They Do It With Mirrors
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Lewis Serrocold sorted out another letter.
‘At any rate we’ve some good news. This is from the Wiltshire and Somerset Bank. Young Morris is doing extremely well. They’re thoroughly satisfied with him and in fact are promoting him next month. I always knew that all he needed was responsibility—that, and a thorough grasp of the handling of money and what it means.’
He turned to Miss Marple.
‘Half these boys don’t know what money is. It represents to them going to the pictures or to the dogs, or buying cigarettes—and they’re clever with figures and find it exciting to juggle them round. Well, I believe in—what shall I say?—rubbing their noses in the stuff—train them in accountancy, in figures—show them the whole inner romance of money, so to speak. Give them skill and then responsibility—let them handle it officially. Our greatest successes have been that way—only two out of thirty-eight have let us down. One’s head cashier in a firm of druggists—a really responsible position—’
He broke off to say: ‘Tea’s in, dearest,’ to his wife.
‘I thought we were having it here. I told Jolly.’
‘No, it’s in the Hall. The others are there.’
‘I thought they were all going to be out.’
Carrie Louise linked her arm through Miss Marple’s and they went into the Great Hall. Tea seemed a rather incongruous meal in its surroundings. The tea things were piled haphazard on a tray—white utility cups mixed with the remnants of what had been Rockingham and Spode tea services. There was a loaf of bread, two pots of jam, and some cheap and unwholesome-looking cakes.
A plump middle-aged woman with grey hair sat behind the tea table and Mrs Serrocold said:
‘This is Mildred, Jane. My daughter Mildred. You haven’t seen her since she was a tiny girl.’
Mildred Strete was the person most in tune with the house that Miss Marple had so far seen. She looked prosperous and dignified. She had married late in her thirties a Canon of the Church of England and was now a widow. She looked exactly like a Canon’s widow, respectable and slightly dull. She was a plain woman with a large unexpressive face and dull eyes. She had been, Miss Marple reflected, a very plain little girl.
‘And this is Wally Hudd—Gina’s husband.’
Wally was a big young man with hair brushed up on his head and a sulky expression. He nodded awkwardly and went on cramming cake into his mouth.
Presently Gina came in with Stephen Restarick. They were both very animated.
‘Gina’s got a wonderful idea for that backcloth,’ said Stephen. ‘You know, Gina, you’ve got a very definite flair for theatrical designing.’
Gina laughed and looked pleased. Edgar Lawson came in and sat down by Lewis Serrocold. When Gina spoke to him, he made a pretence of not answering.
Miss Marple found it all a little bewildering and was glad to go to her room and lie down after tea.
There were more people still at dinner, a young Dr Maverick who was either a psychiatrist or a psychologist—Miss Marple was rather hazy about the difference—and whose conversation, dealing almost entirely with the jargon of his trade, was practically unintelligible to her. There were also two spectacled young men who held posts on the teaching side, and a Mr Baumgarten, who was an occupational therapist, and three intensely bashful youths who were doing their ‘house guest’ week. One of them, a fair–haired lad with very blue eyes was, Gina informed her in a whisper, the expert with the ‘cosh’.
The meal was not a particularly appetizing one. It was indifferently cooked and indifferently served. A variety of costumes were worn. Miss Bellever wore a high black dress, Mildred Strete wore evening dress and a woollen cardigan over it. Carrie Louise had on a short dress of grey wool—Gina was resplendent in a kind of peasant get up. Wally had not changed, nor had Stephen Restarick, Edgar Lawson had on a neat dark blue suit. Lewis Serrocold wore the conventional dinner jacket. He ate very little and hardly seemed to notice what was on his plate.
After dinner Lewis Serrocold and Dr Maverick went away to the latter’s office. The occupational therapist and the schoolmasters went away to some lair of their own. The three ‘cases’ went back to the college. Gina and Stephen went to the theatre to discuss Gina’s idea for a set. Mildred knitted an indeterminate garment and Miss Bellever darned socks. Wally sat in a chair gently tilted backwards and stared into space. Carrie Louise and Miss Marple talked about old days. The conversation seemed strangely unreal.
