2
seeing Mrs. Serrocold on her own territory.
As he stood there waiting for her, he looked round him
curiously3. It was
not his idea of what he termed to himself “a rich woman’s boudoir.”
It had an old-fashioned couch and some rather uncomfortable looking
Victorian chairs with twisted woodwork backs. The chintzes were old and
faded but of an attractive pattern displaying the Crystal Palace. It was one
of the smaller rooms, though even then it was larger than the drawing
room of most modern houses. But it had a
cosy5, rather crowded appear-
ance with its little tables, its bric-a-brac, and its photographs. Curry looked
at an old snapshot of two little girls, one dark and lively, the other plain,
and staring out sulkily on the world from under a heavy fringe. He had
seen that same expression that morning. “Pippa and Mildred” was written
on the photograph. There was a photograph of Eric Gulbrandsen hanging
on the wall, with a gold mount and a heavy ebony frame. Curry had just
found a photograph of a good- looking man with eyes crinkling with
laughter, whom he presumed was John Restarick, when the door opened
and Mrs. Serrocold came in.
She wore black, a floating and
diaphanous6 black. Her little pink-and-
white face looked unusually small under its crown of silvery hair, and
there was a
frailness7 about her that caught sharply at Inspector Curry’s
heart. He understood, at that moment, a good deal that had
perplexed8 him
earlier in the morning. He understood why people were so anxious to
spare Caroline Louise Serrocold everything that could be spared her.
And yet, he thought, she isn’t the kind that would ever make a fuss….
She greeted him, asked him to sit down, and took a chair near him. It
was less he who put her at her ease than she who put him at his. He star-
ted4 to ask his questions and she answered them readily and without hesit-
ation. The failure of the lights, the quarrel between Edgar Lawson and her
husband, the shot they had heard….
“It did not seem to you that the shot was in the house?”
“No, I thought it came from outside. I thought it might have been the
backfire of a car.”
“During the quarrel between your husband and this young fellow
Lawson in the study, did you notice anybody leaving the Hall?”
“Wally had already gone to see about the lights. Miss Bellever went out
shortly afterwards—to get something, but I can’t remember what.”
“Who else left the Hall?”
“Nobody, so far as I know.”
“Would you know, Mrs. Serrocold?”
She reflected a moment.
“No, I don’t think I should.”
“You were completely absorbed in what you could hear going on in the
study?”
“Yes.”
“No—no, I wouldn’t say that. I didn’t think anything would really hap-
pen.”
“But Lawson had a revolver?”
“Yes.”
“And was threatening your husband with it?”
“Yes. But he didn’t mean it.”
Inspector Curry felt his usual slight
exasperation10 at this statement. So
she was another of them!
“You can’t possibly have been sure of that, Mrs. Serrocold.”
“Well, but I was sure. In my own mind, I mean. What is it the young
people say—putting on an act? That’s what I felt it was. Edgar’s only a boy.
He was being melodramatic and silly and fancying himself as a bold des-
perate character. Seeing himself as the wronged hero in a romantic story.
I was quite sure he would never fire that revolver.”
“But he did fire it, Mrs. Serrocold.”
Carrie Louise smiled.
“I expect it went off by accident.”
Again exasperation mounted in Inspector Curry.
“It was not by accident. Lawson fired that revolver twice—and fired it at
your husband. The bullets only just missed him.”
Carrie Louise looked startled and then grave.
“I can’t really believe that. Oh yes—” she hurried on to
forestall11 the In-
spector’s protest. “Of course, I have to believe it, if you tell me so. But I still
feel there must be a simple explanation. Perhaps Dr.
Maverick12 can explain
it to me.”
“Oh yes, Dr. Maverick will explain it all right,” said Curry grimly. “Dr.
Maverick can explain anything. I’m sure of that.”
Unexpectedly Mrs. Serrocold said:
“I know that a lot of what we do here seems to you foolish and pointless,
and
psychiatrists13 can be very irritating sometimes. But we do achieve res-
ults, you know. We have our failures, but we have successes too. And what
we try to do is worth doing. And though you probably won’t believe it,
Edgar is really
devoted14 to my husband. He started this silly business about
Lewis’ being his father because he wants so much to have a father like
Lewis. But what I can’t understand is why he should suddenly get violent.
He had been so very much better—really practically normal. Indeed, he
has always seemed normal to me.”
The Inspector did not argue the point.
He said, “The revolver that Edgar Lawson had was one belonging to
your granddaughter’s husband. Presumably Lawson took it from Walter
Hudd’s room. Now tell me, have you ever seen this weapon before?”
On the palm of his hand he held out the small black automatic.
Carrie Louise looked at it.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“I found it in the piano stool. It has recently been fired. We haven’t had
time to check on it
fully15 yet, but I should say that it is almost certainly the
weapon with which Mr. Gulbrandsen was shot.”
She frowned.
“And you found it in the piano stool?”
“Under some very old music. Music that I should say had not been
played for years.”
“Hidden, then?”
“Yes. You remember who was at the piano last night?”
“Stephen Restarick.”
“He was playing?”
“When did he stop playing, Mrs. Serrocold?”
“When did he stop? I don’t know.”
“But he did stop? He didn’t go on playing all through the quarrel?”
“No. The music just died down.”
“Did he get up from the piano stool?”
“I don’t know. I’ve no idea what he did until he came over to the study
door to try and fit a key to it.”
“Can you think of any reason why Stephen Restarick should shoot Mr.
Gulbrandsen?”
“None whatever,” she added thoughtfully, “I don’t believe he did.”
“Gulbrandsen might have found something discreditable about him.”
“That seems to me very unlikely.”
Inspector Curry had a wild wish to reply:
“Pigs may fly but they’re very unlikely birds.” It had been a saying of his
grandmother’s. Miss Marple, he thought, was sure to know it.
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