The Complete Miss Marple Collection

by Agatha Christie

  He shook his head and departed to present his official credentials in Much Benham.

  Nine

  I

  “So locally you’ve drawn a blank?” said Craddock, offering his cigarette case to Frank Cornish.

  “Completely,” said Cornish. “No enemies, no quarrels, on good terms with her husband.”

  “No question of another woman or another man?”

  The other shook his head. “Nothing of that kind. No hint of scandal anywhere. She wasn’t what you’d call the sexy kind. She was on a lot of committees and things like that and there were some small local rivalries, but nothing beyond that.”

  “There wasn’t anyone else the husband wanted to marry? No one in the office where he worked?”

  “He’s in Biddle & Russell, the estate agents and valuers. There’s Florrie West with adenoids, and Miss Grundle, who is at least fifty and as plain as a haystack—nothing much there to excite a man. Though for all that I shouldn’t be surprised if he did marry again soon.”

  Craddock looked interested.

  “A neighbour,” explained Cornish. “A widow. When I went back with him from the inquest she’d gone in and was making him tea and looking after him generally. He seemed surprised and grateful. If you ask me, she’s made up her mind to marry him, but he doesn’t know it yet, poor chap.”

  “What sort of a woman is she?”

  “Good looking,” admitted the other. “Not young but handsome in a gipsyish sort of way. High colour. Dark eyes.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Bain. Mrs. Mary Bain. Mary Bain. She’s a widow.”

  “What’d her husband do?”

  “No idea. She’s got a son working near here who lives with her. She seems a quiet, respectable woman. All the same, I’ve a feeling I’ve seen her before.” He looked at his watch. “Ten to twelve. I’ve made an appointment for you at Gossington Hall at twelve o’clock. We’d best be going.”

  II

  Dermot Craddock’s eyes, which always looked gently inattentive, were in actuality making a close mental note of the features of Gossington Hall. Inspector Cornish had taken him there, had delivered him over to a young man called Hailey Preston, and had then taken a tactful leave. Since then, Dermot Craddock had been gently nodding at Mr. Preston. Hailey Preston, he gathered, was a kind of public relations or personal assistant, or private secretary, or more likely, a mixture of all three, to Jason Rudd. He talked. He talked freely and at length without much modulation and managing miraculously not to repeat himself too often. He was a pleasant young man, anxious that his own views, reminiscent of those of Dr. Pangloss that all was for the best in the best of all possible worlds, should be shared by anyone in whose company he happened to be. He said several times and in different ways what a terrible shame this had been, how worried everyone had been, how Marina was absolutely prostrated, how Mr. Rudd was more upset than he could possibly say, how it absolutely beat anything that a thing like that should happen, didn’t it? Possibly there might have been some kind of allergy to some particular kind of substance? He just put that forward as an idea—allergies were extraordinary things. Chief-Inspector Craddock was to count on every possible co-operation that Hellingforth Studios or any of their staff could give. He was to ask any questions he wanted, go anywhere he liked. If they could help in anyway they would do so. They all had had the greatest respect for Mrs. Badcock and appreciated her strong social sense and the valuable work she had done for the St. John Ambulance Association.

  He then started again, not in the same words but using the same motifs. No one could have been more eagerly co-operative. At the same time he endeavoured to convey how very far this was from the cellophane world of studios; and Mr. Jason Rudd and Miss Marina Gregg, or any of the people in the house who surely were going to do their utmost to help in anyway they possibly could. Then he nodded gently some forty-four times. Dermot Craddock took advantage of the pause to say:

  “Thank you very much.”

  It was said quietly but with a kind of finality that brought Mr. Hailey Preston up with a jerk. He said:

  “Well—” and paused inquiringly.

  “You said I might ask questions?”

  “Sure. Sure. Fire ahead.”

  “Is this the place where she died?”

  “Mrs. Badcock?”

  “Mrs. Badcock. Is this the place?”

  “Yes, sure. Right here. At least, well actually I can show you the chair.”

  They were standing on the landing recess. Hailey Preston walked a short way along the corridor and pointed out a rather phony-looking oak armchair.

