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“Inspector Cornish?” said Dermot.
“That’s right.”
“We were called in later.”
“You’re from Scotland Yard?”
“Yes.”
“You butted in and took over from the local people. Is that it?”
“Well, it isn’t quite a question of butting in, you know. It’s up to the Chief Constable of the County to decide whether he wants to keep it in his own hands or whether he thinks it’ll be better handled by us.”
“What makes him decide?”
“It very often turns on whether the case has a local background or whether it’s a more—universal one. Sometimes, perhaps, an international one.”
“And he decided, did he, that this was an international one?”
“Transatlantic, perhaps, would be a better word.”
“They’ve been hinting that in the papers, haven’t they? Hinting that the killer, whoever he was, was out to get Marina Gregg and got some wretched local woman by mistake. Is that true or is it a bit of publicity for their film?”
“I’m afraid there isn’t much doubt about it, Miss Bence.”
“What do you want to ask me? Have I got to come to Scotland Yard?”
He shook his head. “Not unless you like. We’ll go back to your studio if you prefer.”
“All right, let’s do that. My car’s just up the street.”
She walked rapidly along the footpath. Dermot went with her. Jethroe called after them.
“So long darling, I won’t butt in. I’m sure you and the Inspector are going to talk big secrets.” He joined the two models on the pavement and began an animated discussion with them.
Margot got into the car, unlocked the door on the other side, and Dermot Craddock got in beside her. She said nothing at all during the drive back to Tottenham Court Road. She turned down the cul-de-sac and at the bottom of it drove through an open doorway.
“Got my own parking place here,” she remarked. “It’s a furniture depository place really, but they rent me a bit of space. Parking a car is one of the big headaches in London, as you probably know only too well, though I don’t suppose you deal with traffic, do you?”
“No, that’s not one of my troubles.”
“I should think murder would be infinitely preferable,” said Margot Bence.
She led the way back to the studio, motioned him to a chair, offered him a cigarette and sank down on the large pouffe opposite him. From behind the curtain of dark hair she looked at him in a sombre questioning way.
“Shoot, stranger,” she said.
“You were taking photographs on the occasion of this death, I understand.”
“Yes.”
“You’d been engaged professionally?”
“Yes. They wanted someone to do a few specialized shots. I do quite a lot of that stuff. I do some work for film studios sometimes, but this time I was just taking photographs of the fête, and afterwards a few shots of special people being greeted by Marina Gregg and Jason Rudd. Local notabilities or other personalities. That sort of thing.”
“Yes. I understand that. You had your camera on the stairs, I understand?”
“A part of the time, yes. I got a very good angle from there. You get people coming up the stairs below you and you could swivel round and get Marina shaking hands with them. You could get a lot of different angles without having to move much.”
“I know, of course, that you answered some questions at the time as to whether you’d seen anything unusual, anything that might be helpful. They were general questions.”
“Have you got more specialized ones?”
“A little more specialized, I think. You had a good view of Marina Gregg from where you were standing?”
She nodded. “Excellent.”
“And of Jason Rudd?”
“Occasionally. But he was moving about more. Drinks and things and introducing people to one another. The locals to the celebrities. That kind of thing, I should imagine. I didn’t see this Mrs. Baddeley—”
“Badcock.”
“Sorry, Badcock. I didn’t see her drink the fatal draught or anything like that. In fact I don’t think I really know which she was.”
“Do you remember the arrival of the mayor?”
“Oh, yes. I remember the mayor all right. He had on his chain and his robes of office. I got one of him coming up the stairs—a close-up—rather a cruel profile, and then I got him shaking hands with Marina.”
“Then you can fix that time at least in your mind. Mrs. Badcock and her husband came up the stairs to Marina Gregg immediately in front of him.”
She shook her head. “Sorry. I still don’t remember her.”
“That doesn’t matter so much. I presume that you had a pretty good view of Marina Gregg and that you had your eyes on her and were pointing the camera at her fairly often.”
“Quite right. Most of the time. I’d wait till I got just the right moment.”
“Do you know a man called Ardwyck Fenn by sight?”
“Oh yes. I know him well enough. Television network—films too.”
“Did you take a photograph of him?”
“Yes. I got him coming up with Lola Brewster.”
“That would be just after the mayor?”
She thought a minute then agreed. “Yes, about then.”
“Did you notice that about that time Marina Gregg seemed to feel suddenly ill? Did you notice any unusual expression on her face?”
Margot Bence leant forward, opened a cigarette box and took out a cigarette. She lit it. Although she had not answered Dermot did not press her. He waited, wondering what it was she was turning over in her mind. She said at last, abruptly:
“Why do you ask me that?”
“Because it’s a question to which I am very anxious to have an answer—a reliable answer.”
“Do you think my answer’s likely to be reliable?”
“Yes I do, as a matter of fact. You must have the habit of watching people’s faces very closely, waiting for certain expressions, certain propitious moments.”
She nodded her head.
“Did you see anything of that kind?”
“Somebody else saw it too, did they?”
“Yes. More than one person, but it’s been described rather differently.”
“How did the other people describe it?”
“One person has told me that she was taken faint.”
Margot Bence shook her head slowly.
“Someone else said that she was startled.” He paused a moment then went on, “And somebody else describes her as having a frozen look on her face.”
“Frozen,” said Margot Bence thoughtfully.
“Do you agree to that last statement?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps.”
“It was put rather more fancifully still,” said Dermot. “In the words of the late poet, Tennyson. ‘The mirror crack’d from side to side; “The doom has come upon me,” cried the Lady of Shalott.’”
“There wasn’t any mirror,” said Margot Bence, “but if there had been it might have cracked.” She got up abruptly. “Wait,” she said. “I’ll do something better than describe it to you. I’ll show you.”
She pushed aside the curtain at the far end and disappeared for some moments. He could hear her uttering impatient mutterings under her breath.
