4:50 From Paddington (Miss Marple 8)

He warned Craddock, however, that a definite answer was doubtful. The area in question had not only been occupied by the Germans at almost exactly that time, but subsequently that part of France had suffered severe war damage at the time of the invasion. Many buildings and records had been destroyed.

“But rest assured, my dear colleague, we shall do our best.”

With this, he and Craddock took leave of each other.

III

On Craddock’s return Sergeant Wetherall was waiting to report with gloomy relish:

“Accommodation address, sir—that’s what 126 Elvers Crescent is. Quite respectable and all that.”

“Any identifications?”

“No, nobody could recognize the photograph as that of a woman who had called for letters, but I don’t think they would anyway—it’s a month ago, very near, and a good many people use the place. It’s actually a boarding-house for students.”

“She might have stayed there under another name.”

“If so, they didn’t recognize her as the original of the photograph.”

He added:

“We circularized the hotels—nobody registering as Martine Crackenthorpe anywhere. On receipt of your call from Paris, we checked up on Anna Stravinska. She was registered with other members of the company in a cheap hotel off Brook Green. Mostly theatricals there. She cleared out on the night of Thursday 19th after the show. No further record.”

Craddock nodded. He suggested a line of further inquiries—though he had little hope of success from them.

After some thought, he rang up Wimborne, Henderson and Carstairs and asked for an appointment with Mr. Wimborne.

In due course, he was ushered into a particularly airless room where Mr. Wimborne was sitting behind a large old-fashioned desk covered with bundles of dusty-looking papers. Various deed boxes labelled Sir John ffouldes, dec., Lady Derrin, George Rowbottom, Esq., ornamented the walls; whether as relics of a bygone era or as part of present-day legal affairs, the inspector did not know.

Mr. Wimborne eyed his visitor with the polite wariness characteristic of a family lawyer towards the police.

“What can I do for you, Inspector?”

“This letter…” Craddock pushed Martine’s letter across the table. Mr. Wimborne touched it with a distasteful finger but did not pick it up. His colour rose very slightly and his lips tightened.

“Quite so,” he said; “quite so! I received a letter from Miss Emma Crackenthorpe yesterday morning, informing me of her visit to Scotland Yard and of—ah—all the circumstances. I may say that I am at a loss to understand—quite at a loss—why I was not consulted about this letter at the time of its arrival! Most extraordinary! I should have been informed immediately….”

Inspector Craddock repeated soothingly such platitudes as seemed best calculated to reduce Mr. Wimborne to an amenable frame of mind.

“I’d no idea that there was ever any question of Edmund’s having married,” said Mr. Wimborne in an injured voice.

Inspector Craddock said that he supposed—in war time—and left it to trail away vaguely.

“War time!” snapped Mr. Wimborne with waspish acerbity. “Yes, indeed, we were in Lincoln’s Inn Fields at the outbreak of war and there was a direct hit on the house next door, and a great number of our records were destroyed. Not the really important documents, of course; they had been removed to the country for safety. But it caused a great deal of confusion. Of course, the Crackenthorpe business was in my father’s hands at that time. He died six years ago. I dare say he may have been told about this so-called marriage of Edmund’s—but on the face of it, it looks as though that marriage, even if contemplated, never took place, and so, no doubt, my father did not consider the story of any importance. I must say, all this sounds very fishy to me. This coming forward, after all these years, and claiming a marriage and a legitimate son. Very fishy indeed. What proofs had she got, I’d like to know?”

“Just so,” said Craddock. “What would her position, or her son’s position be?”

“The idea was, I suppose, that she would get the Crackenthorpes to provide for her and for the boy.”

“Yes, but I meant, what would she and the son be entitled to, legally speaking—if she could prove her claim?”

“Oh, I see.” Mr. Wimborne picked up his spectacles which he had laid aside in his irritation, and put them on, staring through them at Inspector Craddock with shrewd attention. “Well, at the moment, nothing. But if she could prove that the boy was the son of Edmund Crackenthorpe, born in lawful wedlock, then the boy would be entitled to his share of Josiah Crackenthorpe’s trust on the death of Luther Crackenthorpe. More than that, he’d inherit Rutherford Hall, since he’s the son of the eldest son.”

