Six
On the whole it was rather an exhausting day. Enthusiasm in itself can be
extremely wearing, Miss Marple thought. She felt
vaguely1 dissatisfied with
herself and her own reactions. There was a pattern here—perhaps several
patterns, and yet she herself could obtain no clear glimpse of it or them.
Any vague disquietude she felt centered round the pathetic but incon-
spicuous personality of Edgar Lawson. If she could only find in her
memory the right parallel.
Painstakingly2 she rejected the curious behaviour of Mr. Selkirk’s deliv-
ery van—the absentminded postman—the gardener who worked on Whit-
monday—and that very curious affair of the summer weight combina-
tions.
Something that she could not quite put her finger on was wrong about
Edgar Lawson—something that went beyond the observed and admitted
facts. But for the life of her, Miss Marple did not see how that wrongness,
whatever it was,
affected3 her friend Carrie Louise. In the confused pat-
terns of life at Stonygates, people’s troubles and desires impinged on each
other. But none of them (again as far as she could see) impinged on Carrie
Louise.
Carrie Louise … Suddenly Miss Marple realised that it was she alone, ex-
cept for the absent Ruth, who used that name. To her husband, she was
Caroline. To Miss Bellever, Cara. Stephen Restarick usually addressed her
as Madonna. To Wally she was formally Mrs. Serrocold, and Gina elected
to address her as Grandam — a mixture, she had explained, of Grande
Was there some significance, perhaps, in the various names that were
found for Caroline Louise Serrocold? Was she to all of them a symbol and
not quite a real person?
When on the following morning Carrie Louise, dragging her feet a little
as she walked, came and sat down on the garden seat beside her friend
and asked her what she was thinking about, Miss Marple replied
“You, Carrie Louise.”
“What about me?”
“Tell me honestly—is there anything here that worries you?”
“Worries me?” The other woman raised wondering, clear blue eyes.
“But, Jane, what should worry me?”
“Well, most of us have worries.” Miss Marple’s eyes twinkled a little. “I
have. Slugs, you know—and the difficulty of getting
linen6 properly darned
—and not being able to get sugar candy for making my damson gin. Oh,
lots of little things—it seems
unnatural7 that you shouldn’t have any wor-
ries at all.”
“I suppose I must have really,” said Mrs. Serrocold vaguely. “Lewis
works too hard, and Stephen forgets his meals slaving at the theatre and
Gina is very jumpy—but I’ve never been able to alter people—I don’t see
how you can. So it wouldn’t be any good worrying, would it?”
“Mildred’s not very happy, either, is she?”
“Oh no,” said Carrie Louise. “Mildred never is happy. She wasn’t as a
child. Quite unlike Pippa who was always radiant.”
“Perhaps,” suggested Miss Marple, “Mildred has cause not to be happy?”
Carrie Louise said quietly:
“Because of being jealous? Yes, I daresay. But people don’t really need a
cause for feeling what they do feel. They’re just made that way. Don’t you
think so, Jane?”
Miss Marple thought
briefly8 of Miss Moncrieff, a slave to a tyrannical in-
valid9 mother. Poor Miss Moncrieff who longed for travel and to see the
world. And of how St. Mary
Mead10 in a decorous way had rejoiced when
Mrs. Moncrieff was laid in the churchyard and Miss Moncrieff, with a nice
little income, was free at last. And of how Miss Moncrieff, starting on her
travels, had got no further than Hayéres where, calling to see one of
“mother’s oldest friends,” she had been so moved by the
plight11 of an eld-
erly hypochondriac that she had cancelled her travel reservations and
wistfully, once more, for the joys of a wider horizon.
Miss Marple said:
“I expect you’re right, Carrie Louise.”
“Of course, my being so free from cares is partly due to Jolly. Dear Jolly.
