The Mirror Crack'd - Agatha Christie [31]
Dermot Craddock laughed. ‘I’m glad to see you’re a realist, Mrs Bantry,’ he said. ‘As you say, it may have been something of that kind. But it’s certainly just one interesting little fact that might be a pointer.’
He shook his head and departed to present his official credentials in Much Benham.
Chapter 9
I
‘So locally you’ve drawn a blank?’ said Craddock, offering his cigarette case to Frank Cornish.
‘Completely,’ said Cornish. ‘No enemies, no quarrels, on good terms with her husband.’
‘No question of another woman or another man?’
The other shook his head. ‘Nothing of that kind. No hint of scandal anywhere. She wasn’t what you’d call the sexy kind. She was on a lot of committees and things like that and there were some small local rivalries, but nothing beyond that.’
‘There wasn’t anyone else the husband wanted to marry? No one in the office where he worked?’
‘He’s in Biddle & Russell, the estate agents and valuers. There’s Florrie West with adenoids, and Miss Grundle, who is at least fifty and as plain as a haystack — nothing much there to excite a man. Though for all that I shouldn’t be surprised if he did marry again soon.’
Craddock looked interested.
‘A neighbour,’ explained Cornish. ‘A widow. When I went back with him from the inquest she’d gone in and was making him tea and looking after him generally. He seemed surprised and grateful. If you ask me, she’s made up her mind to marry him, but he doesn’t know it yet, poor chap.’
‘What sort of a woman is she?’
‘Good looking,’ admitted the other. ‘Not young but handsome in a gipsyish sort of way. High colour. Dark eyes.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Bain. Mrs Mary Bain. Mary Bain. She’s a widow.’
‘What’d her husband do?’
‘No idea. She’s got a son working near here who lives with her. She seems a quiet, respectable woman. All the same, I’ve a feeling I’ve seen her before.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Ten to twelve. I’ve made an appointment for you at Gossington Hall at twelve o’clock. We’d best be going.’
II
Dermot Craddock’s eyes, which always looked gently inattentive, were in actuality making a close mental note of the features of Gossington Hall. Inspector Cornish had taken him there, had delivered him over to a young man called Hailey Preston, and had then taken a tactful leave. Since then, Dermot Craddock had been gently nodding at Mr Preston. Hailey Preston, he gathered, was a kind of public relations or personal assistant, or private secretary, or more likely, a mixture of all three, to Jason Rudd. He talked. He talked freely and at length without much modulation and managing miraculously not to repeat himself too often. He was a pleasant young man, anxious that his own views, reminiscent of those of Dr Pangloss that all was for the best in the best of all possible worlds, should be shared by anyone in whose company he happened to be. He said several times and in different ways what a terrible shame this had been, how worried everyone had been, how Marina was absolutely prostrated, how Mr Rudd was more upset than he could possibly say, how it absolutely beat anything that a thing like that should happen, didn’t it? Possibly there might have been some kind of allergy to some particular kind of substance? He just put that forward as an idea — allergies were extraordinary things. Chief-Inspector Craddock was to count on every possible co-operation that Hellingforth Studios or any of their staff could give. He was to ask any questions he wanted, go anywhere he liked. If they could help in any way they would do so. They all had had the greatest respect for Mrs Badcock and