Eleven
1
Gina greeted Miss Marple with a rush as the latter came down to breakfast
the next morning.
“The police are here again,” she said. “They’re in the library this time.
Wally is absolutely fascinated by them. He can’t understand their being so
quiet and so remote. I think he’s really quite thrilled by the whole thing.
I’m not. I hate it. I think it’s horrible. Why do you think I’m so upset? Be-
cause I’m half Italian?”
“Very possibly. At least perhaps it explains why you don’t mind showing
what you feel.”
Miss Marple smiled just a little as she said this.
“Jolly’s frightfully cross,” said Gina, hanging on Miss Marple’s arm and
propelling her into the dining room. “I think really because the police are
in charge and she can’t exactly ‘run’ them like she runs everybody else.
“Alex and Stephen,” continued Gina
severely1, as they came into the din-
ing room where the two brothers were finishing their breakfast, “just
don’t care.”
“Gina dearest,” said Alex, “you are most unkind. Good morning, Miss
Marple. I care intensely. Except for the fact that I hardly knew your Uncle
Christian2, I’m far and away the best suspect. You do realise that, I hope.”
“Why?”
“Well, I was driving up to the house at about the right time, it seems.
And they’ve been checking up on times and it seems that I took too much
time between the
lodge3 and the house—time enough, the implication is, to
leave the car, run round the house, go in through the side door, shoot
Christian and rush out and back to the car again.”
“And what were you really doing?”
“I thought little girls were taught quite young not to ask indelicate ques-
tions. Like an idiot, I stood for several minutes taking in the fog effect in
the headlights and thinking what I’d use to get that effect on a stage. For
my new ‘Limehouse’ ballet.”
“But you can tell them that!”
“Naturally. But you know what policemen are like. They say ‘thank you’
very civilly and write it all down, and you’ve no idea what they are think-
ing except that one does feel they have rather sceptical minds.”
“It would amuse me to see you in a spot, Alex,” said Stephen with his
thin, rather cruel smile. “Now I’m quite all right! I never left the Hall last
night.”
Gina cried, “But they couldn’t possibly think it was one of us!”
Her dark eyes were round and dismayed.
“Don’t say it must have been a tramp, dear,” said Alex,
helping4 himself
Miss Bellever looked in at the door and said:
“Miss Marple, when you have finished your breakfast, will you go to the
library?”
“You again,” said Gina. “Before any of us.”
She seemed a little injured.
“Hi, what was that?” asked Alex.
“Didn’t hear anything,” said Stephen.
“It was a pistol shot.”
“They’ve been firing shots in the room where Uncle Christian was
killed,” said Gina. “I don’t know why. And outside too.”
The door opened again and Mildred Strete came in. She was wearing
She murmured good morning without looking at anyone and sat down.
In a hushed voice she said:
“Some tea, please, Gina. Nothing much to eat—just some toast.”
She touched her nose and eyes delicately with the handkerchief she held
in one hand. Then she raised her eyes and looked in an un-seeing way at
the two brothers. Stephen and Alex became uncomfortable. Their voices
dropped to almost a whisper and presently they got up and left.
Mildred Strete said, whether to the universe or Miss Marple was not
quite certain, “Not even a black tie!”
“I don’t suppose,” said Miss Marple apologetically, “that they knew be-
forehand that a murder was going to happen.”
Gina made a
smothered7 sound and Mildred Strete looked sharply at her.
“Where’s Walter this morning?” she asked.
Gina flushed.
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him.”
She sat there uneasily like a guilty child.
Miss Marple got up.
“I’ll go to the library now,” she said.
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