The Mirror Crack'd Page #9

This is the spot where it happened,

which makes it

so much easier to understand.

It's very simple, if only

one looks at it the proper way.

It all began, you see, with the kind

of person that Heather Babcock was.

Damn it, that's enough!

The two of you come busting

into my house. I want you out. Now!

Perhaps you should call the police,

Mr Rudd.

Let us go back, shall we,

to the moment when

Heather greets Miss Gregg

and launches into

her efiusive little tale?

Poor Miss Gregg listened patiently

as Heather rattled on,

or at least she appeared to.

And then suddenly

Marina turned her head away.

A strange look came over her face.

A look of doom.

It had nothing to do

with Lola Brewster's arrival.

Marina wasn't even looking at her

or poor Heather.

She was looking at the Madonna.

A picture of a serene mother

holding a beautiful happy baby.

I still don't see the connection.

Of course not, you don't know

what Heather actually said.

Yes, but haven't we

been through all that last night?

She got out of bed, powdered her nose,

slipped out of the barracks

determined to see her idol

then proceeded to the theatre

where some relative let her in

and allowed her to watch

from the wings.

I still don't see where that gets us.

Neither did I.

And then I thought of the vicar.

I telephoned him in the middle

of the night. I wasn't at all popular.

He remembered Heather's convalescence.

She had been ill and spent her sick

leave in the village with her mother.

You see,

when Heather Babcock

went to the theatre that evening,

she was infectious.

She was suffering from rubella.

More commonly known

as German measles.

Your wife had a child

that was born mentally retarded.

She never recovered from the shock.

Marina... contracted German measles

during the pregnancy.

And she never knew how.

And then one afternoon, a perfect

stranger tells her with pleasure,

with pride even, what she has done.

And you let me kiss you.

Oh, yes, you did!

What a nice little story, dear.

- Now, can I get you a drink?

- Oh, thank you, yes.

A rather perfect murder.

Not exactly as Cherry described it.

I was wrong about one thing.

I deduced that one of the guests

at the party

took the risk of putting

the poison in the glass.

But it was unnecessary.

No one would have noticed

the hostess taking a momentary leave

of absence to visit her bathroom

to prepare the fetal potion.

As an actress used to handling props,

she would have had no trouble

jogging Heather's elbow,

accidentally spilling her drink

and offering her her own.

Marina had to insist that

she was the intended victim,

that the murder was aimed at her

to support her plot.

She wrote the notes herself

Even doctored her coffee at the studio.

It deceived nearly everybody. Nearly.

But one person saw through it.

You knew, didn't you, Mr Rudd?

It was the notes

that made you finally realise.

The notes your wife forgot

to tell you about.

If they had been real,

she would have informed you at once.

So you decided to protect her.

Mr Rudd,

I'd like to speak to your wife.

Would you mind

if I saw her first?

Thank you, dear. Mr Rudd.

- Miss Marple.

- Yes, Mr Rudd?

She's dead.

I rather suspected as much.

Couldn't you?

I killed her.

I put poison in

her hot chocolate last night.

It was inevitable

she would have been discovered.

I couldn't let her face the humiliation.

She's suffered enough.

You must have loved her very much.

Mr Rudd,

I think you better come in here.

Marina?

Mr Rudd.

She's given

the performance of her life.

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