“So would I,” said Miss Marple. “He’s a good friend, too,” she added thoughtfully. “He came, I think, to give me the go-ahead sign.”
“Then it was murder,” said Mrs. Bantry. They looked at each other. “At any rate, the doctors think so.”
Miss Knight brought in cups of coffee. For once in their lives, both ladies were too impatient to welcome this interruption. When Miss Knight had gone Miss Marple started immediately.
“Now then, Dolly, you were there—”
“I practically saw it happen,” said Mrs. Bantry, with modest pride.
“Splendid,” said Miss Marple. “I mean—well, you know what I mean. So you can tell me just exactly what happened from the moment she arrived.”
“I’d been taken into the house,” said Mrs. Bantry. “Snob status.”
“Who took you in?”
“Oh, a willowy-looking young man. I think he’s Marina Gregg’s secretary or something like that. He took me in, up the staircase. They were having a kind of reunion reception committee at the top of the stairs.”
“On the landing?” said Miss Marple, surprised.
“Oh, they’ve altered all that. They’ve knocked the dressing room and bedroom down so that you’ve got a big sort of alcove, practically a room. It’s very attractive looking.”
“I see. And who was there?”
“Marina Gregg, being natural and charming, looking lovely in a sort of willowy grey-green dress. And the husband, of course, and that woman Ella Zielinsky I told you about. She’s their social secretary. And there were about—oh, eight or ten people I should think. Some of them I knew, some of them I didn’t. Some I think were from the studios—the ones I didn’t know. There was the vicar and Doctor Sandford’s wife. He wasn’t there himself until later, and Colonel and Mrs. Clittering and the High Sheriff. And I think there was someone from the press there. And a young woman with a big camera taking photographs.”
Miss Marple nodded.
“Go on.”
“Heather Badcock and her husband arrived just after me. Marina Gregg said nice things to me, then to somebody else, oh yes,—the vicar—and then Heather Badcock and her husband came. She’s the secretary, you know, of the St. John Ambulance. Somebody said something about that and how hard she worked and how valuable she was. And Marina Gregg said some pretty things. Then Mrs. Badcock, who struck me, I must say, Jane, as rather a tiresome sort of woman, began some long rigmarole of how years before she’d met Marina Gregg somewhere. She wasn’t awfully tactful about it since she urged exactly how long ago and the year it was and everything like that. I’m sure that actresses and film stars and people don’t really like being reminded of the exact age they are. Still, she wouldn’t think of that I suppose.”
“No,” said Miss Marple, “she wasn’t the kind of woman who would have thought of that. Well?”
“Well, there was nothing particular in that except for the fact that Marina Gregg didn’t do her usual stuff.”
“You mean she was annoyed?”
“No, no, I don’t mean that. As a matter of fact I’m not at all sure that she heard a word of it. She was staring, you know, over Mrs. Badcock’s shoulder and when Mrs. Badcock had finished her rather silly story of how she got out of a bed of sickness and sneaked out of the house to go and meet Marina and get her autograph, there was a sort of odd silence. Then I saw her face.”
“Whose face? Mrs. Badcock’s?”
“No. Marina Gregg’s. It was as though she hadn’t heard a word the Badcock woman was saying. She was staring over her shoulder right at the wall opposite. Staring with—I can’t explain it to you—”
“But do try, Dolly,” said Miss Marple, “because I think perhaps that this might be important.”
“She had a kind of frozen look,” said Mrs. Bantry, struggling with words, “as though she’d seen something that—oh dear me, how hard it is to describe things. Do you remember the Lady of Shalott? The mirror crack’d from side to side: ‘The doom has come upon me,’ cried the Lady of Shalott. Well, that’s what she looked like. People laugh at Tennyson nowadays, but the Lady of Shalott always thrilled me when I was young and it still does.”
“She had a frozen look,” repeated Miss Marple thoughtfully. “And she was looking over Mrs. Badcock’s shoulder at the wall. What was on the wall?”
