2
“I see you’ve been victimised by that terrible young man,” said Mrs. Strete,
rather breathlessly, as she sank down on the seat. “What a tragedy that
is.”
“A tragedy?”
“Gina’s marriage. It all came about from sending her off to America. I
told Mother at the time it was most unwise. After all, this is quite a quiet
district. We had hardly any raids here. I do so dislike the way many
people gave way to panic about their families—and themselves, too, very
often.”
“It must have been difficult to decide what was right to do,” said Miss
Marple thoughtfully. “Where children were concerned, I mean. With the
prospect1 of possible invasion, it might have meant their being brought up
under a German regime—as well as the danger of bombs.”
“All nonsense,” said Mrs. Strete. “I never had the least doubt that we
should win. But Mother has always been quite
unreasonable2 where Gina
is concerned. The child was always spoilt and indulged in every way.
There was absolutely no need to take her away from Italy in the first
place.”
“Her father raised no objection, I understand?”
“Oh San Severiano! You know what Italians are. Nothing matters to
them but money. He married Pippa for her money, of course.”
“Dear me. I always understood he was very
devoted3 to her and was
quite inconsolable at her death.”
marrying a foreigner, I can’t imagine. Just the usual American pleasure in
a title, I suppose.”
Miss Marple said mildly:
“I have always thought that dear Carrie Louise was almost too un-
worldly in her attitude to life.”
“Oh I know. I’ve no patience with it. Mother’s
fads5 and
whims6 and ideal-
istic projects. You’ve no idea, Aunt Jane, of all that it has meant. I can
speak with knowledge, of course. I was brought up in the middle of it all.”
It was with a very faint shock that Miss Marple heard herself addressed
as Aunt Jane. And yet that had been the convention of those times. Her
Christmas presents to Carrie Louise’s children were always labelled “With
love from Aunt Jane” and as “Aunt Jane” they thought of her, when they
thought of her at all. Which was not, Miss Marple supposed, very often.
She looked thoughtfully at the
middle-aged7 woman sitting beside her. At
the pursed tight mouth, the deep lines from the nose down, the hands
tightly pressed together.
She said gently:
“You must have had—a difficult childhood.”
Mildred Strete turned eager grateful eyes to her.
“Oh I’m so glad that somebody appreciates that. People don’t really
know what children go through. Pippa, you see, was the pretty one. She
was older than I was, too. It was always she who got all the attention. Both
Father and Mother encouraged her to push herself forward—not that she
needed any encouragement—to show off. I was always the quiet one. I
was shy—Pippa didn’t know what shyness was. A child can suffer a great
deal, Aunt Jane.”
“I know that,” said Miss Marple.
“‘Mildred’s so stupid’—that’s what Pippa used to say. But I was younger
than she was. Naturally I couldn’t be expected to keep up with her in les-
sons. And it’s very unfair on a child when her sister is always put in front
of her.
“‘What a lovely little girl,’ people used to say to Mamma. They never no-
ticed me. And it was Pippa that Papa used to joke and play with. Someone
ought to have seen how hard it was on me. All the notice and attention go-
ing to her. I wasn’t old enough to realise that it’s character that matters.”
Her lips trembled, then hardened again.
“And it was unfair—really unfair—I was their own child. Pippa was only
adopted. I was the daughter of the house. She was—nobody.”
“Probably they were extra indulgent to her on that account,” said Miss
Marple.
“They liked her best,” said Mildred Strete. And added: “A child whose
own parents didn’t want her—or more probably illegitimate.”
She went on:
“It’s come out in Gina. There’s bad blood there. Blood will tell. Lewis can
have what theories he likes about environment. Bad blood does tell. Look
at Gina.”
“Gina is a very lovely girl,” said Miss Marple.
“Hardly in behaviour,” said Mrs. Strete. “Everyone but Mother notices
how she is carrying on with Stephen Restarick. Quite disgusting, I call it.
Admittedly she made a very unfortunate marriage, but marriage is mar-
riage and one should be prepared to
abide8 by it. After all, she chose to
marry that dreadful young man.”
