They Do It With Mirrors (13 page)

“That seems rather remarkable.”

“Not really. She's that kind of person. Not quite in this world. She's the sort of person who never believes
anything
bad can happen. She's sweet.”

“During all this scene, who was in the Hall?”

“Oh, we were all there. Except Uncle Christian, of course.”

“Not
all,
Mrs. Hudd. People went in and out.”

“Did they?” asked Gina vaguely.

“Your husband, for instance, went out to fix the lights.”

“Yes. Wally's great at fixing things.”

“During his absence, a shot was heard, I understand. A shot that you all thought came from the park?”

“I don't remember that … Oh yes, it was just after the lights had come on again and Wally had come back.”

“Did anyone else leave the Hall?”

“I don't think so. I don't remember.”

“Where were you sitting, Mrs. Hudd?”

“Over by the window.”

“Near the door to the library?”

“Yes.”

“Did you yourself leave the Hall at all?”

“Leave? With all the excitement? Of course not.”

Gina sounded scandalised by the idea.

“Where were the others sitting?”

“Mostly round the fireplace, I think. Aunt Mildred was knitting and so was Aunt Jane—Miss Marple, I mean—Grandam was just sitting.”

“And Mr. Stephen Restarick?”

“Stephen? He was playing the piano to begin with. I don't know where he went later.”

“And Miss Bellever?”

“Fussing about, as usual. She practically never sits down. She was looking for keys or something.”

She said suddenly:

“What's all this about Grandam's tonic? Did the chemist make a mistake in making it up or something?”

“Why should you think that?”

“Because the bottle's disappeared and Jolly's been fussing round madly looking for it, in no end of a stew. Alex told her the police had taken it away. Did you?”

Instead of replying to the question, Inspector Curry said:

“Miss Bellever was upset, you say?”

“Oh! Jolly always fusses,” said Gina carelessly. “She likes fussing. Sometimes I wonder how Grandam can stand it.”

“Just one last question, Mrs. Hudd. You've no ideas yourself as to who killed Christian Gulbrandsen and why?”

“One of the queers did it, I should think. The thug ones are really quite sensible. I mean they only cosh people so as to rob a till or get money or jewelry—not just for fun. But one of the queers—you know, what they call mentally maladjusted—might do it for fun, don't you think? Because I can't see what other reason there could be for killing Uncle Christian except fun, do you? At least I don't mean fun, exactly—but—”

“You can't think of a motive?”

“Yes, that's what I mean,” said Gina gratefully. “He wasn't robbed or anything, was he?”

“But you know, Mrs. Hudd, the College buildings were locked and barred. Nobody could get out from there without a pass.”

“Don't you believe it,” Gina laughed merrily. “Those boys could get out from anywhere! They've taught me a lot of tricks.”

“She's a lively one,” said Lake when Gina had departed. “First time I've seen her close up. Lovely figure, hasn't she. Sort of a foreign figure, if you know what I mean.”

Inspector Curry threw him a cold glance. Sergeant Lake said hastily that she was a merry one. “Seems to have enjoyed it all, as you might say.”

“Whether Stephen Restarick is right or not about her marriage breaking up, I notice that she went out of her way to mention that Walter Hudd was back in the Great Hall, before that shot was heard.”

“Which, according to everyone else, isn't so?”

“Exactly.”

“She didn't mention Miss Bellever leaving the Hall to look for keys, either.”

“No,” said the Inspector thoughtfully, “she didn't….”

1

M
rs. Strete fitted into the library very much better than Gina Hudd had done. There was nothing exotic about Mrs. Strete. She wore black with onyx beads, and she wore a hairnet over carefully arranged grey hair.

She looked, Inspector Curry reflected, exactly as the relict of a canon of the Established Church should look—which was almost odd, because so few people ever did look like what they really were.

Even the tight line of her lips had an ascetic ecclesiastical flavour. She expressed Christian Endurance, and possibly Christian Fortitude. But not, Curry thought, Christian Charity.

Moreover it was clear that Mrs. Strete was offended.

“I should have thought that you could have given me
some
idea of when you would want me, Inspector. I have been forced to sit around waiting all the morning.”

It was, Curry judged, her sense of importance that was hurt. He hastened to pour oil on the troubled waters.

“I'm very sorry, Mrs. Strete. Perhaps you don't quite know how
we set about these things. We start, you know, with the less important evidence—get it out of the way, so to speak. It's valuable to keep to the last a person on whose judgement we can rely—a good observer—by whom we can check what has been told us up to date.”

Mrs. Strete softened visibly.

“Oh, I see. I hadn't quite realised….”

“Now you're a woman of mature judgement, Mrs. Strete. A woman of the world. And then this is your home—you're the daughter of the house, and you can tell me all about the people who are in it.”

“I can certainly do that,” said Mildred Strete.

“So you see that when we come to the question of who killed Christian Gulbrandsen, you can help us a great deal.”

“But is there any question? Isn't it perfectly obvious who killed my brother?”

Inspector Curry leant back in his chair. His hand stroked his small neat moustache.

