said Mrs. Badcock. “I was thrilled, you know, absolutely thrilled. I was only a girl at the time. To think there was a chance of seeing Marina Gregg in the flesh—oh! I was a mad fan of yours always.”

“It's too kind of you, really too kind of you,” said Marina sweetly, her eyes beginning to hover faintly over Heather's shoulder towards the next arrivals.

“I'm not going to detain you,” said Heather—“but I must—”

“Poor Marina Gregg,” said Mrs. Bantry to herself. “I suppose this kind of thing is always happening to her! The patience they need!”

Heather was continuing in a determined manner with her story.

Mrs. Allcock breathed heavily at Mrs. Bantry's shoulder.

“The changes they've made here! You wouldn't believe till you saw for yourself. What it must have
cost
….”

“I—didn't feel really ill—and I thought I just must—”

“This is vodka,” Mrs. Allcock regarded her glass suspiciously. “Mr. Rudd asked if I'd like to try it. Sounds very Russian. I don't think I like it very much….”

“—I said to myself: I won't be beaten! I put a lot of makeup on my face—”

“I suppose it would be rude if I just put it down somewhere.” Mrs. Allcock sounded desperate.

Mrs. Bantry reassured her gently.

“Not at all. Vodka ought really to be thrown straight down the throat”—Mrs. Allcock looked startled—“but that needs practice. Put it down on the table and get yourself a Martini from that tray the butler's carrying.”

She turned back to hear Heather Badcock's triumphant peroration.

“I've never forgotten how wonderful you were that day. It was a hundred times worth it.”

Marina's response was this time not so automatic. Her eyes which had wavered over Heather Badcock's shoulder, now seemed to be fixed on the wall midway up the stairs. She was staring and there was something so ghastly in her expression that Mrs. Bantry half took a step forward. Was the woman going to faint? What on earth could she be seeing that gave her that basilisk look? But before she could reach Marina's side the latter had recovered herself. Her
eyes, vague and unfocussed, returned to Heather and the charm of manner was turned on once more, albeit a shade mechanically.

“What a nice little story. Now, what will you have to drink? Jason! A cocktail?”

“Well, really I usually have a lemonade or orange juice.”

“You must have something better than that,” said Marina. “This is a feast day, remember.”

“Let me persuade you to an American daiquiri,” said Jason, appearing with a couple in his hand. “They're Marina's favourites, too.”

He handed one to his wife.

“I shouldn't drink anymore,” said Marina, “I've had three already.” But she accepted the glass.

Heather took her drink from Jason. Marina turned away to meet the next person who was arriving.

Mrs. Bantry said to Mrs. Allcock, “Let's go and see the bathrooms.”

“Oh, do you think we can? Wouldn't it look rather rude?”

“I'm sure it wouldn't,” said Mrs. Bantry. She spoke to Jason Rudd. “We want to explore your wonderful new bathrooms, Mr. Rudd. May we satisfy this purely domestic curiosity?”

“Sure,” said Jason, grinning. “Go and enjoy yourselves, girls. Draw yourselves baths if you like.”

Mrs. Allcock followed Mrs. Bantry along the passage.

“That was ever so kind of you, Mrs. Bantry. I must say I wouldn't have dared myself.”

“One has to dare if one wants to get anywhere,” said Mrs. Bantry.

They went along the passage, opening various doors. Presently “Ahs” and “Ohs” began to escape Mrs. Allcock and two other women who had joined the party.

“I do like the pink one,” said Mrs. Allcock. “Oh, I like the pink one a lot.”

“I like the one with the dolphin tiles,” said one of the other women.

Mrs. Bantry acted the part of hostess with complete enjoyment. For a moment she had really forgotten that the house no longer belonged to her.

“All those showers!” said Mrs. Allcock with awe. “Not that I really
like
showers. I never know how you keep your head dry.”

“It'd be nice to have a peep into the bedrooms,” said one of the other women, wistfully, “but I suppose it'd be a bit
too
nosy. What do
you
think?”

“Oh, I don't think we could do
that,
” said Mrs. Allcock. They both looked hopefully at Mrs. Bantry.

“Well,” said Mrs. Bantry, “no, I suppose we oughtn't to—” then she took pity on them, “but—I don't think anyone would know if we have one peep.” She put her hand on a door handle.

But that had been attended to. The bedrooms were locked. Everyone was very disappointed.

“I suppose they've got to have some privacy,” said Mrs. Bantry kindly.

They retraced their steps along the corridors. Mrs. Bantry looked out of one of the landing windows. She noted below her Mrs. Meavy (from the Development) looking incredibly smart in a ruffled organdie dress. With Mrs. Meavy, she noticed, was Miss Marple's Cherry, whose last name for the moment Mrs. Bantry could not remember. They seemed to be enjoying themselves and were laughing and talking.

Suddenly the house felt to Mrs. Bantry old, worn-out and highly
artificial. In spite of its new gleaming paint, its alterations, it was in essence a tired old Victorian mansion. “I was wise to go,” thought Mrs. Bantry. “Houses are like everything else. There comes a time when they've just had their day. This has had its day. It's been given a face-lift, but I don't really think it's done it any good.”

Suddenly a slight rise in the hum of voices reached her. The two women with her started forward.

“What's happening?” said one. “It sounds as though something's happening.”

They stepped back along the corridor towards the stairs. Ella Zielinksy came rapidly along and passed them. She tried a bedroom door and said quickly, “Oh, damn. Of course they've locked them all.”

“Is anything the matter?” asked Mrs. Bantry.

“Someone's taken ill,” said Miss Zielinsky shortly.

“Oh dear, I'm sorry. Can I do anything?”

“I suppose there's a doctor here somewhere?”

“I haven't seen any of our local doctors,” said Mrs. Bantry, “but there's almost sure to be one here.”

“Jason's telephoning,” said Ella Zielinsky, “but she seems pretty bad.”

“Who is it?” asked Mrs. Bantry.

“A Mrs. Badcock, I think.”

“Heather Badcock? But she looked so well just now.”

Ella Zielinksy said impatiently, “She's had a seizure, or a fit, or something. Do you know if there's anything wrong with her heart or anything like that?”