Craddock took the folder from his pocket. Using the tips of his fingers, he extracted the envelope.
“Don’t touch it, please, but do you recognize this?”
“But…” Emma stared at him, bewildered. “That’s my handwriting. That’s the letter I wrote to Martine.”
“I thought it might be.”
“But how did you get it? Did she—? Have you found her?”
“It would seem possible that we have—found her. This empty envelope was found here.”
“In the house?”
“In the grounds.”
“Then—she did come here! She… You mean—it was Martine there—in the sarcophagus?”
“It would seem very likely, Miss Crackenthorpe,” said Craddock gently.
It seemed even more likely when he got back to town. A message was awaiting him from Armand Dessin.
“One of the girl-friends has had a postcard from Anna Stravinska.
Apparently the cruise story was true! She has reached Jamaica and is having, in your phrase, a wonderful time!”
Craddock crumpled up the message and threw it into the wastepaper basket.
III
“I must say,” said Alexander, sitting up in bed, thoughtfully consuming a chocolate bar, “that this has been the most smashing day ever. Actually finding a real clue!”
His voice was awed.
“In fact the whole holidays have been smashing,” he added happily. “I don’t suppose such a thing will ever happen again.”
“I hope it won’t happen again to me,” said Lucy who was on her knees packing Alexander’s clothes into a suitcase. “Do you want all this space fiction with you?”
“Not those two top ones. I’ve read them. The football and my football boots, and the gum-boots can go separately.”
“What difficult things you boys do travel with.”
“It won’t matter. They’re sending the Rolls for us. They’ve got a smashing Rolls. They’ve got one of the new Mercedes- Benzes too.”
“They must be rich.”
“Rolling! Jolly nice, too. All the same, I rather wish we weren’t leaving here. Another body might turn up.”
“I sincerely hope not.”
“Well, it often does in books. I mean somebody who’s seen something or heard something gets done in, too. It might be you,” he added, unrolling a second chocolate bar.
“Thank you!”
“I don’t want it to be you,” Alexander assured her. “I like you very much and so does Stodders. We think you’re out of this world as a cook. Absolutely lovely grub. You’re very sensible, too.”
This last was clearly an expression of high approval. Lucy took it as such, and said: “Thank you. But I don’t intend to get killed just to please you.”
“Well, you’d better be careful, then,” Alexander told her.
He paused to consume more nourishment and then said in a slightly offhand voice:
“If Dad turns up from time to time, you’ll look after him, won’t you?”
“Yes, of course,” said Lucy, a little surprised.
“The trouble with Dad is,” Alexander informed her, “that London life doesn’t suit him. He gets in, you know, with quite the wrong type of women.” He shook his head in a worried manner.
“I’m very fond of him,” he added; “but he needs someone to look after him. He drifts about and gets in with the wrong people. It’s a great pity Mum died when she did. Bryan needs a proper home life.”
He looked solemnly at Lucy and reached out for another chocolate bar.
“Not a fourth one, Alexander,” Lucy pleaded. “You’ll be sick.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. I ate six running once and I wasn’t. I’m not the bilious type.” He paused and then said:
“Bryan likes you, you know.”
“That’s very nice of him.”
“He’s a bit of an ass in some ways,” said Bryan’s son; “but he was a jolly good fighter pilot. He’s awfully brave. And he’s awfully good-natured.”
He paused. Then, averting his eyes to the ceiling, he said rather self-consciously:
“I think, really, you know, it would be a good thing if he married again… Somebody decent… I shouldn’t, myself, mind at all having a stepmother…not, I mean, if she was a decent sort….”
With a sense of shock Lucy realized that there was a definite point in Alexander’s conversation.
“All this stepmother bosh,” went on Alexander, still addressing the ceiling, “is really quite out of date. Lots of chaps Stodders and I know have stepmothers—divorce and all that—and they get on quite well together. Depends on the stepmother, of course. And of course, it does make a bit of confusion taking you out and on Sports Day, and all that. I mean if there are two sets of parents. Though again it helps if you want to cash in!” He paused, confronted with the problems of modern life. “It’s nicest to have your own home and your own parents—but if your mother’s dead—well, you see what I mean? If she’s a decent sort,” said Alexander for the third time.
