Agatha Christie - The Mirror Crack'd from Side to Side

'Yes,' said Craddock, 'that certainly seems indicated. And of course it doesn't always show.'

'Oh, I know,' agreed Miss Marple, fervently. 'Old Mrs Pike's second boy, Alfred, seemed perfectly rational and normal. Almost painfully prosaic, if you know what I mean, but actually, it seems, he had the most abnormal psychology, or so I understand. Really positively dangerous. He seems quite happy and contented, so Mrs Pike told me, now that he is in Fairways Mental Home. They understand him there, and the doctors think him a most interesting case. That of course pleases him very much. Yes, it all ended quite happily, but she had one or two very near escapes.'

Craddock revolved in his mind the possibility of a parallel between someone in Marina Gregg's entourage and Mrs Pike's second son.

'The Italian butler,' continued Miss Marple, 'the one who was killed. He went to London, I understand, on the day of his death. Does anyone know what he did there – if you are allowed to tell me, that is,' she added conscientiously.

'He arrived in London at eleven-thirty in the morning,' said Craddock, 'and what he did in London nobody knows until a quarter to two he visited his bank and made a deposit of five hundred pounds in cash. I may say that there was no confirmation of his story that he went to London to visit an ill relative or a relative who had got into trouble. None of his relatives there had seen him.'

Miss Marple nodded her head appreciatively.

'Five hundred pounds,' she said. 'Yes, that's quite an interesting sum, isn't it. I should imagine it would be the first instalment of a good many other sums, wouldn't you?'

'It looks that way,' said Craddock.

'It was probably all the ready money the person he was threatening could raise. He may even have pretended to be satisfied with that or he may have accepted it as a down payment and the victim may have promised to raise further sums in the immediate future. It seems to knock out the idea that Marina Gregg's killer could have been someone in humble circumstances who had a private vendetta against her. It would also knock out, I should say, the idea of someone who'd obtained work as a studio helper or attendant or a servant or a gardener. Unless' – Miss Marple pointed out – 'such a person may have been the active agent whereas the employing agent may not have been in the neighbourhood. Hence the visit to London.'

'Exactly. We have in London Ardwyck Fenn, Lola Brewster and Margot Bence. All three were present at the party. All three of them could have met Giuseppe at an arranged meeting-place somewhere in London between the hours of eleven and a quarter to two. Ardwyck Fern was out of his office during those hours. Lola Brewster had left her suite to go shopping. Margot Bence was not in her studio. By the way -'

'Yes?' said Miss Marple, 'have you something to tell me?'

'You asked me,' said Dermot, 'about the children. The children that Marina Gregg adopted before she knew she could have a child of her own.'

'Yes I did.'

Craddock told her what he had learned.

'Margot Bence,' said Miss Marple softly. 'I had a feeling, you know, that it had something to do with children…'

'I can't believe that after all these years -'

'I know, I know. One never can. But do you really, my dear Dermot, know very much about children? Think back to your own childhood. Can't you remember some incident, some happening that caused you grief, or a passion quite incommensurate with its real importance? Some sorrow or passionate resentment that has really never been equalled since? There was such a book, you know, written by that brilliant writer. Mr Richard Hughes. I forget the name of it but it was about some children who had been through a hurricane. Oh yes – the hurricane in Jamaica. What made a vivid impression on them was their cat rushing madly through the house. It was the only thing they remembered. But the whole of the horror and excitement and fear that they had experienced was bound up in that one incident.'

'It's odd you should say that,' said Craddock thoughtfully.

'Why, has it made you remember something?'

'I was thinking of when my mother died. I was five I think. Five or six. I was having dinner in the nursery, jam roll pudding. I was very fond of jam roll pudding. One of the servants came in and said to my nursery governess, "Isn't it awful? There's been an accident and Mrs Craddock has been killed."… Whenever I think of my mother's death, d'you know what I see?'

'What?'

'A plate with jam roll pudding on it, and I'm staring at it. Staring at it and I can see as well now as then, how the jam oozed out of it at one side. I didn't cry or say anything. I remember just sitting there as though I'd been frozen stiff, staring at the pudding. And d'you know, even now if I see in a shop or a restaurant or in anyone's house a portion of jam roll pudding, a whole wave of horror and misery and despair comes over me. Sometimes for a moment I don't remember why. Does that seem very crazy to you?'

'No,' said Miss Marple, 'it seems entirely natural. It's very interesting, that. It's given me a sort of idea…'

The door opened and Miss Knight appeared bearing the tea tray.

'Dear, dear,' she exclaimed, 'and so we've got a visitor, have we? How very nice. How do you do, Inspector Craddock. I'll just fetch another cup.'

'Don't bother,' Dermot called after her. 'I've had a drink instead.'

Miss Knight popped her head back round the door.

'I wonder – could you just come here a minute, Mr Craddock?'

Dermot joined her in the hall. She went to the dining-room and shut the door.

'You will be careful, won't you,' she said.

'Careful? In what way, Miss Knight?'

'Our old dear in there. You know, she's so interested in everything but it's not very good for her to get excited over murders and nasty things like that. We don't want her to brood and have bad dreams. She's very old and frail, and she really must lead a very sheltered life. She always has, you know. I'm sure all this talk of murders and gangsters and things like that is very, very bad for her.'

Dermot looked at her with faint amusement.

'I don't think,' he said gently, 'that anything that you or I could say about murders is likely unduly to excite or shock Miss Marple. I can assure you, my dear Miss Knight, that Miss Marple can contemplate murder and sudden death and indeed crime of all kinds with the utmost equanimity.'

He went back to the drawing-room, and Miss Knight, clucking a little in an indignant manner, followed him. She talked briskly during tea with an emphasis on political news in the paper and the most cheerful subject she could think of. When she finally removed the tea tray and shut the door behind her, Miss Marple drew a deep breath.

'At last we've got some peace,' she said. 'I hope I shan't murder that woman some day. Now listen, Dermot, there are some things I want to know.'

'Yes? What are they?'

'I want to go over very carefully what happened on the day of the fête. Mrs Bantry has arrived, and the vicar shortly after her. Then come Mr and Mrs Badcock ad on the stairs at that time were the mayor and his wife, this man Ardwyck Fenn, Lola Brewster, a reporter from the Herald Argus of Much Benham, and this photographer girl, Margot Bence. Margot Bence, you said, had her camera at an angle on the stairs, and was taking photographs of the proceedings. Have you seen any of those photographs?'

'Actually I brought one to show you.'

He took from his pocket an unmounted print. Miss Marple looked at it steadfastly. Marina Gregg with Jason Rudd a little behind her to one side, Arthur Badcock, his hand to his face, looking slightly embarrassed, was standing back, whilst his wife had Marina Gregg's hand in hers and was looking up at her and talking. Marina was not looking at Mrs Badcock. She was staring over her head looking, it seemed, full into the camera, or possibly just slightly to the left of it.