4:50 From Paddington (Miss Marple 8)

This statement, or one closely resembling it, was voiced by Harold Crackenthorpe.

“By the way—er—Miss—er—er Eyelesbarrow, just what made you go looking in that sarcophagus?”

Lucy had already wondered just when this thought would occur to one of the family. She had known that the police would ask it first thing; what surprised her was that it seemed to have occurred to no one else until this moment.

Cedric, Emma, Harold and Mr. Wimborne all looked at her.

Her reply, for what it was worth, had naturally been prepared for some time.

“Really,” she said in a hesitating voice. “I hardly know… I did feel that the whole place needed a thorough clearing out and cleaning. And there was”—she hesitated—“a very peculiar and disagreeable smell….”

She had counted accurately on the immediate shrinking of everyone from the unpleasantness of this idea….

Mr. Wimborne murmured: “Yes, yes, of course…about three weeks the police surgeon said… I think, you know, we must all try and not let our minds dwell on this thing.” He smiled encouragingly at Emma who had turned very pale. “Remember,” he said, “this wretched young woman was nothing to do with any of us.”

“Ah, but you can’t be so sure of that, can you?” said Cedric.

Lucy Eyelesbarrow looked at him with some interest. She had already been intrigued by the rather startling differences between the three brothers. Cedric was a big man with a weather-beaten rugged face, unkempt dark hair and a jocund manner. He had arrived from the airport unshaven, and though he had shaved in preparation for the inquest, he was still wearing the clothes in which he had arrived and which seemed to be the only ones he had; old grey flannel trousers, and a patched and rather threadbare baggy jacket. He looked the stage Bohemian to the life and proud of it.

His brother Harold, on the contrary, was the perfect picture of a City gentleman and a director of important companies. He was tall with a neat erect carriage, had dark hair going slightly bald on the temples, a small black moustache, and was impeccably dressed in a dark well-cut suit and a pearl-grey tie. He looked what he was, a shrewd and successful business man.

He now said stiffly:

“Really, Cedric, that seems a most uncalled-for remark.”

“Don’t see why? She was in our barn after all. What did she come there for?”

Mr. Wimborne coughed, and said:

“Possibly some—er—assignation. I understand that it was a matter of local knowledge that the key was kept outside on a nail.”

His tone indicated outrage at the carelessness of such procedure. So clearly marked was this that Emma spoke apologetically.

“It started during the war. For the A.R.P. wardens. There was a little spirit stove and they made themselves hot cocoa. And afterwards, since there was really nothing there anybody could have wanted to take, we went on leaving the key hanging up. It was convenient for the Women’s Institute people. If we’d kept it in the house it might have been awkward—when there was no one at home to give it them when they wanted it to get the place ready. With only daily women and no resident servants….”

Her voice trailed away. She had spoken mechanically, giving a wordy explanation without interest, as though her mind was elsewhere.

Cedric gave her a quick puzzled glance.

“You’re worried, sis. What’s up?”

Harold spoke with exasperation:

“Really, Cedric, can you ask?”

“Yes, I do ask. Granted a strange young woman has got herself killed in the barn at Rutherford Hall (sounds like a Victorian melodrama) and granted it gave Emma a shock at the time—but Emma’s always been a sensible girl—I don’t see why she goes on being worried now. Dash it, one gets used to everything.”

“Murder takes a little more getting used to by some people than it may in your case,” said Harold acidly. “I dare say murders are two a penny in Majorca and—”

“Ibiza, not Majorca.”

“It’s the same thing.”

“Not at all—it’s quite a different island.”

Harold went on talking:

“My point is that though murder may be an everyday commonplace to you, living amongst hot-blooded Latin people, nevertheless in England we take such things seriously.” He added with increasing irritation, “And really, Cedric, to appear at a public inquest in those clothes—”

“What’s wrong with my clothes? They’re comfortable.”

“They’re unsuitable.”

“Well, anyway, they’re the only clothes I’ve got with me. I didn’t pack my wardrobe trunk when I came rushing home to stand in with the family over this business. I’m a painter and painters like to be comfortable in their clothes.”

“So you’re still trying to paint?”

“Look here, Harold, when you say trying to paint—”

Mr. Wimborne cleared his throat in an authoritative manner.

“This discussion is unprofitable,” he said reprovingly. “I hope, my dear Emma, that you will tell me if there is any further way in which I can be of service to you before I return to town?”

