“You can’t blame her for that,” said Dermot gently.
“I don’t blame her for wanting a child of her own, no! But what about us? She took us away from our own parents, from the place where we belonged. My mother sold me for a mess of pottage, if you like, but she didn’t sell me for advantage to herself. She sold me because she was a damn’ silly woman who thought I’d get ‘advantages’ and ‘education’ and have a wonderful life. She thought she was doing the best for me. Best for me? If she only knew.”
“You’re still very bitter, I see.”
“No, I’m not bitter now. I’ve got over that. I’m bitter because I’m remembering, because I’ve gone back to those days. We were all pretty bitter.”
“All of you?”
“Well, not Rod. Rod never cared about anything. Besides he was rather small. But Angus felt like I did, only I think he was more revengeful. He said that when he was grown-up he would go and kill that baby she was going to have.”
“You knew about the baby?”
“Oh, of course I knew. And everyone knows what happened. She went crazy with rapture about having it and then when it was born it was an idiot! Serve her right. Idiot or no idiot, she didn’t want us back again.”
“You hate her very much.”
“Why shouldn’t I hate her? She did the worst thing to me that anyone can do to anyone else. Let them believe that they’re loved and wanted and then show them that it’s all a sham.”
“What happened to your two—I’ll call them brothers, for the sake of convenience.”
“Oh, we all drifted apart later. Rod’s farming somewhere in the Middle West. He’s got a happy nature, and always had. Angus? I don’t know. I lost sight of him.”
“Did he continue to feel regretful?”
“I shouldn’t think so,” said Margot. “It’s not the sort of thing you can go on feeling. The last time I saw him, he said he was going on the stage. I don’t know whether he did.”
“You’ve remembered, though,” said Dermot.
“Yes. I’ve remembered,” said Margot Bence.
“Was Marina Gregg surprised to see you on that day or did she make the arrangements for your photography on purpose to please you?”
“She?” The girl smiled scornfully. “She knew nothing about the arrangements. I was curious to see her, so I did a bit of lobbying to get the job. As I say I’ve got some influence with studio people. I wanted to see what she looked like nowadays.” She stroked the surface of the table. “She didn’t even recognize me. What do you think of that? I was with her for four years. From five years old to nine and she didn’t recognize me.”
“Children change,” said Dermot Craddock, “they change so much that you’d hardly know them. I have a niece I met the other day and I assure you I’d have passed her in the street.”
“Are you saying that to make me feel better? I don’t care really. Oh, what the hell, let’s be honest. I do care. I did. She had a magic, you know. Marina! A wonderful calamitous magic that took hold of you. You can hate a person and still mind.”
“You didn’t tell her who you were?”
She shook her head. “No, I didn’t tell her. That’s the last thing I’d do.”
“Did you try and poison her, Miss Bence?”
Her mood changed. She got up and laughed.
“What ridiculous questions you do ask! But I suppose you have to. It’s part of your job. No. I can assure you I didn’t kill her.”
“That isn’t what I asked you, Miss Bence.”
She looked at him, frowning, puzzled.
“Marina Gregg,” he said, “is still alive.”
“For how long?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Don’t you think it’s likely, Inspector, that someone will try again, and this time—this time, perhaps—they’ll succeed?”
“Precautions will be taken.”
“Oh, I’m sure they will. The adoring husband will look after her, won’t he, and make sure that no harm comes to her?”
He was listening carefully to the mockery in her voice.
“What did you mean when you said you didn’t ask me that?” she said, harking back suddenly.
“I asked you if you tried to kill her. You replied that you didn’t kill her. That’s true enough, but someone died, someone was killed.”
“You mean I tried to kill Marina and instead I killed Mrs. What’s-her-name. If you’d like me to make it quite clear, I didn’t try to poison Marina and I didn’t poison Mrs. Badcock.”
“But you know perhaps who did?”
“I don’t know anything, Inspector, I assure you.”
“But you have some idea?”