“Oh! A picture of some kind, I think,” said Mrs. Bantry. “You know, Italian. I think it was a copy of a Bellini Madonna, but I’m not sure. A picture where the Virgin is holding up a laughing child.”
Miss Marple frowned. “I can’t see that a picture could give her that expression.”
“Especially as she must see it every day,” agreed Mrs. Bantry.
“There were people coming up the stairs still, I suppose?”
“Oh yes, there were.”
“Who were they, do you remember?”
“You mean she might have been looking at one of the people coming up the stairs?”
“Well, it’s possible, isn’t it?” said Miss Marple.
“Yes—of course—now let me see. There was the mayor, all dressed up too with his chains and all, and his wife, and there was a man with long hair and one of those funny beards they wear nowadays. Quite a young man. And there was the girl with the camera. She’d taken her position on the stairs so as to get photos of people coming up and having their hands shaken by Marina, and—let me see, two people I didn’t know. Studio people, I think, and the Grices from Lower Farm. There may have been others, but that’s all I can remember now.”
“Doesn’t sound very promising,” said Miss Marple. “What happened next?”
“I think Jason Rudd nudged her or something because all of a sudden she seemed to pull herself together and she smiled at Mrs. Badcock, and she began to say all the usual things. You know, sweet, unspoilt, natural, charming, the usual bag of tricks.”
“And then?”
“And then Jason Rudd gave them drinks.”
“What kind of drinks?”
“Daiquiris, I think. He said they were his wife’s favourites. He gave one to her and one to the Badcock woman.”
“That’s very interesting,” said Miss Marple. “Very interesting indeed. And what happened after that?”
“I don’t know, because I took a gaggle of women to look at the bathrooms. The next thing I knew was when the secretary woman came rushing along and said someone had been taken ill.”
Seven
The inquest, when it was held, was short and disappointing. Evidence of identification was given by the husband, and the only other evidence was medical. Heather Badcock had died as a result of four grains of hy-ethyl-dexyl-barbo-quinde-lorytate, or, let us be frank, some such name. There was no evidence to show how the drug was administered.
The inquest was adjourned for a fortnight.
After it was concluded, Detective-Inspector Frank Cornish joined Arthur Badcock.
“Could I have a word with you, Mr. Badcock?”
“Of course, of course.”
Arthur Badcock looked more like a chewed-out bit of string than ever. “I can’t understand it,” he muttered. “I simply can’t understand it.”
“I’ve got a car here,” said Cornish. “We’ll drive back to your house, shall we? Nicer and more private there.”
“Thank you, sir. Yes, yes, I’m sure that would be much better.”
They drew up at the neat little blue-painted gate of No. 3 Arlington Close. Arthur Badcock led the way and the inspector followed him. He drew out his latchkey but before he had inserted it into the door, it was opened from inside. The woman who opened it stood back looking slightly embarrassed. Arthur Badcock looked startled.
“Mary,” he said.
“I was just getting you ready some tea, Arthur. I thought you’d need it when you came back from the inquest.”
“That’s very kind of you, I’m sure,” said Arthur Badcock gratefully. “Er—” he hesitated. “This is Inspector Cornish, Mrs. Bain. She’s a neighbour of
mine.”
“I see,” said Inspector Cornish.
“I’ll get another cup,” said Mrs. Bain.
She disappeared and rather doubtfully Arthur Badcock showed the inspector into the bright cretonne-covered sitting room to the right of the hall.
“She’s very kind,” said Arthur Badcock. “Very kind always.”
“You’ve known her a long time?”
“Oh, no. Only since we came here.”
“You’ve been here two years, I believe, or is it three?”
“Just about three now,” said Arthur. “Mrs. Bain only got here six months ago,” he explained. “Her son works near here and so, after her husband’s death, she came down to live here and he boards with her.”