Edgar Lawson alone seemed unable to find a niche. He sat down and then got up restlessly.
‘I wonder if I ought to go to Mr Serrocold,’ he said rather loudly. ‘He may need me.’
Carrie Louise said gently, ‘Oh I don’t think so. He was going to talk over one or two points with Dr Maverick this evening.’
‘Then I certainly won’t butt in! I shouldn’t dream of going where I wasn’t wanted. I’ve already wasted time today going down to the station when Mrs Hudd meant to go herself.’
‘She ought to have told you,’ said Carrie Louise. ‘But I think she just decided at the last moment.’
‘You do realize, Mrs Serrocold, that she made me look a complete fool! A complete fool!’
‘No, no,’ said Carrie Louise, smiling. ‘You mustn’t have these ideas.’
‘I know I’m not needed or wanted … I’m perfectly aware of that. If things had been different—if I’d had my proper place in life it would be very different. Very different indeed. It’s no fault of mine that I haven’t got my proper place in life.’
‘Now, Edgar,’ said Carrie Louise. ‘Don’t work yourself up about nothing. Jane thinks it was very kind of you to meet her. Gina always has these sudden impulses—she didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘Oh yes, she did. It was done on purpose—to humiliate me—’
‘Oh Edgar—’
‘You don’t know half of what’s going on, Mrs Serrocold. Well, I won’t say any more now except goodnight.’
Edgar went out, shutting the door with a slam behind him.
Miss Bellever snorted:
‘Atrocious manners.’
‘He’s so sensitive,’ said Carrie Louise vaguely.
Mildred Strete clicked her needles and said sharply:
‘He really is a most odious young man. You shouldn’t put up with such behaviour, Mother.’
‘Lewis says he can’t help it.’
Mildred said sharply:
‘Everyone can help behaving rudely. Of course I blame Gina very much. She’s so completely scatter-brained in everything she undertakes. She does nothing but make trouble. One day she encourages the young man and the next day she snubs him. What can you expect?’
Wally Hudd spoke for the first time that evening.
He said:
‘That guy’s crackers. That’s all there is to it! Crackers!’
In her bedroom that night Miss Marple tried to review the pattern of Stonygates, but it was as yet too confused. There were currents and cross-currents here—but whether they could account for Ruth Van Rydock’s uneasiness it was impossible to tell. It did not seem to Miss Marple that Carrie Louise was affected in any way by what was going on round her. Stephen was in love with Gina. Gina might or might not be in love with Stephen. Walter Hudd was clearly not enjoying himself. These were incidents that might and did occur in all places and at most times. There was, unfortunately, nothing exceptional about them. They ended in the divorce court and everybody hopefully started again—when fresh tangles were created. Mildred Strete was clearly jealous of Gina and disliked her. That, Miss Marple thought, was very natural.
She thought over what Ruth Van Rydock had told her. Carrie Louise’s disappointment at not having a child—the adoption of little Pippa—and then the discovery that, after all, a child was on the way.
‘Often happens like that,’ Miss Marple’s doctor had told her. Relief of tension, maybe, and then Nature can do its work.
He had added that it was usually hard lines on the adopted child.
But that had not been so in this case. Both Gulbrandsen and his wife had adored little Pippa. She had made her place too firmly in their hearts to be lightly set aside. Gulbrandsen was already a father. Paternity meant nothing new to him. Carrie Louise’s maternal yearnings had been assuaged by Pippa. Her pregnancy had been uncomfortable and the actual birth difficult and prolonged. Possibly Carrie Louise, who had never cared for reality, did not enjoy her first brush with it.
There remained two little girls growing up, one pretty and amusing, the other plain and dull. Which again, Miss Marple thought, was quite natural. For when people adopt a baby girl, they choose a pretty one. And though Mildred might have been lucky and taken after the Martins who had produced handsome Ruth and dainty Carrie Louise, Nature elected that she should take after the Gulbrandsens, who were large and stolid and uncompromisingly plain.