“Well—we have to be careful,” he said. “You think it's obvious?”

“Of course. That dreadful American husband of poor Gina's. He's the only stranger here. We know absolutely nothing about him. He's probably one of these dreadful American gangsters.”

“But that wouldn't quite account for his killing Christian Gulbrandsen, would it? Why should he?”

“Because Christian had found out something about him. That's what he came here for so soon after his last visit.”

“Are you sure of that, Mrs. Strete?”

“Again it seems to me quite obvious. He let it be thought his visit was in connection with the Trust—but that's nonsense. He was here for that only a month ago. And nothing of importance has
arisen since. So he must have come on some private business. He saw Walter on his last visit, and he may have recognised him—or perhaps made inquiries about him in the States—naturally he has agents all over the world—and found out something really damaging. Gina is a very silly girl. She always has been. It is just like her to marry a man she knows nothing about—she's always been man mad! A man wanted by the police, perhaps, or a man who's already married, or some bad character in the underworld. But my brother Christian wasn't an easy man to deceive. He came here, I'm sure, to settle the whole business. Expose Walter and show him up for what he is. And so, naturally, Walter shot him.”

Inspector Curry, adding some out-sized whiskers to one of the cats on his blotting pad, said:

“Ye—es.”

“Don't you agree with me that that's what
must
have happened?”

“It could be—yes,” admitted the Inspector.

“What other solution could there be? Christian had no enemies. What I can't understand is why you haven't already arrested Walter?”

“Well, you see, Mrs. Strete, we have to have evidence.”

“You could probably get that easily enough. If you wired to America—”

“Oh yes, we shall check up on Mr. Walter Hudd. You can be sure of that. But until we can prove motive, there's not very much to go upon. There's opportunity, of course—”

“He went out just after Christian, pretending the lights had fused—”

“They did fuse.”

“He could easily arrange that.”

“True.”

“That gave him his excuse. He followed Christian to his room, shot him and then repaired the fuse and came back to the Hall.”

“His wife says he came back before you heard the shot from outside.”

“Not a bit of it! Gina would say anything. The Italians are never truthful. And she's a Roman Catholic, of course.”

Inspector Curry sidestepped the ecclesiastical angle.

“You think his wife was in it with him?”

Mildred Strete hesitated for a moment.

“No—no, I don't think that.” She seemed rather disappointed not to think so. She went on, “That must have been partly the motive—to prevent Gina's learning the truth about him. After all, Gina is his bread and butter.”

“And a very beautiful girl.”

“Oh yes. I've always said Gina is good-looking. A very common type in Italy, of course. But if you ask me, it's
money
that Walter Hudd is after. That's why he came over here and has settled down living on the Serrocolds.”

“Mrs. Hudd is very well off, I understand?”

“Not at present. My father settled the same sum on Gina's mother, as he did on me. But, of course, she took her husband's nationality (I believe the law is altered now) and what with the war and his being a Fascist, Gina has very little of her own. My mother spoils her, and her American aunt, Mrs. Van Rydock, spent fabulous sums on her and bought her everything she wanted during the war years. Nevertheless, from Walter's point of view, he can't lay his hands on much until my mother's death when a very large fortune will come to Gina.”

“And to you, Mrs. Strete.”

A faint colour came into Mildred Strete's cheek.

“And to me, as you say. My husband and myself always lived quietly. He spent very little money except on books—he was a great scholar. My own money has almost doubled itself. It is more than enough for my simple needs. Still one can always use money for benefit of others. Any money that comes to me, I shall regard as a sacred trust.”

“But it won't be in a Trust, will it?” said Curry, wilfully misunderstanding. “It will come to you, absolutely.”

“Oh yes—in that sense. Yes, it will be mine absolutely.”

Something in the ring of that last word made Inspector Curry raise his head sharply. Mrs. Strete was not looking at him. Her eyes were shining, and her long thin mouth was curved in a triumphant smile.

Inspector Curry said in a considering voice:

“So in your view—and, of course, you've had ample opportunities of judging—Mr. Walter Hudd wants the money that will come to his wife when Mrs. Serrocold dies. By the way, she's not very strong is she, Mrs. Strete?”

“My mother has always been delicate.”

“Quite so. But delicate people often live as long or longer than people who have robust health.”

“Yes, I suppose they do.”

“You haven't noticed your mother's health failing just lately?”

“She suffers from rheumatism. But then one must have something as one grows older. I've no sympathy with people who make a fuss over inevitable aches and pains.”

“Does Mrs. Serrocold make a fuss?”

Mildred Strete was silent for a moment. She said at last:

“She does not make a fuss herself, but she is used to being made a fuss of. My stepfather is far too solicitous. And as for Miss Bellever, she makes herself positively ridiculous. In any case, Miss Bellever has had a very bad influence in this house. She came here many years ago, and her devotion to my mother, though admirable in itself, has really become somewhat of an infliction. She literally tyrannises over my mother. She runs the whole house and takes far too much upon herself. I think it annoys Lewis sometimes. I should never be surprised if he told her to go. She has no tact—no tact whatever, and it is trying for a man to find his wife completely dominated by a bossy woman.”