Mrs. Bain appeared at this point bringing the tray from the kitchen. She was a dark, rather intense-looking woman of about forty years of age. She had gipsy colouring that went with her dark hair and eyes. There was something a little odd about her eyes. They had a watchful look. She put down the tray on the table and Inspector Cornish said something pleasant and noncommittal. Something in him, some professional instinct, was on the alert. The watchful look in the woman’s eyes, the slight start she had given when Arthur introduced him had not passed unnoticed. He was familiar with that slight uneasiness in the presence of the kind of natural alarm and distrust as of those who might have offended unwittingly against the majesty of the law, but there was a second kind. And it was the second kind that he felt sure was present here. Mrs. Bain, he thought, had had at some time some connection with the police, something that had left her wary and ill at ease. He made a mental note to find out a little more about Mary Bain. Having set down the tea tray, and refused to partake herself saying she had to get home, she departed.
“Seems a nice woman,” said Inspector Cornish.
“Yes, indeed. She’s very kind, a very good neighbour, a very sympathetic woman,” said Arthur Badcock.
“Was she a great friend of your wife?”
“No. No, I wouldn’t say that. They were neighbourly and on pleasant terms. Nothing special about it though.”
“I see. Now, Mr. Badcock, we want as much information as we can from you. The findings of the inquest have been a shock to you, I expect?”
“Oh, they have, Inspector. Of course I realized that you must think something was wrong and I almost thought so myself because Heather has always been such a healthy woman. Practically never a day’s illness. I said to myself, ‘There must be something wrong.’ But it seems so incredible, if you understand what I mean, Inspector. Really quite incredible. What is this stuff—this Bi-ethyl-hex—” He came to a stop.
“There is an easier name for it,” said the inspector. “It’s sold under a trade name, the trade name of Calmo. Ever come across it?”
Arthur Badcock shook his head, perplexed.
“It’s more used in America than here,” said the inspector. “They prescribe it very freely over there, I understand.”
“What’s it for?”
“It induces, or so I understand, a happy and tranquil state of mind,” said Cornish. “It’s prescribed for those under strain; suffering anxiety, depression, melancholy, sleeplessness and a good many other things. The properly prescribed dose is not dangerous, but overdoses are not to be advised. It would seem that your wife took something like six times the ordinary dose.”
Badcock stared. “Heather never took anything like that in her life,” he said. “I’m sure of it. She wasn’t one for taking medicines anyway. She was never depressed or worried. She was one of the most cheerful women you could possibly imagine.”
The inspector nodded. “I see. And no doctor had prescribed anything of this kind for her?”
“No. Certainly not. I’m sure of that.”
“Who was her doctor?”
“She was on Dr. Sim’s panel, but I don’t think she’s been to him once since we’ve been here.”
Inspector Cornish said thoughtfully, “So she doesn’t seem the kind of woman to have been likely to need such a thing, or to have taken it?”
“She didn’t, Inspector, I’m sure she didn’t. She must have taken it by a mistake of some kind.”
“It’s a very difficult mistake to imagine,” said Inspector Cornish. “What did she have to eat and drink that afternoon?”
“Well, let me see. For lunch—”
“You needn’t go back as far as lunch,” said Cornish. “Given in such quantity the drug would act quickly and suddenly. Tea. Go back to tea.”
“Well, we went into the marquee in the grounds. It was a terrible scrum in there, but we managed in the end to get a bun each and a cup of tea. We finished it as quickly as possible because it was very hot in the marquee and we came out again.”
“And that’s all she had, a bun and a cup of tea there?”
“That’s right, sir.”
“And after that you went into the house. Is that right?”
“Yes. The young lady came and said that Miss Marina Gregg would be very pleased to see my wife if she would like to come into the house. Of course my wife was delighted. She had been talking about Marina Gregg for days. Everybody was excited. Oh well, you know that, Inspector, as well as anyone does.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Cornish. “My wife was excited, too. Why, from all around people were paying their shilling to go in and see Gossington Hall and what had been done there, and hoped to catch a glimpse of Marina Gregg herself.”
“The young lady took us into the house,” said Arthur Badcock, “and up the stairs. That’s where the party was. On the landing up there. But it looked quite different from what it used to look like, so I understand. It was more like a room, a sort of big hollowed out place with chairs and tables with drinks on them. There were about ten or twelve people there, I suppose.”