She came to me when Johnnie and I were just married and was wonderful
from the first. She takes care of me as though I were a baby and quite
helpless. She’d do anything for me. I feel quite ashamed sometimes. I
really believe Jolly would murder someone for me, Jane. Isn’t that an aw-
ful thing to say?”
“She’s certainly very devoted,” agreed Miss Marple.
“She gets so indignant.” Mrs. Serrocold’s silvery laugh rang out. “She’d
like me to be always ordering wonderful clothes, and surrounding myself
with luxuries, and she thinks everybody ought to put me first and to dance
attendance on me. She’s the one person who’s absolutely unimpressed by
Lewis’ enthusiasm. All our poor boys are, in her view,
pampered15 young
criminals and not worth taking trouble over. She thinks this place is damp
and bad for my
rheumatism16, and that I ought to go to Egypt or somewhere
warm and dry.”
“Do you suffer much from rheumatism?”
my legs. Oh well”— again there came that bewitching elfin smile, “age
must tell.”
Miss Bellever came out of the French windows and hurried across to
them.
“A telegram, Cara, just came over the telephone. Arriving this afternoon,
“Christian?” Carrie Louise looked very surprised. “I’d no idea he was in
England.”
“Yes, please, Jolly. Then there will be no stairs.”
Miss Bellever nodded and turned back to the house.
“Christian Gulbrandsen is my stepson,” said Carrie Louise. “Eric’s
eldest21
son. Actually he’s two years older than I am. Her’s one of the trustees of
the Institute — the principal trustee. How very annoying that Lewis is
away. Christian hardly ever stays longer than one night. He’s an im-
mensely busy man. And there are sure to be so many things they would
want to discuss.”
Christian Gulbrandsen arrived that afternoon in time for tea. He was a
big heavy featured man, with a slow methodical way of talking. He
greeted Carrie Louise with every sign of affection.
“And how is our little Carrie Louise? You do not look a day older. Not a
day.”
His hands on her shoulders — he stood smiling down at her. A hand
“Christian!”
“Ah”—he turned—“it is Mildred? How are you, Mildred?”
“I’ve not really been at all well lately.”
“That is bad. That is bad.”
There was a strong resemblance between Christian Gulbrandsen and his
half sister Mildred. There was nearly thirty years of difference in age and
they might easily have been taken for father and daughter. Mildred her-
self seemed particularly pleased by his arrival. She was flushed and talkat-
ive, and had talked repeatedly during the day of “my brother,” “my
brother Christian,” “my brother, Mr. Gulbrandsen.”
“And how is little Gina?” said Gulbrandsen, turning to that young wo-
man. “You and your husband are still here, then?”
“Yes. We’ve quite settled down, haven’t we, Wally?”
“Looks like it,” said Wally.
Gulbrandsen’s small shrewd eyes seemed to sum up Wally quickly.
Wally, as usual, looked
sullen23 and unfriendly.
“So here I am with all the family again,” said Gulbrandsen.
His voice displayed a rather
determined24 geniality—but in actual fact,
Miss Marple thought, he was not feeling particularly
genial25. There was a
grim set to his lips and a certain preoccupation in his manner.
Introduced to Miss Marple he swept a keen look over her as though
“We’d no idea you were in England, Christian,” said Mrs. Serrocold.
“No, I came over rather unexpectedly.”
“It is too bad that Lewis is away. How long can you stay?”
“I meant to go tomorrow. When will Lewis be back?”
“Tomorrow afternoon or evening.”
“It seems, then, that I must stay another night.”
“If you’d only let us know—”
“My dear Carrie Louise, my arrangements, they were made very sud-
denly.”
“You will stay to see Lewis?”
“Yes, it is necessary that I see Lewis.”
Miss Bellever said to Miss Marple, “Mr. Gulbrandsen and Mr. Serrocold
are both trustees of the Gulbrandsen Institute. The others are the
Bishop27
of Cromer and Mr. Gilroy.”