Moreover, Carrie Louise was determined that the adopted child should never feel her position, and in making sure of this she was over-indulgent to Pippa and sometimes less than fair to Mildred.
Pippa had married and gone away to Italy, and Mildred for a time had been the only daughter of the house. But then Pippa had died and Carrie Louise had brought Pippa’s baby back to Stonygates, and once more Mildred had been out of it. There had been the new marriage—the Restarick boys. In 1934 Mildred had married Canon Strete, a scholarly antiquarian about fifteen years her senior and had gone away to live in the South of England. Presumably she had been happy—but one did not really know. There had been no children. And now here she was, back again in the same house where she had been brought up. And once again, Miss Marple thought, not particularly happy in it.
Gina, Stephen, Wally, Mildred, Miss Bellever who liked an ordered routine and was unable to enforce it. Lewis Serrocold who was clearly blissfully and whole-heartedly happy; an idealist able to translate his ideals into practical measures. In none of these personalities did Miss Marple find what Ruth’s words had led her to believe she might find. Carrie Louise seemed secure, remote at the heart of the whirlpool—as she had been all her life. What then, in that atmosphere, had Ruth felt to be wrong …? Did she, Jane Marple, feel it also?
What of the outer personalities of the whirlpool—the occupational therapists, the schoolmasters, earnest, harmless young men, confident young Dr Maverick, the three pink-faced innocent-eyed young delinquents—Edgar Lawson …
And here, just before she fell asleep, Miss Marple’s thoughts stopped and revolved speculatively round the figure of Edgar Lawson. Edgar Lawson reminded her of someone or something. There was something a little wrong about Edgar Lawson—perhaps more than a little. Edgar Lawson was maladjusted—that was the phrase, wasn’t it? But surely that didn’t, and couldn’t touch Carrie Louise?’
Mentally, Miss Marple shook her head.
What worried her was something more than that.
CHAPTER 5
Gently eluding her hostess the next morning, Miss Marple went out into the gardens. Their condition distressed her. They had once been an ambitiously set out achievement. Clumps of rhododendrons, smooth slopes of lawns, massed borders of herbaceous plants, clipped boxhedges surrounding a formal rose garden. Now all was largely derelict, the lawns raggedly mown, the borders full of weeds with tangled flowers struggling through them, the paths moss-covered and neglected. The kitchen gardens, on the other hand, enclosed by red brick walls, were prosperous and well stocked. That, presumably, was because they had a utility value. So, also, a large portion of what had once been lawn and flower garden, was now fenced off and laid out in tennis courts and a bowling green.
Surveying the herbaceous border, Miss Marple clicked her tongue vexedly and pulled up a flourishing plant of groundsel.
As she stood with it in her hand, Edgar Lawson came into view. Seeing Miss Marple, he stopped and hesitated. Miss Marple had no mind to let him escape. She called him briskly. When he came, she asked him if he knew where any gardening tools were kept.
Edgar said vaguely that there was a gardener somewhere who would know.
‘It’s such a pity to see this border so neglected,’ twittered Miss Marple. ‘I’m so fond of gardens.’ And since it was not her intention that Edgar should go in search of any necessary implement she went on quickly:
‘It’s about all an old and useless woman can find to do. Now I don’t suppose you ever bother your head about gardens, Mr Lawson. You have so much real and important work to do. Being in a responsible position here, with Mr Serrocold. You must find it all most interesting.’
He answered quickly, almost eagerly:
‘Yes—yes—it is interesting.’
‘And you must be of the greatest assistance to Mr Serrocold.’
His face darkened.
‘I don’t know. I can’t be sure. It’s what’s behind it all—’
He broke off. Miss Marple watched him thoughtfully. A pathetic undersized young man in a neat dark suit. A young man that few people would look at twice, or remember if they did look …
There was a garden seat nearby and Miss Marple drifted towards it and sat. Edgar stood frowning in front of her.
‘I’m sure,’ said Miss Marple brightly, ‘that Mr Serrocold relies on you a great deal.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Edgar. ‘I really don’t know.’ He frowned and almost absently sat down beside her. ‘I’m in a very difficult position.’