Inspector Cornish nodded. “And you were received there—by whom?”
“By Miss Marina Gregg herself. Her husband was with her. I’ve forgotten his name now.”
“Jason Rudd,” said Inspector Cornish.
“Oh, yes, not that I noticed him at first. Well, anyway, Miss Gregg greeted Heather very nicely and seemed very pleased to see her, and Heather was talking and telling a story of how she’d once met Miss Gregg years ago in the West Indies and everything seemed as right as rain.”
“Everything seemed as right as rain,” echoed the inspector. “And then?”
“And then Miss Gregg said what would we have? And Miss Gregg’s husband, Mr. Rudd, got Heather a kind of cocktail, a dickery or something like that.”
“A daiquiri.”
“That’s right, sir. He brought two. One for her and one for Miss Gregg.”
“And you, what did you have?”
“I had a sherry.”
“I see. And you three stood there drinking together?”
“Well, not quite like that. You see there were more people coming up the stairs. There was the mayor, for one, and some other people—an American gentleman and lady, I think—so we moved off a bit.”
“And your wife drank her daiquiri then?”
“Well, no, not then, she didn’t.”
“Well, if she didn’t drink it then, when did she drink it?”
Arthur Badcock stood frowning in remembrance. “I think—she set it down on one of the tables. She saw some friends there. I think it was someone to do with the St. John Ambulance who’d driven over there from Much Benham or somewhere like that. Anyway they got to talking together.”
“And when did she drink her drink?”
Arthur Badcock again frowned. “It was a little after that,” he said. “It was getting rather more crowded by then. Somebody jogged Heather’s elbow and her glass got spilt.”
“What’s that?” Inspector Cornish looked up sharply. “Her glass was spilt?”
“Yes, that’s how I remember it… She’d picked it up and I think she took a little sip and made rather a face. She didn’t really like cocktails, you know, but all the same she wasn’t goi
ng to be downed by that. Anyway, as she stood there, somebody jogged her elbow and the glass spilled over. It went down her dress and I think it went on Miss Gregg’s dress too. Miss Gregg couldn’t have been nicer. She said it didn’t matter at all and it would make no stain and she gave Heather her handkerchief to wipe up Heather’s dress, and then she passed over the drink she was holding and said, ‘Have this, I haven’t touched it yet.’”
“She handed over her own drink, did she?” said the inspector. “You’re quite sure of that?”
Arthur Badcock paused a moment while he thought. “Yes, I’m quite sure of that,” he said.
“And your wife took the drink?”
“Well, she didn’t want to at first, sir. She said ‘Oh no, I couldn’t do that’ and Miss Gregg laughed and said, ‘I’ve had far too much to drink already.’”
“And so your wife took that glass and did what with it?”
“She turned away a little and drank it, rather quickly, I think. And then we walked a little way along the corridor looking at some of the pictures and the curtains. Lovely curtain stuff it was, like nothing we’d seen before. Then I met a pal of mine, Councillor Allcock, and I was just passing the time of day with him when I looked round and saw Heather was sitting on a chair looking rather odd, so I came to her and said, ‘What’s the matter?’ She said she felt a little queer.”
“What kind of queerness?”
“I don’t know, sir. I didn’t have time. Her voice sounded very queer and thick and her head was rolling a little. All of a sudden she made a great half gasp and her head fell forward. She was dead, sir, dead.”
Eight
I
“St. Mary Mead, you say?” Chief-Inspector Craddock looked up sharply.
The assistant commissioner was a little surprised.
“Yes,” he said, “St. Mary Mead. Why? Does it—”
“Nothing really,” said Dermot Craddock.
“It’s quite a small place, I understand,” went on the other. “Though of course there’s a great deal of building development going on there now. Practically all the way from St. Mary Mead to Much Benham, I understand. Hellingforth Studios,” he added, “are on the other side of St. Mary Mead, towards Market Basing.” He was still looking slightly inquiring. Dermot Craddock felt that he should perhaps explain.
The Complete Miss Marple Collection Page 146