Presumably, then, it was on business concerned with the Gulbrandsen
Institute that Christian Gulbrandsen had come to Stonygates. It seemed to
be assumed so by Miss Bellever and everyone else. And yet Miss Marple
wondered.
Once or twice the old man cast a thoughtful puzzled look at Carrie
Louise when she was not aware of it—a look that puzzled Carrie Louise’s
watching friend. From Carrie Louise he shifted his gaze to the others, ex-
tinctly odd.
After tea Miss Marple withdrew tactfully from the others to the library,
but rather to her surprise when she had settled herself with her knitting,
Christian Gulbrandsen came in and sat down beside her.
“You are a very old friend, I think, of our dear Carrie Louise?” he said.
“We were at school together in Italy, Mr. Gulbrandsen. Many many
years ago.”
“Ah yes. And you are fond of her?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Miss Marple warmly.
“So, I think, is everyone. Yes, I truly think that. It should be so. For she is
a very dear and
enchanting30 person. Always, since my father married her, I
and my brothers have loved her very much. She has been to us like a very
dear sister. She was a faithful wife to my father and loyal to all his ideas.
She has never thought of herself, but put the welfare of others first.”
“She has always been an idealist,” said Miss Marple.
“An idealist? Yes. Yes, that is so. And therefore it may be that she does
not truly appreciate the evil that there is in the world.”
Miss Marple looked at him, surprised. His face was very stern.
“Tell me,” he said. “How is her health?”
Again Miss Marple felt surprised.
“She seems to me very well—apart from arthritis—or rheumatism.”
“Rheumatism? Yes. And her heart? Her heart is good?”
“As far as I know.” Miss Marple was still more surprised. “But until yes-
terday I had not seen her for many years. If you want to know the state of
her health, you should ask somebody in the house here. Miss Bellever, for
instance.”
“Miss Bellever—Yes, Miss Bellever. Or Mildred?”
“Or, as you say, Mildred.”
Miss Marple was faintly embarrassed.
Christian Gulbrandsen was staring at her very hard.
“There is not between the mother and daughter, a very great sympathy,
would you say?”
“No, I don’t think there is.”
“I agree. It is a pity—her only child, but there it is. Now this Miss Bel-
lever, you think, is really attached to her?”
“Very much so.”
“And Carrie Louise leans on this Miss Bellever?”
“I think so.”
Christian Gulbrandsen was frowning. He
spoke32 as though more to him-
self than to Miss Marple.
“There is the little Gina—but she is so young. It is difficult—” He broke
off. “Sometimes,” he said simply, “it is hard to know what is best to be
done. I wish very much to act for the best. I am particularly anxious that
no harm and no unhappiness should come to that dear lady. But it is not
easy—not easy at all.”
Mrs. Strete came into the room at that moment.
“Oh there you are, Christian. We were wondering where you were. Dr.
Maverick33 wants to know if you would like to go over anything with him.”
“That is the new young doctor here? No—no, I will wait until Lewis re-
turns.”
“He’s waiting in Lewis’ study. Shall I tell him—”
“I will have a word with him myself.”
Gulbrandsen hurried out. Mildred Strete stared after him and then
stared at Miss Marple.
“I wonder if anything is wrong. Christian is very unlike himself … Did he
say anything—”
“He only asked me about your mother’s health.”
“Her health? Why should he ask you about that?”
Mildred spoke sharply, her large square face flushing unbecomingly.
“I really don’t know.”
“Mother’s health is
perfectly34 good. Surprisingly so for a woman of her
age. Much better than mine as far as that goes.” She paused a moment be-
fore31 saying, “I hope you told him so?”
“I don’t really know anything about it,” said Miss Marple. “He asked me
about her heart.”
“Her heart?”
“Yes.”
“There’s nothing wrong with Mother’s heart. Nothing at all!”
“I’m delighted to hear you say so, my dear.”
“What on earth put all these queer ideas into Christian’s head?”
“I’ve no idea,” said Miss Marple.
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