  “She was sitting right there,” he said. “She said she didn’t feel well. Someone went to get her something, and then she just died, right there.”

  “I see.”

  “I don’t know if she’d seen a physician lately. If she’d been warned that she had anything wrong with her heart—”

  “She had nothing wrong with her heart,” said Dermot Craddock. “She was a healthy woman. She died of six times the maximum dose of a substance whose official name I will not try to pronounce but which I understand is generally known as Calmo.”

  “I know, I know,” said Hailey Preston. “I take it myself sometimes.”

  “Indeed? That’s very interesting. You find it has a good effect?”

  “Marvellous. Marvellous. It bucks you up and it soothes you down, if you understand what I mean. Naturally,” he added, “you would have to take it in the proper dosage.”

  “Would there be supplies of this substance in the house?”

  He knew the answer to the question, but he put it as though he did not. Hailey Preston’s answer was frankness itself.

  “Loads of it, I should say. There’ll be a bottle of it in most of the bathroom cupboards here.”

  “Which doesn’t make our task easier.”

  “Of course,” said Hailey Preston, “she might have used the stuff herself and taken a dose, and as I say, had an allergy.”

  Craddock looked unconvinced—Hailey Preston sighed and said:

  “You’re quite definite about the dosage?”

  “Oh yes. It was a lethal dose and Mrs. Badcock did not take any such things herself. As far as we can make out the only things she ever took were bicarbonate of soda or aspirin.”

  Hailey Preston shook his head and said, “That sure gives us a problem. Yes, it sure does.”

  “Where did Mr. Rudd and Miss Gregg receive their guests?”

  “Right here.” Hailey Preston went to the spot at the top of the stairs.

  Chief-Inspector Craddock stood beside him. He looked at the wall opposite him. In the centre was an Italian Madonna and child. A good copy, he presumed, of some well-known picture. The blue-robed Madonna held aloft the infant Jesus and both child and mother were laughing. Little groups of people stood on either side, their eyes upraised to the child. One of the more pleasing Madonnas, Dermot Craddock thought. To the right and left of this picture were two narrow windows. The whole effect was very charming but it seemed to him that there was emphatically nothing there that would cause a woman to look like the Lady of Shalott whose doom had come upon her.

  “People, of course, were coming up the stairs?” he asked.

  “Yes. They came in driblets, you know. Not too many at once. I shepherded up some, Ella Zielinsky, that’s Mr. Rudd’s secretary, brought some of the others. We wanted to make it all pleasant and informal.”

  “Were you here yourself at the time Mrs. Badcock came up?”

  “I’m ashamed to tell you, Chief-Inspector Craddock, that I just can’t remember. I had a list of names, I went out and I shepherded people in. I introduced them, saw to drinks, then I’d go out and come up with the next batch. At the time I didn’t know this Mrs. Badcock by sight, and she wasn’t one of the ones on my list to bring up.”

  “What about a Mrs. Bantry?”

  “Ah yes, she’s the former owner of this place, isn’t she? I believe she, and Mrs. Ba
dcock and her husband, did come up about the same time.” He paused. “And the mayor came just about them. He had a big chain on and a wife with yellow hair, wearing royal blue with frills. I remember all of them. I didn’t pour drinks for any of them because I had to go down and bring up the next lot.”

  “Who did pour drinks for them?”

  “Why, I can’t exactly say. There were three or four of us on duty. I know I went down the stairs just as the mayor was coming up.”

  “Who else was on the stairs as you went down, if you can remember?”

  “Jim Galbraith, one of the newspaper boys who was covering this, three or four others whom I didn’t know. There were a couple of photographers, one of the locals, I don’t remember his name, and an arty girl from London, who rather specialises in queer angle shots. Her camera was set right up in that corner so that she could get a view of Miss Gregg receiving. Ah, now let me think, I rather fancy that that was when Ardwyck Fenn arrived.”

  “And who is Ardwyck Fenn?”

  Hailey Preston looked shocked. “He’s a big shot, Chief-Inspector. A very big shot in the television and moving picture world. We didn’t even know he was in this country.”