The reproof had its effect. Emma Crackenthorpe said quickly:

“It was most kind of you to come down.”

“Not at all. It was advisable that someone should be at the inquest to watch the proceedings on behalf of the family. I have arranged for an interview with the inspector at the house. I have no doubt that, distressing as all this has been, the situation will soon be clarified. In my own mind, there seems little doubt as to what occurred. As Emma has told us, the key to the Long Barn was known locally to hang outside the door. It seems highly probable that the place was used in the winter months as a place of assignation by local couples. No doubt there was a quarrel and some young man lost control of himself. Horrified at what he had done, his eye lit on the sarcophagus and he realized that it would make an excellent place of concealment.”

Lucy thought to herself, “Yes, it sounds most plausible. That’s just what one might think.”

Cedric said, “You say a local couple—but nobody’s been able to identify the girl locally.”

“It’s early days yet. No doubt we shall get an identification before long. And it is possible, of course, that the man in question was a local resident, but that the girl came from elsewhere, perhaps from some other part of Brackhampton. Brackhampton’s a big place—it’s grown enormously in the last twenty years.”

“If I were a girl coming to meet my young man, I’d not stand for being taken to a freezing cold barn miles from anywhere,” Cedric objected. “I’d stand out for a nice bit of cuddle in the cinema, wouldn’t you, Miss Eyelesbarrow?”

“Do we need to go into all this?” Harold demanded plaintively.

And with the voicing of the question the car drew up before the front door of Rutherford Hall and they all got out.

Eight

I

On entering the library Mr. Wimborne blinked a little as his shrewd old eyes went past Inspector Bacon whom he had already met, to the fair-haired, good-looking man beyond him.

Inspector Bacon performed introductions.

“This is Detective-Inspector Craddock of New Scotland Yard,” he said.

“New Scotland Yard—hm.” Mr. Wimborne’s eyebrows rose.

Dermot Craddock, who had a pleasant manner, went easily into speech.

“We have been called in on the case, Mr. Wimborne,” he said. “As you are representing the Crackenthorpe family, I feel it is only fair that we should give you a little confidential information.”

Nobody could make a better show of presenting a very small portion of the truth and implying that it was the whole truth than Inspector Craddock.

“Inspector Bacon will agree, I am sure,” he added, glancing at his colleague.

Inspector Bacon agreed with all due solemnity and not at all as though the whole matter were prearranged.

“It’s like this,” said Craddock. “We have reason to beli

eve, from information that has come into our possession, that the dead woman is not a native of these parts, that she travelled down here from London and that she had recently come from abroad. Probably (though we are not sure of that) from France.”

Mr. Wimborne again raised his eyebrows.

“Indeed,” he said. “Indeed?”

“That being the case,” explained Inspector Bacon, “the Chief Constable felt that the Yard was better fitted to investigate the matter.”

“I can only hope,” said Mr. Wimborne, “that the case will be solved quickly. As you can no doubt appreciate, the whole business has been a source of much distress to the family. Although not personally concerned in any way, they are—”

He paused for a bare second, but Inspector Craddock filled the gap quickly.

“It’s not a pleasant thing to find a murdered woman on your property? I couldn’t agree with you more. Now I should like to have a brief interview with the various members of the family—”

“I really cannot see—”

“What they can tell me? Probably nothing of interest—but one never knows. I dare say I can get most of the information I want from you, sir. Information about this house and the family.”

“And what can that possibly have to do with an unknown young woman coming from abroad and getting herself killed here?”

“Well, that’s rather the point,” said Craddock. “Why did she come here? Had she once had some connection with this house? >Had she been, for instance, a servant here at one time? A lady’s maid, perhaps. Or did she come here to meet a former occupant of Rutherford Hall?”

Mr. Wimborne said coldly that Rutherford Hall had been occupied by the Crackenthorpes ever since Josiah Crackenthorpe built it in 1884.

“That’s interesting in itself,” said Craddock. “If you’d just give me a brief outline of the family history—”

Mr. Wimborne shrugged his shoulders.

“There is very little to tell. Josiah Crackenthorpe was a manufacturer of sweet and savoury biscuits, relishes, pickles, etc. He accumulated a vast fortune. He built this house. Luther Crackenthorpe, his eldest son, lives here now.”

“Any other sons?”

“One other son, Henry, who was killed in a motor accident in 1911.”

“And the present Mr. Crackenthorpe has never thought of selling the house?”