Lucy felt touched.
“I think you’re very sensible, Alexander,” she said. “We must try and find a nice wife for your father.”
“Yes,” said Alexander noncommittally.
He added in an offhand manner:
“I thought I’d just mention it. Bryan likes you very much. He told me so….”
“Really,” thought Lucy to herself. “There’s too much match-making round here. First Miss Marple and now Alexander!”
For some reason or other, pigsties came into her mind.
She stood up.
“Good night, Alexander. There will be only your washing things and pyjamas to put in in the morning. Good night.”
“Good night,” said Alexander. He slid down in bed, laid his head on the pillow, closed his eyes, giving a perfect picture of a sleeping angel; and was immediately asleep.
Nineteen
I
“Not what you’d call conclusive,” said Sergeant Wetherall with his usual gloom.
Craddock was reading through the report on Harold Crackenthorpe’s alibi for 20th December.
He had been noticed at Sotheby’s about three-thirty, but was thought to have left shortly after that. His photograph had not been recognized at Russell’s tea shop, but as they did a busy trade there at teatime, and he was not an habitué, that was hardly surprising. His manservant confirmed that he had returned to Cardigan Gardens to dress for his dinner-party at a quarter to seven—rather late, since the dinner was at seven-thirty, and Mr. Crackenthorpe had been somewhat irritable in consequence. Did not remember hearing him come in that evening, but, as it was some time ago, could not remember accurately and, in any case, he frequently did not hear Mr. Crackenthorpe come in. He and his wife liked to retire early whenever they could. The garage in the mews where Harold kept his car was a private lockup that he rented and there was no one to notice who came and went or any reason to remember one evening in particular.
“All negative,” said Craddock, with a sigh.
“He was at the Caterers’ Dinner all right, but left rather early before the end of the speeches.”
“What about the railway stat
ions?”
But there was nothing there, either at Brackhampton or at Paddington. It was nearly four weeks ago, and it was highly unlikely that anything would have been remembered.
Craddock sighed, and stretched out his hand for the data on Cedric. That again was negative, though a taxi-driver had made a doubtful recognition of having taken a fare to Paddington that day some time in the afternoon “what looked something like that bloke. Dirty trousers and a shock of hair. Cussed and swore a bit because fares had gone up since he was last in England.” He identified the day because a horse called Crawler had won the two-thirty and he’d had a tidy bit on. Just after dropping the gent, he’d heard it on the radio in his cab and had gone home forthwith to celebrate.
“Thank God for racing!” said Craddock, and put the report aside.
“And here’s Alfred,” said Sergeant Wetherall.
Some nuance in his voice made Craddock look up sharply. Wetherall had the pleased appearance of a man who has kept a titbit until the end.
In the main the check was unsatisfactory. Alfred lived alone in his flat and came and went at unspecified times. His neighbours were not the inquisitive kind and were in any case office workers who were out all day. But towards the end of the report, Wetherall’s large finger indicated the final paragraph.
Sergeant Leakie, assigned to a case of thefts from lorries, had been at the Load of Bricks, a lorry pull-up on the Waddington- Brackhampton Road, keeping certain lorry drivers under observation. He had noticed at an adjoining table, Chick Evans, one of the Dicky Rogers mob. With him had been Alfred Crackenthorpe whom he knew by sight, having seen him give evidence in the Dicky Rogers case. He’d wondered what they were cooking up together. Time, 9:30 p.m., Friday, 20th December. Alfred Crackenthorpe had boarded a bus a few minutes later, going in the direction of Brackhampton. William Baker, ticket collector at Brackhampton station, had clipped ticket of gentleman whom he recognized by sight as one of Miss Crackenthorpe’s brothers, just before departure of eleven-fifty-five train for Paddington. Remembers day as there had been story of some batty old lady who swore she had seen somebody murdered in a train that afternoon.