  “His turning up was a surprise?”

  “I’ll say it was,” said Preston. “Nice of him to come and quite unexpected.”

  “Was he an old friend of Miss Gregg’s and Mr. Rudd’s?”

  “He was an old friend of Marina’s a good many years ago when she was married to her second husband. I don’t know how well Jason knew him.”

  “Anyway, it was a pleasant surprise when he arrived?”

  “Sure it was. We were all delighted.”

  Craddock nodded and passed from that to other subjects. He made meticulous inquiries about the drinks, their ingredients, how they were served, who served them, what servants and hired servants were on duty. The answers seemed to be, as Inspector Cornish had already hinted was the case that, although anyone of thirty people could have poisoned Heather Badcock with the utmost ease, yet at the same time anyone of the thirty might have been seen doing so! It was, Craddock reflected, a big chance to take.

  “Thank you,” he said at last. “Now I would like, if I may, to speak to Miss Marina Gregg.”

  Hailey Preston shook his head.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I really am sorry but that’s right out of the question.”

  Craddock’s eyebrows rose.

  “Surely!”

  “She’s prostrated. She’s absolutely prostrated. She’s got her own physician here looking after her. He wrote out a certificate. I’ve got it here. I’ll show it to you.”

  Craddock took it and read it.

  “I see,” he said. He asked, “Does Marina Gregg always have a physician in attendance?”

  “They’re very high strung, all these actors and actresses. It’s a big strain, this life. It’s usually considered desirable in the case of the big shots that they should have a physician who understands their constitution and their nerves. Maurice Gilchrist has a very big reputation. He’s looked after Miss Gregg for many years now. She’s had a great deal of illness, as you may have read, in the last four years. She was hospitalized for a very long time. It’s only about a year ago that she got her strength and health back.”

  “I see.”

  Hailey Preston seemed relieved that Craddock was not making anymore protests.

  “You’ll want to see Mr. Rudd?” he suggested. “He’ll be—” he looked at his watch, “—he’ll be back from the studios in about ten minutes if that’s all right for you.”

  “That’ll do admirably,” said Craddock. “In the meantime is Dr. Gilchrist in the house?”

  “He is.”

  “Then I’d like to talk to him.”

  “Why, certainly. I’ll fetch him right away.”

  The young man bustled away. Dermot Craddock stood thoughtfully at the top of the stairs. Of course this frozen look that Mrs. Bantry had described might have been entirely Mrs. Bantry’s imagination. She was, he thought, a woman who would jump to conclusions. At the same time he thought it quite likely that the conclusion to which she had jumped was a just one. Without going so far as to look like the Lady of Shalott seeing doom coming down upon her, Marina Gregg might have seen something that vexed or annoyed her. Something that had caused her to have been negligent to a guest to whom she was talking. Somebody had come up those stairs, perhaps, who could be described as an unexpected guest—an unwelcome guest?

  He turned at the sound of footsteps. Hailey Preston was back and with him was Dr. Maurice Gilchrist. Dr. Gilchrist was not at all as Dermot Craddock had imagined him. He had no suave bedside manner, neither was he theatrical in appearance. He seemed on the face of it a blunt, hearty, matter-of-fact man. He was dressed in tweeds, slightly florid tweeds to the English idea. He had a thatch of brown hair and observant, keen dark eyes.

  “Doctor Gilchrist? I am Chief-Inspector Dermot Craddock. May I have a word or two with you in private?”

  The doctor nodded. He turned along the corridor and went along it almost to the end, then he pushed the door open and invited Craddock to enter.

  “No one will disturb us here,” he said.

  It was obviously the doctor’s own bedroom, a very comfortably appointed one. Dr. Gilchrist indicated a chair and then sat down himself.

  “I understand,” said Craddock, “that Miss Marina Gregg, according to you, is unable to be interviewed. What’s the matter with her, Doctor?”

  Gilchrist shrugged his shoulders very slightly.

