They Do It With Mirrors Read Free Page B

the head of a very celebrated firm of chartered accountants. I think he met her first over some question of the finances of the Gulbrandsen Trust and the College. He was well off, just about herown age, and a man of absolutely upright life. But he was a crank. He was absolutely rabid on the subject of the redemption of young criminals.”
    Ruth Van Rydock sighed.
    â€œAs I said just now, Jane, there are fashions in philanthropy. In Gulbrandsen’s time it was education. Before that it was soup kitchens—”
    Miss Marple nodded.
    â€œYes, indeed. Port wine jelly and calf’s head broth taken to the sick. My mother used to do it.”
    â€œThat’s right. Feeding the body gave way to feeding the mind. Everyone went mad on educating the lower classes. Well, that’s passed. Soon, I expect, the fashionable thing to do will be not to educate your children, preserve their illiteracy carefully until they’re eighteen. Anyway the Gulbrandsen Trust and Education Fund was in some difficulties because the state was taking over its functions. Then Lewis came along with his passionate enthusiasm about constructive training for juvenile delinquents. His attention had been drawn to the subject first in the course of his profession—auditing accounts where ingenious young men had perpetrated frauds. He was more and more convinced that juvenile delinquents were not subnormal—that they had excellent brains and abilities and only needed the right direction.”
    â€œThere is something in that,” said Miss Marple. “But it is not entirely true. I remember—”
    She broke off and glanced at her watch.
    â€œOh dear—I mustn’t miss the 6:30.”
    Ruth Van Rydock said urgently:
    â€œAnd you will go to Stonygates?”
    Gathering up her shopping bag and her umbrella Miss Marple said:
    â€œIf Carrie Louise asks me—”
    â€œShe will ask you. You’ll go? Promise, Jane?”
    Jane Marple promised.

Three
    M iss Marple got out of the train at Market Kindle station. A kindly fellow passenger handed out her suitcase after her, and Miss Marple, clutching a string bag, a faded leather handbag and some miscellaneous wraps, uttered appreciative twitters of thanks.
    â€œSo kind of you, I’m sure … So difficult nowadays—not many porters. I get so flustered when I travel.”
    The twitters were drowned by the booming noise of the station announcer saying loudly but indistinctly that the 3:18 was standing at Platform 1 and was about to proceed to various unidentifiable stations.
    Market Kindle was a large empty windswept station with hardly any passengers or railway staff to be seen on it. Its claim to distinction lay in having six platforms and a bay where a very small train of one carriage was puffing importantly.
    Miss Marple, rather more shabbily dressed than was her custom (so lucky that she hadn’t given away the old speckledy), was peering around her uncertainly when a young man came up to her.
    â€œMiss Marple?” he said. His voice had an unexpectedly dramatic quality about it, as though the utterance of her name were the first words of a part he was playing in amateur theatricals. “I’ve come to meet you—from Stonygates.”
    Miss Marple looked gratefully at him, a charming helpless looking old lady with, if he had chanced to notice it, very shrewd blue eyes. The personality of the young man did not quite match his voice. It was less important, one might almost say insignificant. His eyelids had a trick of fluttering nervously.
    â€œOh, thank you,” said Miss Marple. “There’s just this suitcase.”
    She noticed that the young man did not pick up her suitcase himself. He flipped a finger at a porter who was trundling some packing cases past on a trolley.
    â€œBring it out, please,” he said, and added importantly, “For Stonygates.”
    The porter said cheerfully:
    â€œRightyho. Shan’t