“Is he so dreadful?”
“Oh dear, Aunt Jane! He really looks to me quite like a
gangster9. And so
surly and rude. He hardly opens his mouth. And he always looks so dirty
“He is unhappy, I think,” said Miss Marple mildly.
“I really don’t know why he should be—apart from Gina’s behaviour, I
mean. Everything has been done for him here. Lewis has suggested sev-
eral ways in which he could try to make himself useful—but he prefers to
skulk11 about doing nothing.” She burst out, “Oh this whole place is impos-
sible—quite impossible. Lewis thinks of nothing but these horrible young
criminals. And Mother thinks of nothing but him. Everything Lewis does is
right. Look at the state of the garden—the weeds—the overgrowth. And
the house—nothing properly done. Oh, I know a domestic staff is difficult
nowadays, but it can be got. It’s not as though there were any shortage of
money. It’s just that nobody cares. If it were my house—” She stopped.
“I’m afraid,” said Miss Marple, “that we have all to face the fact that con-
ditions are different. These large establishments are a great problem. It
must be sad for you, in a way, to come back here and find everything so
different. Do you really prefer living here to—well—somewhere of your
own?”
Mildred Strete flushed.
“After all, it’s my home,” she said. “It was my father’s house. Nothing
can alter that. I’ve a right to be here if I choose. And I do choose. If only
Mother were not so impossible! She won’t even buy herself proper clothes.
It worries Jolly a lot.”
“I was going to ask you about Miss Bellever.”
“Such a comfort having her here. She adores Mother. She’s been with
her a long time now—she came in John Restarick’s time. And was wonder-
ful, I believe, during the whole sad business. I expect you heard that he
ran away with a dreadful Yugoslavian woman — a most abandoned
creature. She’s had any amount of lovers, I believe. Mother was very fine
and
dignified12 about it all. Divorced him as quietly as possible. Even went
so far as to have the Restarick boys for their holidays—quite unnecessary,
really, other arrangements could have been made. It would have been un-
thinkable, of course, to have let them go to their father and that woman.
Anyway, Mother had them here … And Miss Bellever stood by all through
things and was a tower of strength. I sometimes think she makes Mother
even more vague than she need be, by doing all the practical things her-
self. But I really don’t know what Mother would do without her.”
She paused and then remarked in a tone of surprise:
“Here is Lewis. How odd. He seldom comes out in the garden.”
Mr. Serrocold came towards them in the same single-minded way that
he did everything. He appeared not to notice Mildred, because it was only
Miss Marple who was in his mind.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I wanted to take you round our institution and
show you everything. Caroline asked me to. Unfortunately I have to go off
to Liverpool. The case of that boy and the railways parcels office. But Mav-
erick will take you. He’ll be here in a few minutes. I shan’t be back until
the day after tomorrow. It will be splendid if we can get them not to pro-
secute.”
Mildred Strete got up and walked away. Lewis Serrocold did not notice
her go. His earnest eyes gazed at Miss Marple through thick glasses.
“You see,” he said, “the
Magistrates13 nearly always take the wrong view.
Sometimes they’re too severe, but sometimes they’re too
lenient14. If these
boys get a sentence of a few months it’s no deterrent—they get a kind of a
kick out of it, even. Boast about it to their girlfriends. But a severe sen-
tence often sobers them. They realise that the game isn’t worth it. Or else
it’s better not to serve a prison sentence at all. Corrective training—con-
structional training like we have here.”
Miss Marple burst firmly into speech.
“Mr. Serrocold,” she said. “Are you quite satisfied about young Mr.
Lawson? Is he—is he quite normal?”
A disturbed expression appeared on Lewis Serrocold’s face.
“I do hope he’s not relapsing. What has he been saying?”
“He told me that he was Winston Churchill’s son—”
“Of course—of course. The usual statements. He’s illegitimate, as you’ve
probably guessed, poor lad, and of very
humble15 beginnings. He was a case
recommended to me by a society in London. He’d assaulted a man in the
street who he said was spying on him. All very typical—Dr.