‘Of course,’ said Miss Marple.
The young man Edgar sat staring in front of him.
‘This is all highly confidential,’ he said suddenly.
‘Of course,’ said Miss Marple.
‘If I had my rights—’
‘Yes?’
‘I might as well tell you … You won’t let it go any further, I’m sure?’
‘Oh no.’ She noticed he did not wait for her disclaimer.
‘My father—actually, my father is a very important man.’
This time there was no need to say anything. She had only to listen.
‘Nobody knows except Mr Serrocold. You see, it might prejudice my father’s position if the story got out.’ He turned to her. He smiled. A sad dignified smile. ‘You see, I’m Winston Churchill’s son.’
‘Oh,’ said Miss Marple. ‘I see.’
And she did see. She remembered a rather sad story in St Mary Mead—and the way it had gone.
Edgar Lawson went on, and what he said had the familiarity of a stage scene.
‘There were reasons. My mother wasn’t free. Her own husband was in an asylum—there could be no divorce—no question of marriage. I don’t really blame them. At least, I think I don’t … He’s done, always, everything he could. Discreetly, of course. And that’s where the trouble has arisen. He’s got enemies—and they’re against me, too. They’ve managed to keep us apart. They watch me. Wherever I go, they spy on me. And they make things go wrong for me.’
Miss Marple shook her head.
‘Dear, dear,’ she said.
‘In London I was studying to be a doctor. They tampered with my exams—they altered the answers. They wanted me to fail. They followed me about the streets. They told things about me to my landlady. They hound me wherever I go.’
‘Oh, but you can’t be sure of that,’ said Miss Marple soothingly.
‘I tell you I know! Oh they’re very cunning. I never get a glimpse of them or find out who they are. But I shall find out … Mr Serrocold took me away from London and brought me down here. He was kind—very kind. But even here, you know, I’m not safe. They’re here too. Working against me. Making the others dislike me. Mr Serrocold says that isn’t true—but Mr Serrocold doesn’t know. Or else—I wonder—sometimes I’ve thought—’
He broke off. He got up.
‘This is all confidential,’ he said. ‘You do understand that, don’t you? But if you notice anyone following me—spying, I mean—you might let me know who it is!’
He went away, then—neat, pathetic, insignificant. Miss Marple watched him and wondered …
A voice spoke.
‘Nuts,’ it said. ‘Just nuts.’
Walter Hudd was standing beside her. His hands were thrust deep in his pockets and he was frowning as he stared after Edgar’s retreating figure.
‘What kind of a joint is this, anyway?’ he said. ‘They’re all bughouse, the whole lot of them.’
Miss Marple said nothing and Walter went on:
‘That Edgar guy—what do you make of him? Says his father’s really Lord Montgomery. Doesn’t seem likely to me. Not Monty! Not from all I’ve heard about him.’
‘No,’ said Miss Marple. ‘It doesn’t seem very likely.’
‘He told Gina something quite different—some bunk about being really the heir to the Russian throne—said he was some Grand Duke’s son or other. Hell, doesn’t the chap know who his father really was?’
‘I should imagine not,’ said Miss Marple. ‘That is probably just the trouble.’
Walter sat down beside her, dropping his body on to the seat with a slack movement. He repeated his former statement.
‘They’re all bughouse here.’
‘You don’t like being at Stonygates?’
The young man frowned.
‘I simply don’t get it—that’s all! I don’t get it. Take this place—the house—the whole set-up. They’re rich, these people. They don’t need dough—they’ve got it. And look at the way they live. Cracked antique china and cheap plain stuff all mixed up. No proper upper-class servants—just some casual hired help. Tapestries and drapes and chair-covers all satin and brocade and stuff—and it’s falling to pieces! Big silver tea urns and what do you know—all yellow and tarnished for want of cleaning. Mrs Serrocold just doesn’t care. Look at that dress she had on last night. Darned under the arms, nearly worn out—and yet she could go to a store and order what she liked. Bond Street or wherever it is. Dough? They’re rolling in dough.’
