The Mirror Crack'd From Side to Side

by Agatha Christie

  “What hell it is,” she said as she emerged again, “one never can find things when one wants them. I’ve got it now though.”

  She came across to him and put a glossy print into his hand. He looked down at it. It was a very good photograph of Marina Gregg. Her hand was clasped in the hand of a woman standing in front of her, and therefore with her back to the camera. But Marina Gregg was not looking at the woman. Her eyes stared not quite into the camera but slightly obliquely to the left. The interesting thing to Dermot Craddock was that the face expressed nothing whatever. There was no fear on it, no pain. The woman portrayed there was staring at something, something she saw, and the emotion it aroused in her was so great that she was physically unable to express it by any kind of facial expression. Dermot Craddock had seen such a look once on a man’s face, a man who a second later had been shot dead….

  “Satisfied?” asked Margot Bence.

  Craddock gave a deep sigh. “Yes, thank you. It’s hard, you know, to make up one’s mind if witnesses are exaggerating, if they are imagining they see things. But that’s not so in this case. There was something to see and she saw it.” He asked, “Can I keep this picture?”

  “Oh, yes you can have the print. I’ve got the negative.”

  “You didn’t send it to the Press?”

  Margot Bence shook her head.

  “I rather wonder why you didn’t. After all, it’s rather a dramatic photograph. Some paper might have paid a good price for it.”

  “I wouldn’t care to do that,” said Margot Bence. “If you look into somebody’s soul by accident, you feel a bit embarrassed about cashing in.”

  “Did you know Marina Gregg at all?”

  “No.”

  “You come from the States, don’t you?”

  “I was born in England. I was trained in America though. I came over here, oh, about three years ago.”

  Dermot Craddock nodded. He had known the answers to his questions. They had been waiting for him among the other lists of information on his office table. The girl seemed straightforward enough. He asked:

  “Where did you train?”

  “Reingarden Studios. I was with Andrew Quilp for a time. He taught me a lot.”

  “Reingarden Studios and Andrew Quilp.” Dermot Craddock was suddenly alert. The names struck a chord of remembrance.

  “You lived in Seven Springs, didn’t you?”

  She looked amused.

  “You seem to know a lot about me. Have you been checking up?”

  “You’re a very well-known photographer, Miss Bence. There have been articles written about you, you know. Why did you come to England?”

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  “Oh, I like a change. Besides, as I tell you, I was born in England although I went to the States as a child.”

  “Quite a young child, I think.”

  “Five years old if you’re interested.”

  “I am interested. I think, Miss Bence, you could tell me a little more than you have done.”

  Her face hardened. She stared at him.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  Dermot Craddock looked at her and risked it. It wasn’t much to go on. Reingarden Studios and Andrew Quilp and the name of one town. But he felt rather as if old Miss Marple were at his shoulder egging him on.

  “I think you knew Marina Gregg better than you say.”

  She laughed. “Prove it. You’re imagining things.”

  “Am I? I don’t think I am. And it could be proved, you know, with a little time and care. Come now, Miss Bence, hadn’t you better admit the truth? Admit that Marina Gregg adopted you as a child and that you lived with her for four years.”

  She drew her breath in sharply with a hiss.

  “You nosy bastard!” she said.

  It startled him a little, it was such a contrast to her former manner. She got up, shaking her black head of hair.

  “All right, all right, it’s true enough! Yes Marina Gregg took me over to America with her. My mother had eight kids. She lived in a slum somewhere. She was one of hundreds of people, I suppose, who wrote to any film actress that they happen to see or hear about, spilling a hard-luck story, begging her to adopt the child a mother couldn’t give advantages to. Oh, it’s such a sickening business, all of it.”

  “There were three of you,” said Dermot. “Three children adopted at different times from different places.”

  “That’s right. Me and Rod and Angus. Angus was older than I was, Rod was practically a baby. We had a wonderful life. Oh, a wonderful life! All the advantages!” Her voice rose mockingly. “Clothes and cars and a wonderful house to live in and people to look after us, good schooling and teaching, and delicious food. Everything piled on! And she herself, our ‘Mom.’ ‘Mom’ in inverted commas, playing her part, crooning over us, being photographed with us! Ah, such a pretty sentimental picture.”

  “But she really wanted children,” said Dermot Craddock. “That was real enough, wasn’t it? It wasn’t just a publicity stunt.”

  “Oh, perhaps. Yes, I think that was true. She wanted children. But she didn’t want us! Not really. It was just a glorious bit of playacting. ‘My family.’ ‘So lovely to have a family of my own.’ And Izzy let her do it. He ought to have known better.”

  “Izzy was Isidore Wright?”

  “Yes, her third husband or her fourth, I forget which. He was a wonderful man really. He understood her, I think, and he was worried sometimes about us. He was kind to us, but he didn’t pretend to be a father. He didn’t feel like a father. He only cared really about his own writing. I’ve read some of his things since. They’re sordid and rather cruel, but they’re powerful. I think people will call him a great writer one day.”

  “And this went on until when?”

  Margot Bence’s smile curved suddenly. “Until she got sick of that particular bit of playacting. No, that’s not quite true… She found she was going to have a child of her own.”

  She laughed with sudden bitterness. “Then we’d had it! We weren’t wanted anymore. We’d done very well as little stopgaps, but she didn’t care a damn about us really, not a damn. Oh, she pensioned us off very prettily. With a home and a foster-mother and money for our education and a nice little sum to start us off in the world. Nobody can say that she didn’t behave correctly and handsomely. But she’d never wanted us—all she wanted was a child of her own.”

  “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 dri
fted 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 plenty 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 m
usical 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.