Inspector Curry nodded his head gently.

“I see … I see….”

He watched her speculatively.

“There's one thing I don't quite get, Mrs. Strete. The position of the two Restarick brothers?”

“More foolish sentiment. Their father married my poor mother for her money. Two years afterwards, he ran away with a Yugoslavian singer of the lowest morals. He was a very unworthy person. My mother was softhearted enough to be sorry for these two boys. Since it was out of the question for them to spend their holidays with a woman of such notorious morals, she more or less adopted them. They have been hangers-on here ever since. Oh yes, we've plenty of spongers in this house, I can tell you that.”

“Alex Restarick had an opportunity of killing Christian Gulbrandsen. He was in his car alone—driving from the lodge to the house—what about Stephen?”

“Stephen was in the Hall with us. I don't approve of Alex
Restarick—he is getting to look very coarse and I imagine he leads an irregular life—but I don't really see him as a murderer. Besides, why should he kill my brother?”

“That's what we always come back to, isn't it?” said Inspector Curry genially. “What did Christian Gulbrandsen know—about someone—that made it necessary for that someone to kill him?”

“Exactly,” said Mrs. Strete triumphantly. “It
must
be Walter Hudd.”

“Unless it's someone nearer home.”

Mildred said sharply:

“What did you mean by that?”

Inspector Curry said slowly:

“Mr. Gulbrandsen seemed very concerned about Mrs. Serrocold's health whilst he was here.”

Mrs. Strete frowned.

“Men always fuss over Mother because she looks fragile. I think she likes them to! Or else Christian had been listening to Juliet Bellever.”

“You're not worried about your mother's health yourself, Mrs. Strete?”

“No. I hope I'm sensible. Naturally Mother is not young—”

“And death comes to all of us,” said Inspector Curry. “But not ahead of its appointed time. That's what we have to prevent.”

He spoke meaningly. Mildred Strete flared into sudden animation.

“Oh it's wicked—wicked. No one else here really seems to care. Why should they? I'm the only person who was a blood relation to Christian. To Mother, he was only a grown-up stepson. To Gina, he isn't really any relation at all. But he was my own brother.”

“Half brother,” suggested Inspector Curry.

“Half brother, yes. But we were both Gulbrandsens in spite of the difference in age.”

Curry said gently, “Yes—yes, I see your point….”

Tears in her eyes, Mildred Strete marched out. Curry looked at Lake.

“So she's quite sure it's Walter Hudd,” he said. “Won't entertain for a moment the idea of its being anybody else.”

“And she may be right.”

“She certainly may. Wally fits. Opportunity—and motive. Because if he wants money quick, his wife's grandmother would have to die. So Wally tampers with her tonic, and Christian Gulbrandsen sees him do it—or hears about it in some way. Yes, it fits very nicely.”

He paused and said:

“By the way, Mildred Strete likes money … She mayn't spend it, but she likes it. I'm not sure why … She may be a miser—with a miser's passion. Or she may like the power that money gives. Money for benevolence, perhaps? She's a Gulbrandsen. She may want to emulate Father.”

“Complex, isn't it?” said Sergeant Lake, and scratched his head.

Inspector Curry said:

“We'd better see this screwy young man, Lawson, and after that we'll go to the Great Hall and work out who was where—and if and why—and when … we've heard one or two rather interesting things this morning.”

2

It was very difficult, Inspector Curry thought, to get a true estimate of someone from what other people said.

Edgar Lawson had been described by a good many different people that morning, but looking at him now, Curry's own impressions were almost ludicrously different.

Edgar did not impress him as “queer” or “dangerous” or “arrogant” or even as “abnormal.” He seemed a very ordinary young man, very much cast down and in a state of humility approaching that of Uriah Heep's. He looked young and slightly common and rather pathetic.

He was only too anxious to talk and to apologize.

“I know I've done very wrong. I don't know what came over me—really I don't. Making that scene and kicking up such a row. And actually shooting off a pistol. At Mr. Serrocold, too, who's been so good to me and so patient, too.”

He twisted his hands nervously. They were rather pathetic hands, with bony wrists.

“If I've got to be had up for it, I'll come with you at once. I deserve it. I'll plead guilty.”

“No charge has been made against you,” said Inspector Curry crisply. “So we've no evidence on which to act. According to Mr. Serrocold, letting off the pistol was an accident.”

“That's because he's so good. There never was a man as good as Mr. Serrocold! He's done everything for me. And I go and repay him by acting like this.”

“What made you act as you did?”

Edgar looked embarrassed.

“I made a fool of myself.”

Inspector Curry said drily:

“So it seems. You told Mr. Serrocold in the presence of witnesses that you had discovered that he was your father. Was that true?”

“No, it wasn't.”

“What put that idea into your head? Did someone suggest it to you?”

“Well, it's a bit hard to explain.”

Inspector Curry looked at him thoughtfully, then said in a kindly voice:

“Suppose you try.
We
don't want to make things hard for you.”