4:50 From Paddington (Miss Marple 8)

“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“You’re out of date,” said Lucy.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?”