4:50 From Paddington

  “I’m earning my living.”

  “As a skivvy?” he spoke disparagingly.

  “You’re out of date,” said Lucy. “Skivvy, indeed! I’m a Household Help, a Professional Domestician, or an Answer to Prayer, mainly the latter.”

  “You can’t like all the things you have to do—cooking and making beds and whirring about with a hoopla or whatever you call it, and sinking your arms up to the elbows in greasy water.”

  Lucy laughed.

  “Not the details, perhaps, but cooking satisfies my creative instincts, and there’s something in me that really revels in clearing up mess.”

  “I live in a permanent mess,” said Cedric. “I like it,” he added defiantly.

  “You look as though you did.”

  “My cottage in Ibiza is run on simple straightforward lines. Three plates, two cups and saucers, a bed, a table and a couple of chairs. There’s dust everywhere and smears of paint and chips of stone—I sculpt as well as paint—and nobody’s allowed to touch a thing. I won’t have a woman near the place.”

  “Not in any capacity?”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I was assuming that a man of such artistic tastes presumably had some kind of love life.”

  “My love life, as you call it, is my own business,” said Cedric with dignity. “What I won’t have is woman in her tidying-up interfering bossing capacity.”

  “How I’d love to have a go at your cottage,” said Lucy. “It would be a challenge!”

  “You won’t get the opportunity.”

  “I suppose not.”

  Some bricks fell out of the pigsty. Cedric turned his head and looked into its nettle-ridden depths.

  “Dear old Madge,” he said. “I remember her well. A sow of most endearing disposition and prolific mother. Seventeen in the last litter, I remember. We used to come here on fine afternoons and scratch Madge’s back with a stick. She loved it.”

  “Why has this whole place been allowed to get into the state it’s in? It can’t only be the war?”

  “You’d like to tidy this up, too, I suppose? What an interfering female you are. I quite see now why you would be the person to discover a body! You couldn’t even leave a Greco-Roman sarcophagus alone.” He paused and then went on. “No, it’s not only the war. It’s my father. What do you think of him, by the way?”

  “I haven’t had much time for thinking.”

  “Don’t evade the issue. He’s as mean as hell, and in my opinion a bit crazy as well. Of course he hates all of us—except perhaps Emma. That’s because of my grandfather’s will.”

  Lucy looked inquiring.

  “My grandfather was the man who madea-da-monitch. With the Crunchies and the Cracker Jacks and the Cosy Crisps. All the afternoon tea delicacies and then, being far-sighted, he switched on very early to Cheesies and Canapés so that now we cash in on cocktail parties in a big way. Well, the time came when father intimated that he had a soul above Crunchies. He travelled in Italy and the Balkans and Greece and dabbled in art. My grandfather was peeved. He decided my father was no man of business and a rather poor judge of art (quite right in both cases), so left all his money in trust for his grandchildren. Father had the income for life, but he couldn’t touch the capital. Do you know what he did? He stopped spending money. He came here and began to save. I’d say that by now he’s accumulated nearly as big a fortune as my grandfather left. And in the meantime all of us, Harold, myself, Alfred and Emma haven’t got a penny of grandfather’s money. I’m a stony-broke painter. Harold went into business and is now a prominent man in the City—he’s the one with the money-making touch, though I’ve heard rumours that he’s in Queer Street lately. Alfred—well, Alfred is usually known in the privacy of the family as Flash Alf—”

  “Why?”

  “What a lot of things you want to know! The answer is that Alf is the black sheep of the family. He’s not actually been to prison yet, but he’s been very near it. He was in the Ministry of Supply during the war, but left it rather abruptly under questionable circumstances. And after that there were some dubious deals in tinned fruits—and trouble over eggs. Nothing in a big way—just a few doubtful deals on the side.”

  “Isn’t it rather unwise to tell strangers all these things?”

  “Why? Are you a police spy?”

  “I might be.”

  “I don’t think so. You were here slaving away before the police began to take an interest in us. I should say—”

  He broke off as his sister Emma came through the door of the kitchen garden.

  “Hallo, Em? You’re looking very perturbed about something?”

  “I am. I want to talk to you, Cedric.”

  “I must get back to the house,” said Lucy, tactfully.

  “Don’t go,” said Cedric. “Murder has made you practically one of the family.”

  “I’ve got a lot to do,” said Lucy. “I only came out to get some parsley.”

  She beat a rapid retreat to the kitchen garden. Cedric’s eyes followed her.

  “Good-looking girl,” he said. “Who is she really?”

  “Oh, she’s quite well known,” said Emma. “She’s made a speciality of this kind of thing. But never mind Lucy Eyelesbarrow, Cedric, I’m terribly worried. Apparently the police think that the dead woman was a foreigner, perhaps French. Cedric, you don’t think that she could possibly be— Martine?”

  II

  For a moment or two Cedric stared at her as though uncomprehending.

  “Martine? But who on earth—oh, you mean Martine?”

  “Yes. Do you think—”

  “Why on earth should it be Martine?”

  “Well, her sending that telegram was odd when you come to think of it. It must have been roughly about the same time… Do you think that she may, after all, have come down here and—”

  “Nonsense. Why should Martine come down here and find her way into the Long Barn? What for? It seems wildly unlikely to me.”

  “You don’t think, perhaps, that I ought to tell Inspector Bacon—or the other one?”

  “Tell him what?”

  “Well—about Martine. About her letter.”

  “Now don’t you go complicating things, sis, by bringing up a lot of irrelevant stuff that has nothing to do with all this. I was never very convinced about that letter from Martine, anyway.”

  “I was.”

  “You’ve always been good at believing impossible things before breakfast, old girl. My advice to you is, sit tight, and keep your mouth shut. It’s up to the police to identify their precious corpse. And I bet Harold would say the same.”

  “Oh, I know Harold would. And Alfred, also. But I’m worried, Cedric, I really am worried. I don’t know what I ought to do.”

  “Nothing,” said Cedric promptly. “You keep your mouth shut, Emma. Never go halfway to meet trouble, that’s my motto.”

  Emma Crackenthorpe sighed. She went slowly back to the house uneasy in her mind.

  As she came into the drive, Doctor Quimper emerged from the house and opened the door of his battered Austin car. He paused when he saw her, then leaving the car he came towards her.

  “Well, Emma,” he said. “Your father’s in splendid shape. Murder suits him. It’s given him an interest in life. I must recommend it for more of my patients.”

  Emma smiled mechanically. Dr. Quimper was always quick to notice reactions.

  “Anything particular the matter?” he asked.

  Emma looked up at him. She had come to rely a lot on the kindness and sympathy of the doctor. He had become a friend on whom to lean, not only a medical attendant. His calculated brusqueness did not deceive her—she knew the kindness that lay behind it.

  “I am worried, yes,” she admitted.

  “Care to tell me? Don’t if you don’t want to.”

  “I’d like to tell you. Some of it you know already. The point is I don’t know what to do.”

  “I should say your judgment was usually mos
t reliable. What’s the trouble?”

  “You remember—or perhaps you don’t—what I once told you about my brother—the one who was killed in the war?”

  “You mean about his having married—or wanting to marry—a French girl? Something of that kind?”

  “Yes. Almost immediately after I got that letter, he was killed. We never heard anything of or about the girl. All we knew, actually, was her christian name. We always expected her to write or to turn up, but she didn’t. We never heard anything—until about a month ago, just before Christmas.”

  “I remember. You got a letter, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. Saying she was in England and would like to come and see us. It was all arranged and then, at the last minute, she sent a wire that she had to return unexpectedly to France.”

  “Well?”

  “The police think that this woman who was killed—was French.”

  “They do, do they? She looked more of an English type to me, but one can’t really judge. What’s worrying you then, is that just possibly the dead woman might be your brother’s girl?”

  “Yes.”

  “I think it’s most unlikely,” said Dr. Quimper, adding: “But all the same, I understand what you feel.”

  “I’m wondering if I ought not to tell the police about—about it all. Cedric and the others say it’s quite unnecessary. What do you think?”

  “Hm.” Dr. Quimper pursed his lips. He was silent for a moment or two, deep in thought. Then he said, almost unwillingly, “It’s much simpler, of course, if you say nothing. I can understand what your brothers feel about it. All the same—”

  “Yes?”

  Quimper looked at her. His eyes had an affectionate twinkle in them.

  “I’d go ahead and tell ’em,” he said. “You’ll go on worrying if you don’t. I know you.”

  Emma flushed a little.

  “Perhaps I’m foolish.”

  “You do what you want to do, my dear—and let the rest of the family go hang! I’d back your judgment against the lot of them any day.”

  Twelve

  I

  “Girl! You, girl! Come in here.”

  Lucy turned her head, surprised. Old Mr. Crackenthorpe was beckoning to her fiercely from just inside a door.

  “You want me, Mr. Crackenthorpe?”

  “Don’t talk so much. Come in here.”

  Lucy obeyed the imperative finger. Old Mr. Crackenthorpe took hold of her arm and pulled her inside the door and shut it.

  “Want to show you something,” he said.

  Lucy looked round her. They were in a small room evidently designed to be used as a study, but equally evidently not used as such for a very long time. There were piles of dusty papers on the desk and cobwebs festooned from the corners of the ceiling. The air smelt damp and musty.

  “Do you want me to clean this room?” she asked.

  Old Mr. Crackenthorpe shook his head fiercely.

  “No, you don’t! I keep this room locked up. Emma would like to fiddle about in here, but I don’t let her. It’s my room. See these stones? They’re geological specimens.”

  Lucy looked at a collection of twelve or fourteen lumps of rock, some polished and some rough.

  “Lovely,” she said kindly. “Most interesting.”

  “You’re quite right. They are interesting. You’re an intelligent girl. I don’t show them to everybody. I’ll show you some more things.”

  “It’s very kind of you, but I ought really to get on with what I was doing. With six people in the house—”

  “Eating me out of house and home… That’s all they do when they come down here! Eat. They don’t offer to pay for what they eat, either. Leeches! All waiting for me to die. Well, I’m not going to die just yet—I’m not going to die to please them. I’m a lot stronger than even Emma knows.”

  “I’m sure you are.”

  “I’m not so old, either. She makes out I’m an old man, treats me as an old man. You don’t think I’m old, do you?”

  “Of course not,” said Lucy.

  “Sensible girl. Take a look at this.”

  He indicated a large faded chart which hung on the wall. It was, Lucy saw, a genealogical tree; some of it done so finely that one would have to have a magnifying glass to read the names. The remote forebears, however, were written in large proud capitals with crowns over the names.

  “Descended from Kings,” said Mr. Crackenthorpe. “My mother’s family tree, that is—not my father’s. He was a vulgarian! Common old man! Didn’t like me. I was a cut above him always. Took after my mother’s side. Had a natural feeling for art and classical sculpture—he couldn’t see anything in it—silly old fool. Don’t remember my mother—died when I was two. Last of her family. They were sold up and she married my father. But you look there—Edward the Confessor—Ethelred the Unready—whole lot of them. And that was before the Normans came. Before the Normans—that’s something isn’t it?”

  “It is indeed.”

  “Now I’ll show you something else.” He guided her across the room to an enormous piece of dark oak furniture. Lucy was rather uneasily conscious of the strength of the fingers clutching her arm. There certainly seemed nothing feeble about old Mr. Crackenthorpe today. “See this? Came out of Lushington—that was my mother’s people’s place. Elizabethan, this is. Takes four men to move it. You don’t know what I keep inside it, do you? Like me to show you?”

  “Do show me,” said Lucy politely.

  “Curious, aren’t you? All women are curious.” He took a key from his pocket and unlocked the door of the lower cupboard. From this he took out a surprisingly new-looking cash box. This, again, he unlocked.

  “Take a look here, my dear. Know what these are?”

  He lifted out a small paper-wrapped cylinder and pulled away the paper from one end. Gold coins trickled out into his palm.

  “Look at these, young lady. Look at ’em, hold ’em, touch ’em. Know what they are? Bet you don’t! You’re too young. Sovereigns—that’s what they are. Good golden sovereigns. What we used before all these dirty bits of paper came into fashion. Worth a lot more than silly pieces of paper. Collected them a long time back. I’ve got other things in this box, too. Lots of things put away in here. All ready for the future. Emma doesn’t know—nobody knows. It’s our secret, see, girl? D’you know why I’m telling you and showing you?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t want you to think I’m a played-out sick old man. Lots of life in the old dog yet. My wife’s been dead a long time. Always objecting to everything, she was. Didn’t like the names I gave the children—good Saxon names—no interest in that family tree. I never paid any attention to what she said, though—and she was a poor-spirited creature—always gave in. Now you’re a spirited filly—a very nice filly indeed. I’ll give you some advice. Don’t throw yourself away on a young man. Young men are fools! You want to take care of your future. You wait…” His fingers pressed into Lucy’s arm. He leaned to her ear. “I don’t say more than that. Wait. Those silly fools think I’m going to die soon. I’m not. Shouldn’t be surprised if I outlived the lot of them. And then we’ll see! Oh, yes, then we’ll see. Harold’s got no children. Cedric and Alfred aren’t married. Emma—Emma will never marry now. She’s a bit sweet on Quimper—but Quimper will never think of marrying Emma. There’s Alexander, of course. Yes, there’s Alexander… But, you know, I’m fond of Alexander… Yes, that’s awkward. I’m fond of Alexander.”

  He paused for a moment, frowning, then said:

  “Well, girl, what about it? What about it, eh?”

  “Miss Eyelesbarrow….”

  Emma’s voice came faintly through the closed study door. Lucy seized gratefully at the opportunity.

  “Miss Crackenthorpe’s calling me. I must go. Thank you so much for all you have shown me….”

  “Don’t forget…our secret….”

  “I won’t forget,” said Lucy, and hurried out into the hall not quite certain
as to whether she had or had not just received a conditional proposal of marriage.

  II

  Dermot Craddock sat at his desk in his room at New Scotland Yard. He was slumped sideways in an easy attitude, and was talking into the telephone receiver which he held with one elbow propped up on the table. He was speaking in French, a language in which he was tolerably proficient.

  “It was only an idea, you understand,” he said.

  “But decidedly it is an idea,” said the voice at the other end, from the Prefecture in Paris. “Already I have set inquiries in motion in those circles. My agent reports that he has two or three promising lines of inquiry. Unless there is some family life—or a lover, these women drop out of circulation very easily and no one troubles about them. They have gone on tour, or there is some new man—it is no one’s business to ask. It is a pity that the photograph you sent me is so difficult for anyone to recognize. Strangulation it does not improve the appearance. Still, that cannot be helped. I go now to study the latest reports of my agents on this matter. There will be, perhaps, something. Au revoir, mon cher.”

  As Craddock reiterated the farewell politely, a slip of paper was placed before him on the desk. It read:

  Miss Emma Crackenthorpe.

  To see Detective-Inspector Craddock.

  Rutherford Hall case.

  He replaced the receiver and said to the police constable:

  “Bring Miss Crackenthorpe up.”

  As he waited, he leaned back in his chair, thinking.

  So he had not been mistaken—there was something that Emma Crackenthorpe knew—not much, perhaps, but something. And she had decided to tell him.

  He rose to his feet as she was shown in, shook hands, settled her in a chair and offered her a cigarette which she refused. Then there was a momentary pause. She was trying, he decided, to find just the words she wanted. He leaned forward.

  “You have come to tell me something, Miss Crackenthorpe? Can I help you? You’ve been worried about something, haven’t you? Some little thing, perhaps, that you feel probably has nothing to do with the case, but on the other hand, just might be related to it. You’ve come here to tell me about it, haven’t you? It’s to do, perhaps, with the identity of the dead woman. You think you know who she was?”