“Oh, one always has ideas.” She smiled at him, a mocking smile. “Among so many people it might be, mightn’t it, the black-haired robot of a secretary, the elegant Hailey Preston, servants, maids, a masseur, the hairdresser, someone at the studios, so many people—and one of them mightn’t be what he or she pretended to be.”
Then as he took an unconscious step towards her she shook her head vehemently.
“Relax, Inspector,” she said. “I’m only teasing you. Somebody’s out for Marina’s blood, but who it is I’ve no idea. Really. I’ve no idea at all.”
Sixteen
I
At No. 16 Aubrey Close, young Mrs. Baker was talking to her husband. Jim Baker, a big good-looking blond giant of a man, was intent on assembling a model construction unit.
“Neighbours!” said Cherry. She gave a toss of her black curly head. “Neighbours!” she said with venom.
She carefully lifted the frying pan from the stove, then neatly shot its contents onto two plates, one rather fuller than the other. She placed the fuller one before her husband.
“Mixed grill,” she announced.
Jim looked up and sniffed appreciatively.
“That’s something like,” he said. “What is today? My birthday?”
“You have to be well nourished,” said Cherry.
She was looking very pretty in a cerise and white striped apron with little frills on it. Jim Baker shifted the component parts of a strato-cruiser to make room for his meal. He grinned at his wife and asked:
“Who says so?”
“My Miss Marple for one!” said Cherry. “And if it comes to that,” she added, sitting down opposite Jim and pulling her plate towards her, “I should say she could do with a bit more solid nourishment herself. That old cat of a White Knight of hers, gives her nothing but carbohydrates. It’s all she can think of! A ‘nice custard,’ a ‘nice bread and butter pudding,’ a ‘nice macaroni cheese.’ Squashy puddings with pink sauce. And gas, gas, gas, all day. Talks her head off she does.”
“Oh well,” said Jim vaguely, “it’s invalid diet, I suppose.”
“Invalid diet!” said Cherry and snorted. “Miss Marple isn’t an invalid—she’s just old. Always interfering, too.”
“Who, Miss Marple?”
“No. That Miss Knight. Telling me how to do things! She even tries to tell me how to cook! I know a lot more about cooking than she does.”
“You’re tops for cooking, Cherry,” said Jim appreciatively.
“There’s something to cooking,” said Cherry, “something you can get your teeth into.”
Jim laughed. “I’m getting my teeth into this all right. Why did your Miss Marple say that I needed nourishing? Did she think I looked run-down, the other day when I came in to fix the bathroom shelf?”
Cherry laughed. “I’ll tell you what she said to me. She said, ‘You’ve got a handsome husband, my dear. A very handsome husband.’ Sounds like one of those period books they read aloud on the telly.”
“I hope you agreed with her?” said Jim with a grin.
“I said you were all right.”
“All right indeed! That’s a nice lukewarm way of talking.”
“And then she said ‘You must take care of your husband, my dear. Be sure you feed him properly. Men need plent
y of good meat meals, well cooked.’”
“Hear, hear!”
“And she told me to be sure and prepare fresh food for you and not to buy ready-made pies and things and slip them in the oven to warm up. Not that I do that often,” added Cherry virtuously.
“You can’t do it too seldom for me,” said Jim. “They don’t taste a bit the same.”
“So long as you notice what you eat,” said Cherry, “and aren’t so taken up with those strato-cruisers and things you’re always building. And don’t tell me you bought that set as a Christmas present for your nephew Michael. You bought it so that you could play with it yourself.”
“He’s not quite old enough for it yet,” said Jim apologetically.
“And I suppose you’re going on dithering about with it all the evening. What about some music? Did you get that new record you were talking about?”
“Yes, I did. Tchaikovski 1812.”
“That’s the loud one with the battle, isn’t it?” said Cherry. She made a face. “Our Mrs. Hartwell won’t half like that! Neighbours! I’m fed up with neighbours. Always grousing and complaining. I don’t know which is the worst. The Hartwells or the Barnabys. The Hartwells start rapping on the wall as early as twenty to eleven sometimes. It’s a bit thick! After all even the telly and the BBC go on later than that. Why shouldn’t we have a bit of music if we like? And always asking us to turn it down low.”
