They Do It With Mirrors by Agatha Christie Read Free Book Online

dear,” she said.
    â€œIn London I was studying to be a doctor. They tampered with my exams—they altered the answers. They wanted me to fail. Theyfollowed me about the streets. They told things about me to my landlady. They hound me wherever I go.”
    â€œOh, but you can’t be sure of that,” said Miss Marple soothingly.
    â€œI tell you I know! Oh they’re very cunning. I never get a glimpse of them or find out who they are. But I shall find out … Mr. Serrocold took me away from London and brought me down here. He was kind—very kind. But even here, you know, I’m not safe. They’re here, too. Working against me. Making the others dislike me. Mr. Serrocold says that isn’t true—but Mr. Serrocold doesn’t know. Or else—I wonder—sometimes I’ve thought—”
    He broke off. He got up.
    â€œThis is all confidential,” he said. “You do understand that, don’t you? But if you notice anyone following me— spying, I mean—you might let me know who it is! ”
    He went away, then—neat, pathetic, insignificant. Miss Marple watched him and wondered….
    A voice spoke.
    â€œNuts,” it said. “Just nuts.”
    Walter Hudd was standing beside her. His hands were thrust deep in his pockets and he was frowning as he stared after Edgar’s retreating figure.
    â€œWhat kind of a joint is this, anyway?” he said. “They’re all bughouse, the whole lot of them.”
    Miss Marple said nothing and Walter went on.
    â€œThat Edgar guy—what do you make of him? Says his father’s really Lord Montgomery. Doesn’t seem likely to me! Not Monty! Not from all I’ve heard about him.”
    â€œNo,” said Miss Marple. “It doesn’t seem very likely.”
    â€œHe told Gina something quite different—some bunk about being really the heir to the Russian throne—said he was some Grand Duke’s son or other. Hell, doesn’t the chap know who his father really was?”
    â€œI should imagine not,” said Miss Marple. “That is probably just the trouble.”
    Walter sat down beside her, dropping his body onto the seat with a slack movement. He repeated his former statement.
    â€œThey’re all bughouse here.”
    â€œYou don’t like being at Stonygates?”
    The young man frowned.
    â€œI simply don’t get it—that’s all! I don’t get it. Take this place—the house—the whole setup. They’re rich, these people. They don’t need dough—they’ve got it. And look at the way they live. Cracked antique china and cheap plain stuff all mixed up. No proper upper class servants—just some casual hired help. Tapestries and drapes and chaircovers all satin and brocade and stuff—and it’s falling to pieces! Big silver tea urns and what do you know—all yellow and tarnished for want of cleaning. Mrs. Serrocold just doesn’t care. Look at that dress she had on last night. Darned under the arms, nearly worn out—and yet she could go to a store and order what she liked. Bond Street or whatever it is. Dough? They’re rolling in dough.”
    He paused and sat, deliberating.
    â€œI understand being poor. There’s nothing much wrong with it. If you’re young and strong and ready to work. I never had much money, but I was all set to get where I wanted. I was going to open a garage. I’d got a bit of money put by. I talked to Gina about it. She listened. She seemed to understand. I didn’t know much about her. All those girls in uniform, they look about the same. I mean youcan’t tell from looking at them who’s got dough and who hasn’t. I thought she was a cut above me, perhaps, education and all that. But it didn’t seem to matter. We fell for each other. We got married. I’d got my bit put by and Gina had some too, she told me. We were going to set up a gas