The Mirror Crack'd: from Side to Side by Agatha Christie Page B

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 anyway they would do so. They all had had the greatest respect for Mrs. Badcock and appreciated her strong social sense and the valuable work she had done for the St. John Ambulance Association.
    He then started again, not in the same words but using the same motifs. No one could have been more eagerly co-operative. At the same time he endeavoured to convey how very far this was from the cellophane world of studios; and Mr. Jason Rudd and Miss Marina Gregg, or any of the people in the house who surely were going to do their utmost to help in anyway they possibly could. Then he nodded gently some forty-four times. Dermot Craddock took advantage of the pause to say:
    â€œThank you very much.”
    It was said quietly but with a kind of finality that brought Mr. Hailey Preston up with a jerk. He said:
    â€œWell—” and paused inquiringly.
    â€œYou said I might ask questions?”
    â€œSure. Sure. Fire ahead.”
    â€œIs this the place where she died?”
    â€œMrs. Badcock?”
    â€œMrs. Badcock. Is this the place?”
    â€œYes, sure. Right here. At least, well actually I can show you the chair.”
    They were standing on the landing recess. Hailey Preston walked a short way along the corridor and pointed out a rather phony-looking oak armchair.
    â€œShe was sitting right there,” he said. “She said she didn’t feel well. Someone went to get her something, and then she just died, right there.”
    â€œI see.”
    â€œI don’t know if she’d seen a physician lately. If she’d been warned that she had anything wrong with her heart—”
    â€œShe had nothing wrong with her heart,” said Dermot Craddock. “She was a healthy woman. She died of six times the maximum dose of a substance whose official name I will not try to pronounce but which I understand is generally known as Calmo.”
    â€œI know, I know,” said Hailey Preston. “I take it myself sometimes.”
    â€œIndeed? That’s very interesting. You find it has a good effect?”
    â€œMarvellous. Marvellous. It bucks you up and it soothes you down, if you understand what I mean. Naturally,” he added, “you would have to take it in the proper dosage.”
    â€œWould there be supplies of this substance in the house?”
    He knew the answer to the question, but he put it as though he did not. Hailey Preston’s answer was frankness itself.
    â€œLoads of it, I should say. There’ll be a bottle of it in most of the bathroom cupboards here.”
    â€œWhich doesn’t make our task easier.”
    â€œOf course,” said Hailey Preston,