“You can’t turn these things down low,” said Jim with authority. “You don’t get the tone unless you’ve got the volume. Everyone knows that. It’s absolutely recognized in musical circles. And what about their cat—always coming over into our garden, digging up the beds, just when I’ve got it nice.”
“I tell you what, Jim. I’m fed up with this place.”
“You didn’t mind your neighbours up in Huddersfield,” remarked Jim.
“It wasn’t the same there,” said Cherry. “I mean, you’re all independent there. If you’re in trouble, somebody’d give you a hand and you’d give a hand to them. But you don’t interfere. There’s something about a new estate like this that makes people look sideways at their neighbours. Because we’re all new I suppose. The amount of backbiting and tale-telling and writing to the council and one thing and another round here beats me! People in real towns are too busy for it.”
“You may have something there, my girl.”
“D’you like it here, Jim?”
“The job’s all right. And after all, this is a brand new house. I wish there was a bit more room in it so that I could spread myself a bit more. It would be fine if I could have a workshop.”
“I thought it was lovely at first,” said Cherry, “but now I’m not so sure. The house is all right and I love the blue paint and the bathroom’s nice, but I don’t like the people and the feeling round here. Did I tell you that Lily Price and that Harry of hers have broken off? It was a funny business that day in that house they went to look over. You know when she more or less fell out of the window. She said Harry just stood there like a stuck pig.”
“I’m glad she’s broken off with him. He’s a no-good if I ever saw one,” said Jim.
“No good marrying a chap just because a baby’s on the way,” said Cherry. “He didn’t want to marry her, you know. He’s not a very nice fellow. Miss Marple said he wasn’t,” she added thoughtfully. “She spoke to Lily about him. Lily thought she was crackers.”
“Miss Marple? I didn’t know she’d ever seen him?”
“Oh yes, she was round here walking the day she fell down and Mrs. Badcock picked her up and took her into her house. Do you think Arthur and Mrs. Bain will make a match of it?”
Jim frowned as he picked up a bit of strato-cruiser and consulted the instructional diagram.
“I do wish you’d listen when I’m talking,” said Cherry.
“What did you say?”
“Arthur Badcock and Mary Bain.”
“For the Lord’s sake, Cherry, his wife’s only just dead! You women! I’ve heard he’s in a terrible state of nerves still—jumps if you speak to him.”
“I wonder why… I shouldn’t have thought he’d take it that way, would you?”
“Can you clear off this end of the table a bit?” said Jim, relinquishing even a passing interest in the affairs of his neighbours. “Just so that I can spread some of these pieces out a bit.”
Cherry heaved an exasperated sigh.
“To get any attention round here, you have to be a super jet, or a turbo prop,” she said bitterly. “You and your construction models!”
She piled the tray with the remains of supper and carried it over to the sink. She decided not to wash up, a necessity of daily life she always put off as long as possible. Instead, she piled everything into the sink, haphazard, slipped on a corduroy jacket and went out of the house, pausing to call over her shoulder:
“I’m just going to slip along to see Gladys Dixon. I want to borrow one of her Vogue patterns.”
“All right, old girl.” Jim bent over his model.
Casting a venomous look at her next-door neighbour’s front door as she passed, Cherry went round the corner into Blenheim Close and stopped at No. 16. The door was open and Cherry tapped on it and went into the hall calling out:
“Is Gladdy about?”
“Is that you, Cherry?” Mrs. Dixon looked out of the kitchen. “She’s upstairs in her room, dressmaking.”
“Right. I’ll go up.”
Cherry went upstairs to a small bedroom in which Gladys, a plump girl with a plain face, was kneeling on the floor, her cheeks flushed, and several pins in her mouth, tacking up a paper pattern.