Maverick16 will
tell you. I went into his case history. Mother was of a poor class but a re-
spectable family in Plymouth. Father a sailor—she didn’t even know his
name … child brought up in difficult circumstances. Started romancing
about his father and later about himself. Wore uniform and decorations
he wasn’t entitled to—all quite typical. But Maverick considers the pro-
gnosis hopeful. If we can give him confidence in himself. I’ve given him
responsibility here, tried to make him appreciate that it’s not a man’s birth
that matters, but what he is. I’ve tried to give him confidence in his own
ability. The improvement was marked. I was very happy about him. And
now you say—”
He shook his head.
“Mightn’t he be dangerous, Mr. Serrocold?”
“Dangerous? I don’t think he has shown any suicidal tendencies.”
“I wasn’t thinking of suicide. He talked to me of enemies—of persecu-
tion. Isn’t that, forgive me—a dangerous sign?”
“I don’t really think it has reached such a pitch. But I’ll speak to Maver-
ick. So far, he has been hopeful—very hopeful.”
He looked at his watch.
“I must go. Ah, here is our dear Jolly. She will take charge of you.”
Miss Bellever, arriving briskly, said, “The car is at the door, Mr. Serro-
cold. Dr. Maverick rang through from the Institute. I said I would bring
Miss Marple over. He will meet us at the gates.”
“In the car, Mr. Serrocold.”
Lewis Serrocold hurried away. Looking after him, Miss Bellever said:
“Someday that man will drop down dead in his tracks. It’s against hu-
man nature never to relax or rest. He only sleeps four hours a night.”
“He is very devoted to this cause,” said Miss Marple.
“Never thinks of anything else,” said Miss Bellever grimly. “Never
dreams of looking after his wife or considering her in any way. She’s a
sweet creature, as you know, Miss Marple, and she ought to have love and
attention. But nothing’s thought of or considered here except a lot of whin-
ing boys and young men who want to live easily and dishonestly and don’t
care about the idea of doing a little hard work. What about the decent
boys from decent homes? Why isn’t something done for them? Honesty
just isn’t interesting to cranks like Mr. Serrocold and Dr. Maverick and all
the bunch of half-baked sentimentalists we’ve got here. I and my brothers
were brought up the hard way, Miss Marple, and we weren’t encouraged
to
whine18. Soft, that’s what the world is nowadays!”
They had crossed the garden and passed through a palisaded gate and
had come to the entrance gate which Eric Gulbrandsen had
erected19 as an
entrance to his College, a sturdily built,
hideous20, red brick building.
Dr. Maverick, looking, Miss Marple
decided21, distinctly abnormal him-
self, came out to meet them.
“Thank you, Miss Bellever,” he said. “Now, Miss — er — oh yes, Miss
Marple—I’m sure you’re going to be interested in what we’re doing here.
In our splendid approach to this great problem. Mr. Serrocold is a man of
great insight—great vision. And we’ve got Sir John Stillwell behind us—my
old chief. He was at the Home Office until he
retired22, and his influence
turned the scales in getting this started. It’s a medical problem — that’s
what we’ve got to get the legal authorities to understand.
Psychiatry23 came
into its own in the war. The one positive good that did come out of it—
Now first of all I want you to see our initial approach to the problem. Look
up—”
Miss Marple looked up at the words carved over the large arched door-
way.
RECOVER HOPE ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE
“Isn’t that splendid? Isn’t that just the right note to strike? You don’t want
to scold these lads—or punish them. That’s what they’re hankering after
half the time, punishment. We want to make them feel what fine fellows
they are.”
“Like Edgar Lawson?” said Miss Marple.
“Interesting case, that. Have you been talking to him?”
“He has been talking to me,” said Miss Marple. She added apologetically,
“I wondered if, perhaps, he isn’t a little mad?”
Dr. Maverick laughed cheerfully.
“We’re all mad, dear lady,” he said as he
ushered24 her in through the
door. “That’s the secret of existence. We’re all a little mad.”
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