“Would anyone want to inherit the house?”

“To live in? I should say, certainly not. But that estate, my dear Inspector, is worth a considerable amount of money. Very considerable. Land for industrial and building purposes. Land which is now in the heart of Brackhampton. Oh, yes, a very considerable inheritance.”

“If Luther Crackenthorpe dies, I believe you told me that Cedric gets it?”

“He inherits the real estate—yes, as the eldest living son.”

“Cedric Crackenthorpe, I have been given to understand, is not interested in money?”

Mr. Wimborne gave Craddock a cold stare.

“Indeed? I am inclined, myself, to take statements of such a nature with what I might term a grain of salt. There are doubtless certain unworldly people who are indifferent to money. I myself have never met one.”

Mr. Wimborne obviously derived a certain satisfaction from this remark.

Inspector Craddock hastened to take advantage of this ray of sunshine.

“Harold and Alfred Crackenthorpe,” he ventured, “seem to have been a good deal upset by the arrival of this letter?”

“Well they might be,” said Mr. Wimborne. “Well they might be.”

“It would reduce their eventual inheritance?”

“Certainly. Edmund Crackenthorpe’s son—always presuming there is a son—would be entitled to a fifth share of the trust money.”

“That doesn’t really seem a very serious loss?”

Mr. Wimborne gave him a shrewd glance.

“It is a totally inadequate motive for murder, if that is what you mean.”

“But I suppose they’re both pretty hard up,” Craddock murmured.

He sustained Mr. Wimborne’s sharp glance with perfect impassivity.

“Oh! So the police have been making inquiries? Yes, Alfred is almost incessantly in low water. Occasionally he is very flush of money for a short time—but it soon goes. Harold, as you seem to have discovered, is at present somewhat precariously situated.”

“In spite of his appearance of financial prosperity?”

“Façade. All façade! Half these city concerns don’t even know if they’re solvent or not. Balance sheets can be made to look all right to the inexpert eye. But when the assets that are listed aren’t really assets—when those assets are trembling on the brink of a crash—where are you?”

“Where, presumably, Harold Crackenthorpe is, in bad need of money.”

“Well, he wouldn’t have got it by strangling his late brother’s widow,” said Mr. Wimborne. “And nobody’s murdered Luther Crackenthorpe which is the only murder that would do the family any good. So, really, Inspector, I don’t quite see where your ideas are leading you?”

The worst of it was, Inspector Craddock thought, that he wasn’t very sure himself.

Fifteen

I

Inspector Craddock had made an appointment with Harold Crackenthorpe at his office, and he and Sergeant Wetherall arrived there punctually. The office was on the fourth floor of a big block of City offices. Inside everything showed prosperity and the acme of modern business taste.

A neat young woman took his name, spoke in a discreet murmur through a telephone, and then, rising, showed them i

nto Harold Crackenthorpe’s own private office.

Harold was sitting behind a large leather-topped desk and was looking as impeccable and self-confident as ever. If, as the inspector’s private knowledge led him to surmise, he was close upon Queer Street, no trace of it showed.

He looked up with a frank welcoming interest.

“Good morning, Inspector Craddock. I hope this means that you have some definite news for us at last?”

“Hardly that, I am afraid, Mr. Crackenthorpe. It’s just a few more questions I’d like to ask.”

“More questions? Surely by now we have answered everything imaginable.”

“I dare say it feels like that to you, Mr. Crackenthorpe, but it’s just a question of our regular routine.”

“Well, what is it this time?” He spoke impatiently.

“I should be glad if you could tell me exactly what you were doing on the afternoon and evening of 20th December last—say between the hours of 3 p.m. and midnight.”

Harold Crackenthorpe went an angry shade of plum red.

“That seems to be a most extraordinary question to ask me. What does it mean, I should like to know?”

Craddock smiled gently.

“It just means that I should like to know where you were between the hours of 3 p.m. and midnight on Friday, 20th December.”

“Why?”

“It would help to narrow things down.”

“Narrow them down? You have extra information, then?”