Fifteen
1
Miss Marple climbed the stairs and tapped on the door of Mrs. Serrocold’s
bedroom.
“May I come in, Carrie Louise?”
“Of course, Jane dear.”
Carrie Louise was sitting in front of the
dressing1 table, brushing her sil-
very hair. She turned her head over her shoulder.
“Is it the police? I’ll be ready in a few minutes.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, of course. Jolly insisted on my having my breakfast in bed. And
Gina came into the room with it on tiptoe as though I might be at death’s
door! I don’t think people realise that tragedies like
Christian2’s death are
much less shock to someone old. Because one knows by then how any-
thing may happen—and how little anything really matters that happens in
this world.”
“Don’t you feel the same, Jane? I should have thought you would.”
Miss Marple said slowly:
“Christian was murdered.”
“Yes … I see what you mean. You think that does matter?”
“Don’t you?”
“Not to Christian,” said Carrie Louise simply. “It matters, of course, to
whoever murdered him.”
“Have you any idea who murdered him?”
Mrs. Serrocold shook her head in a bewildered fashion.
“No, I’ve absolutely no idea. I can’t even think of a reason. It must have
been something to do with his being here before—just over a month ago.
Because otherwise I don’t think he would have come here suddenly again
for no particular reason. Whatever it was must have started off then. I’ve
thought and I’ve thought, but I can’t remember anything unusual.”
“Who was here in the house?”
“Oh! the same people who are here now—yes, Alex was down from Lon-
don about then. And—oh yes, Ruth was here.”
“Ruth?”
“Her usual flying visit.”
“Ruth,” said Miss Marple again. Her mind was active. Christian Gul-
brandsen and Ruth? Ruth had come away worried and
apprehensive4, but
had not known why. Something was wrong was all that Ruth could say.
Christian Gulbrandsen had also been worried and apprehensive, but
Christian Gulbrandsen had known or suspected something that Ruth did
not. He had known or suspected that someone was trying to poison Carrie
Louise. How had Christian Gulbrandsen come to entertain those suspi-
cions? What had he seen or heard? Was it something that Ruth also had
seen or heard but which she had failed to appreciate at its rightful signific-
ance? Miss Marple wished that she knew what it could possibly have been.
Her own vague
hunch5 that it (whatever it was) had to do with Edgar
Lawson seemed unlikely since Ruth had not even mentioned him.
She sighed.
“You’re all keeping something from me, aren’t you?” asked Carrie
Louise.
Miss Marple jumped a little as the quiet voice
spoke6.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because you are. Not Jolly. But everyone else. Even Lewis. He came in
while I was having my breakfast, and he acted very oddly. He drank some
of my coffee and even had a bit of toast and marmalade. That’s so unlike
him, because he always has tea, and he doesn’t like marmalade, so he
must have been thinking of something else—and I suppose he must have
forgotten to have his own breakfast. He does forget things like meals, and
“Murder—” began Miss Marple.
Carrie Louise said quickly:
“Oh, I know. It’s a terrible thing. I’ve never been mixed up in it before.
You have, haven’t you, Jane?”
“Well—yes—actually I have,” Miss Marple admitted.
“So Ruth told me.”
“Did she tell you that last time she was down here?” asked Miss Marple
“No, I don’t think it was then. I can’t really remember.”
Carrie Louise spoke
vaguely9, almost absentmindedly.
“What are you thinking about, Carrie Louise?”
Mrs. Serrocold smiled and seemed to come back from a long way away.
“I was thinking of Gina,” she said. “And of what you said about Stephen
Restarick. Gina’s a dear girl, you know, and she does really love Wally. I’m
sure she does.”
Miss Marple said nothing.
“Girls like Gina like to kick up their heels a bit.” Mrs. Serrocold spoke in
an almost pleading voice. “They’re young and they like to feel their power.
It’s natural, really. I know Wally Hudd isn’t the sort of man we imagined
Gina marrying. Normally she’d never have met him. But she did meet him,
and fell in love with him—and presumably she knows her own business
best.”
“Probably she does,” said Miss Marple.
“But it’s so very important that Gina should be happy.”
Miss Marple looked curiously at her friend.
“It’s important, I suppose, that everyone should be happy.”
“Oh yes. But Gina’s a very special case. When we took her mother—
when we took Pippa—we felt that it was an experiment that had simply
got to succeed. You see, Pippa’s mother—”
Carrie Louise paused.
Miss Marple said, “Who was Pippa’s mother?”
Carrie Louise said, “Eric and I agreed that we would never tell anybody
that. She never knew herself.”
“I’d like to know,” said Miss Marple.
Mrs. Serrocold looked at her doubtfully.
“It isn’t just curiosity,” said Miss Marple. “I really—well—need to know. I
can hold my tongue, you know.”
“You could always keep a secret, Jane,” said Carrie Louise with a remin-
iscent smile. “Dr. Galbraith—he’s the
Bishop10 of Cromer now—he knows.
But no one else. Pippa’s mother was Katherine Elsworth.”
“Elsworth? Wasn’t that the woman who administered
arsenic11 to her
“Yes.”
“She was hanged?”
“Yes. But you know it’s not at all sure that she did it. The husband was
an arsenic eater — they didn’t understand so much about those things
then.”
“She soaked flypapers.”
“The maid’s evidence, we always thought, was definitely
malicious13.”
“And Pippa was her daughter?”
“Yes. Eric and I
determined14 to give the child a fresh start in life—with
love and care and all the things a child needs. We succeeded. Pippa was—
herself. The sweetest, happiest creature imaginable.”
Miss Marple was silent a long time.
Carrie Louise turned away from the dressing table.
“I’m ready now. Perhaps you’ll ask the
Inspector15 or whatever he is to
come up to my sitting room. He won’t mind, I’m sure.”
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