4:50 From Paddington (Miss Marple 8)

“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?”