He paused and sat, deliberating.
‘I understand being poor. There’s nothing much wrong with it. If you’re young and strong and ready to work. I never had much money, but I was all set to get where I wanted. I was going to open a garage. I’d got a bit of money put by. I talked to Gina about it. She listened. She seemed to understand. I didn’t know much about her. All those girls in uniform, they look about the same. I mean you can’t tell from looking at them who’s got dough and who hasn’t. I thought she was a cut above me, perhaps, education and all that. But it didn’t seem to matter. We fell for each other. We got married. I’d got my bit put by and Gina had some too, she told me. We were going to set up a gas station back home—Gina was willing. Just a couple of crazy kids we were—mad about each other. Then that snooty aunt of Gina’s started making trouble … And Gina wanted to come here to England to see her grandmother. Well, that seemed fair enough. It was her home, and I was curious to see England anyway. I’d heard a lot about it. So we came. Just a visit—that’s what I thought.’
The frown became a scowl.
‘But it hasn’t turned out like that. We’re caught up in this crazy business. Why don’t we stay here—make our home here—that’s what they say? Plenty of jobs for me. Jobs! I don’t want a job feeding candy to gangster kids and helping them play at kids’ games … what’s the sense of it all? This place could be swell—really swell. Don’t people who’ve got money understand their luck? Don’t they understand that most of the world can’t have a swell place like this and that they’ve got one? Isn’t it plain crazy to kick your luck when you’ve got it? I don’t mind working if I’ve got to. But I’ll work the way I like and at what I like—and I’ll work to get somewhere. This place makes me feel I’m tangled up in a spider’s web. And Gina—I can’t make Gina out. She’s not the same girl I married over in the States. I can’t—dang it all—I can’t even talk to her now. Oh hell!’
Miss Marple said gently:
‘I quite see your point of view.’
Wally shot a swift glance at her.
‘You’re the only one I’ve shot my mouth off to so far. Most of the time I shut up like a clam. Don’t know what it is about you—you’re English right enough, really English—but in the durndest way you remind me of my Aunt Betsy back home.’
‘Now that’s very nice.’
‘A lot of sense she had,’ Wally continued reflectively. ‘Looked as frail as though you could snap her in two, but actually she was tough—yes, sir, I’ll say she was tough.’
He got up.
‘Sorry talking to you this way,’ he apologized. For the first time, Miss Marple saw him smile. It was a very attractive smile, and Wally Hudd was suddenly transfigured from an awkward sulky boy into a handsome and appealing young man. ‘Had to get things off my chest, I suppose. But too bad picking on you.’
‘Not at all, my dear boy,’ said Miss Marple. ‘I have a nephew of my own—only, of course, a great deal older than you are.’
Her mind dwelt for a moment on the sophisticated modern writer Raymond West. A greater contrast to Walter Hudd could not have been imagined.
‘You’ve got other company coming,’ said Walter Hudd. ‘That dame doesn’t like me. So I’ll quit. So long, ma’am. Thanks for the talk.’
He strode away and Miss Marple watched Mildred Strete coming across the lawn to join her.
‘I see you’ve been victimized by that terrible young man,’ said Mrs Strete, rather breathlessly, as she sank down on the seat. ‘What a tragedy that is.’
‘A tragedy?’
‘Gina’s marriage. It all came about from sending her off to America. I told mother at the time it was most unwise. After all, this is quite a quiet district. We had hardly any raids here. I do so dislike the way many people gave way to panic about their families—and themselves, too, very often.’
‘It must have been difficult to decide what was right to do,’ said Miss Marple thoughtfully. ‘Where children were concerned, I mean. With the prospect of possible invasion, it might have meant their being brought up under a German régime—as well as the danger of bombs.’
‘All nonsense,’ said Mrs Strete. ‘I never had the least doubt that we should win. But mother has always been quite unreasonable where Gina is concerned. The child was always spoilt and indulged in every way. There was absolutely no need to take her away from Italy in the first place.’
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