“Hallo, Cherry. Look, I got a lovely bit of stuff at Harper’s sale at Much Benham. I’m going to do that crossover pattern with frills again, the one I did in Terylene before.”
“That’ll be nice,” said Cherry.
Gladys rose to her feet, panting a little.
“Got indigestion now,” she said.
“You oughtn’t to do dressmaking right after supper,” said Cherry, “bending over like that.”
“I suppose I ought to slim a bit,” said Gladys. She sat down on the bed.
“Any news from the studios?” asked Cherry, always avid for film news.
“Nothing much. There’s a lot of talk still. Marina Gregg came back on the set yesterday—and she created something frightful.”
“What about?”
“She didn’t like the taste of her coffee. You know, they have coffee in the middle of the morning. She took one sip and said there was something wrong with it. Which was nonsense, of course. There couldn’t have been. It comes in a jug straight from the canteen. Of course I always put hers in a special china cup, rather posh—different from the others—but it’s the same coffee. So there couldn’t have been anything wrong with it, could there?”
“Nerves, I suppose,” said Cherry. “What happened?”
“Oh, nothing. Mr. Rudd just calmed everyone down. He’s wonderful that way. He took the coffee from her and poured it down the sink.”
“That seems to be rather stupid,” said Cherry slowly.
“Why—what do you mean?”
“Well, if there was anything wrong with it—now nobody will ever know.”
“Do you think there really might have been?” asked Gladys looking alarmed.
“Well—” Cherry shrugged her shoulders, “—there was something wrong with her cocktail the day of the fête, wasn’t there, so why not the coffee? If at first you don’t succeed, try, try, try again.”
Gladys shivered.
“I don’t half like it, Cherry,” she said. “Somebody’s got it in for her all right. She’s had more letters, you know, threatening her—and there was that bust business the other day.”
“What bust business?”
“A marble bust. On the set. It’s a corner of a room in some Austrian palace or other. Funny name like Shotbrown. Pictures and china and marble busts. This one was up on a bracket—suppose it h
adn’t been pushed back enough. Anway, a heavy lorry went past out in the road and jarred it off—right onto the chair where Marina sits for her big scene with Count Somebody-or-other. Smashed to smithereens! Lucky they weren’t shooting at the time. Mr. Rudd, he said not to say a word to her, and he put another chair there, and when she came yesterday and asked why the chair had been changed, he said the other chair was the wrong period, and this gave a better angle for the camera. But he didn’t half like it—I can tell you that.”
The two girls looked at each other.
“It’s exciting in a way,” said Cherry slowly. “And yet—it isn’t….”
“I think I’m going to give up working in the canteen at the studios,” said Gladys.
“Why? Nobody wants to poison you or drop marble busts on your head!”
“No. But it’s not always the person who’s meant to get done in who gets done in. It may be someone else. Like Heather Badcock that day.”
“True enough,” said Cherry.
“You know,” said Gladys, “I’ve been thinking. I was at the Hall that day, helping. I was quite close to them at the time.”
“When Heather died?”
“No, when she spilt the cocktail. All down her dress. A lovely dress it was, too, royal blue nylon taffeta. She’d got it quite new for the occasion. And it was funny.”
“What was funny?”
“I didn’t think anything of it at the time. But it does seem funny when I think it over.”
Cherry looked at her expectantly. She accepted the adjective “funny” in the sense that it was meant. It was not intended humorously.
“For goodness’ sake, what was funny?” she demanded.
“I’m almost sure she did it on purpose.”
“Spilt the cocktail on purpose?”
“Yes. And I do think that was funny, don’t you?”
“On a brand-new dress? I don’t believe it.”
“I wonder now,” said Gladys, “what Arthur Badcock will do with all Heather’s clothes. That dress would clean all right. Or I could take out half a breadth, it’s a lovely full skirt. Do you think Arthur Badcock would think it very awful of me if I wanted to buy it off him? It would need hardly any alteration—and it’s lovely stuff.”
The Complete Miss Marple Collection Page 156