  “Nerves,” he said. “If you were to ask her questions now she’d be in a state bordering on hysteria within ten minutes. I can’t permit that. If you like to send your police doctor to see me, I’d be willing to give him my views. She was unable to be present at the inquest for the same reason.”

  “How long,” asked Craddock, “is such a state of things likely to continue?”

  Dr. Gilchrist looked at him and smiled. It was a likeable smile.

  “If you want my opinion,” he said, “a human opinion, that is, not a medical one, anytime within the next forty-eight hours, and she’ll be not only willing, but asking to see you! She’ll be wanting to ask questions. She’ll be wanting to answer your questions. They’re like that!” He leaned forward. “I’d like to try and make you understand if I can, Chief-Inspector, a little bit what makes these people act the way they do. The motion picture life is a life of continuous strain, and the more successful you are, the greater the strain. You live always, all day, in the public eye. When you’re on location, when you’re working, it’s hard monotonous work with long hours. You’re there in the morning, you sit and you wait. You do your small bit, the bit that’s being shot over and over again. If you’re rehearsing on the stage you’d be rehearsing as likely as not a whole act, or at any rate a part of an act. The thing would be in sequence, it would be more or less human and credible. But when you’re shooting a picture everything’s taken out of sequence. It’s a monotonous, grinding business. It’s exhausting. You live in luxury, of course, you have soothing drugs, you have baths and creams and powders and medical attention, you have relaxations and parties and people, but you’re always in the public eye. You can’t enjoy yourself quietly. You can’t really—ever relax.”

  “I can understand that,” said Dermot. “Yes, I can understand.”

  “And there’s another thing,” went on Gilchrist. “If you adopt this career, and especially if you’re any good at it, you are a certain kind of person. You’re a person—or so I’ve found in my experience—with a skin too few—a person who is plagued the whole time with diffidence. A terrible feeling of inadequacy, of apprehension that you can’t do what’s required of you. People say that actors and actresses are vain. That isn’t true. They’re not conceited about themselves; they’re obsessed with themselves, yes, but they need reassurance the whole time. They must be continually reassured. Ask Jason Rudd. He’ll tell you the same. You have to make them fee
l they can do it, to assure them they can do it, take them over and over again over the same thing encouraging them the whole time until you get the effect you want. But they are always doubtful of themselves. And that makes them, in an ordinary human, unprofessional word: nervy. Damned nervy! A mass of nerves. And the worse their nerves are the better they are at the job.”

  “That’s interesting,” said Craddock. “Very interesting.” He paused, adding: “Though I don’t see quite why you—”

  “I’m trying to make you understand Marina Gregg,” said Maurice Gilchrist. “You’ve seen her pictures, no doubt.”

  “She’s a wonderful actress,” said Dermot, “wonderful. She has a personality, a beauty, a sympathy.”

  “Yes,” said Gilchrist, “she has all those, and she’s had to work like the devil to produce the effects that she has produced. In the process her nerves get shot to pieces, and she’s not actually a strong woman physically. Not as strong as you need to be. She’s got one of those temperaments that swing to and fro between despair and rapture. She can’t help it. She’s made that way. She’s suffered a great deal in her life. A large part of the suffering has been her own fault, but some of it hasn’t. None of her marriages has been happy, except, I’d say, this last one. She’s married to a man now who loves her dearly and who’s loved her for years. She’s sheltering in that love and she’s happy in it. At least, at the moment she’s happy in it. One can’t say how long all that will last. The trouble with her is that either she thinks that at last she’s got to that spot or place or that moment in her life where everything’s like a fairy tale come true, that nothing can go wrong, that she’ll never be unhappy again; or else she’s down in the dumps, a woman whose life is ruined, who’s never known love and happiness and who never will again.” He added dryly, “If she could only stop halfway between the two it’d be wonderful for her; and the world would lose a fine actress.”

  He paused, but Dermot Craddock did not speak. He was wondering why Maurice Gilchrist was saying what he did. Why this close detailed analysis of Marina Gregg? Gilchrist was looking at him. It was as though he was urging Dermot to ask one particular question. Dermot wondered very much what the question was that he ought to ask. He said at last slowly, with the air of one feeling his way: