4:50 From Paddington (Miss Marple 8)

Inspector Bacon turned. Two boys had arrived, breathless, on bicycles. Their faces were full of eager pleading.

“Please, sir, can we see the body?”

“No, you can’t,” said Inspector Bacon.

“Oh, sir, please, sir. You never know. We might know who she was. Oh, please, sir, do be a sport. It’s not fair. Here’s a murder, right in our own barn. It’s the sort of chance that might never happen again. Do be a sport, sir.”

“Who are you two?”

“I’m Alexander Eastley, and this is my friend James Stoddart-West.”

“Have you ever seen a blonde woman wearing a light-coloured dyed squirrel coat anywhere about the place?”

“Well, I can’t remember exactly,” said Alexander astutely. “If I were to have a look—”

“Take ’em in, Sanders,” said Inspector Bacon to the constable who was standing by the barn door. “One’s only young once!”

“Oh, sir, thank you, sir.” Both boys were vociferous. “It’s very kind of you, sir.”

Bacon turned away towards the house.

“And now,” he said to himself grimly, “for Miss Lucy Eyelesbarrow!”

III

After leading the police to the Long Barn, and giving a brief account of her actions, Lucy had retired into the background, but she was under no illusion that the police had finished with her.

She had just finished preparing potatoes for chips that evening when word was brought to her that Inspector Bacon required her presence. Putting aside the large bowl of cold water and salt in which the chips were reposing, Lucy followed the policeman to where the inspector awaited her. She sat down and awaited his questions composedly.

She gave her name—and her address in London, and added of her own accord:

“I will give you some names and addresses of references if you want to know all about me.”

The names were very good ones. An Admiral of the Fleet, the Provost of an Oxford College, and a Dame of the British Empire. In spite of himself Inspector Bacon was impressed.

“Now, Miss Eyelesbarrow, you went into the Long Barn to find some paint. Is that right? And after having found the paint you got a crowbar, forced up the lid of this sarcophagus and found the body. What were you looking for in the sarcophagus?”

“I was looking for a body,” said Lucy.

“You were looking for a body—and you found one! Doesn’t that seem to you a very extraordinary story?”

“Oh, yes, it is an extraordinary story. Perhaps you will let me explain it to you.”

“I certainly think you had better do so.”

Lucy gave him a precise recital of the events which had led up to her sensational discovery.

The inspector summed it up in an outraged voice.

“You were engaged by an elderly lady to obtain a post here and to search the house and grounds for a dead body? Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Who is this elderly lady?”

“Miss Jane Marple. She is at present living at 4 Madison Road.”

The inspector wrote it down.

“You expect me to believe this story?”

Lucy said gently:

“Not, perhaps, until after you have interviewed Miss Marple and got her confirmation of it.”

“I shall interview her all right. She must be cracked.”

Lucy forbore to point out that to be proved right is not really a proof of mental incapacity. Instead she said:

“What are you proposing to tell Miss Crackenthorpe? About me, I mean?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Well, as far as Miss Marple is concerned I’ve done my job, I’ve found the body she wanted found. But I’m still engaged by Miss Crackenthorpe, and there are two hungry boys in the house and probably some more of the family will soon be coming down after all this upset. She needs domestic help. If you go and tell her that I only took this post in order to hunt for dead bodies she’ll probably throw me out. Otherwise I can get on with my job and be useful.”

The inspector looked hard at her.

“I’m not saying anything to anyone at present,” he said. “I haven’t verified your statement yet. For all I know you may be making the whole thing up.”

Lucy rose.

“Thank you. Then I’ll go back to the kitchen and get on with things.”

Seven

I

“We’d better have the Yard in on it, is that what you think, Bacon?”

The Chief Constable looked inquiringly at Inspector Bacon. The inspector was a big stolid man—his expression was that of one utterly disgusted with humanity.

“The woman wasn’t a local, sir,” he said. “There’s some reason to believe—from her underclothing—that she might have been a foreigner. Of course,” added Inspector Bacon hastily, “I’m not letting on about that yet awhile. We’re keeping it up our sleeves until after the inquest.”

The Chief Constable nodded.

“The inquest will be purely formal, I suppose?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve seen the Coroner.”

“And it’s fixed for—when?”

“Tomorrow. I understand the other members of the Crackenthorpe family will be here for it. There’s just a chance one of them might be able to identify her. They’ll all be here.”

He consulted a list he held in his hand.

“Harold Crackenthorpe, he’s something in the City—quite an important figure, I understand. Alfred—don’t quite know what he does. Cedric—that’s the one who lives abroad. Paints!” The inspector invested the word with its full quota of sinister significance. The Chief Constable smiled into his moustache.

“No reason, is there, to believe the Crackenthorpe family are connected with the crime in any way?” he asked.

“Not apart from the fact that the body was found on the premises,” said Inspector Bacon. “And of course it’s just possible that this artist member of the family might be able to identify her. What beats me is this extraordinary rigmarole about the train.”

“Ah, yes. You’ve been to see this old lady, this—er—” (he glanced at the memorandum lying on his desk) “Miss Marple?”

“Yes, sir. And she’s quite set and definite about the whole thing. Whether she’s barmy or not, I don’t know, but she sticks to her story—about what her friend saw and all the rest of it. As far as all that goes, I dare say it’s just make-believe—sort of thing old ladies do make up, like seeing flying saucers at the bottom of the garden, and Russian agents in the lending library. But it seems quite clear that she did engage this young woman, the lady help, and told her to look for a body—which the girl did.”

“And found one,” observed the Chief Constable. “Well, it’s all a very remarkable story. Marple, Miss Jane Marple—the name seems familiar somehow… Anyway, I’ll get on to the Yard. I think you’re right about its not being a local case—though we won’t advertise the fact just yet. For the moment we’ll tell the Press as little as possible.”

II

The inquest was a purely formal affair. No one came forward to identify the dead woman. Lucy was called to give evidence of finding the body and medical evidence was given as to the cause of death—strangulation. The proceedings were then adjourned.

It was a cold blustery day when the Crackenthorpe family came out of the hall where the inquest had been held. There were five of them all told, Emma, Cedric, Harold, Alfred, and Bryan Eastley, the husband of the dead daughter Edith. There was also Mr. Wimborne, the senior partner

of the firm of solicitors who dealt with the Crackenthorpes’ legal affairs. He had come down specially from London at great inconvenience to attend the inquest. They all stood for a moment on the pavement, shivering. Quite a crowd had assembled; the piquant details of the “Body in the Sarcophagus” had been fully reported in both the London and the local Press.

A murmur went round: “That’s them….”

Emma said sharply: “Let’s get away.”

The big hired Daimler drew up to the kerb. Emma got in and motioned to Lucy. Mr. Wimborne, Cedric and Harold followed. Bryan Eastley said: “I’ll take Alfred with me in my little bus.” The chauffeur shut the door and the Daimler prepared to roll away.

“Oh, stop!” cried Emma. “There are the boys!”

The boys, in spite of aggrieved protests, had been left behind at Rutherford Hall, but they now appeared grinning from ear to ear.

“We came on our bicycles,” said Stoddart-West. “The policeman was very kind and let us in at the back of the hall. I hope you don’t mind, Miss Crackenthorpe,” he added politely.

“She doesn’t mind,” said Cedric, answering for his sister. “You’re only young once. Your first inquest, I expect?”

“It was rather disappointing,” said Alexander. “All over so soon.”

“We can’t stay here talking,” said Harold irritably. “There’s quite a crowd. And all those men with cameras.”

At a sign from him, the chauffeur pulled away from the kerb. The boys waved cheerfully.

“All over so soon!” said Cedric. “That’s what they think, the young innocents! It’s just beginning.”

“It’s all very unfortunate. Most unfortunate,” said Harold. “I suppose—”

He looked at Mr. Wimborne who compressed his thin lips and shook his head with distaste.

“I hope,” he said sententiously, “that the whole matter will soon be cleared up satisfactorily. The police were very efficient. However, the whole thing, as Harold says, has been most unfortunate.”

He looked, as he spoke, at Lucy, and there was distinct disapproval in his glance. “If it had not been for this young woman,” his eyes seemed to say, “poking about where she had no business to be—none of this would have happened.”