“I’m sorry,?

?? said Lucy, “Miss Crackenthorpe is ill in bed and can’t see anyone.”

“I know she has been ill, yes; but it is very important that I should see her.”

“I’m afraid,” Lucy began.

The visitor interrupted her. “I think you are Miss Eyelesbarrow, are you not?” She smiled, an attractive smile. “My son has spoken of you, so I know. I am Lady Stoddart-West and Alexander is staying with me now.”

“Oh, I see,” said Lucy.

“And it is really important that I should see Miss Crackenthorpe,” continued the other. “I know all about her illness and I assure you this is not just a social call. It is because of something that the boys have said to me—that my son has said to me. It is, I think, a matter of grave importance and I would like to speak to Miss Crackenthorpe about it. Please, will you ask her?”

“Come in.” Lucy ushered her visitor into the hall and into the drawing room. Then she said, “I’ll go up and ask Miss Crackenthorpe.”

She went upstairs, knocked on Emma’s door and entered.

“Lady Stoddart-West is here,” she said. “She wants to see you very particularly.”

“Lady Stoddart-West?” Emma looked surprised. A look of alarm came into her face. “There’s nothing wrong, is there, with the boys—with Alexander?”

“No, no,” Lucy reassured her. “I’m sure the boys are all right. It seemed to be something the boys have told her or said to her.”

“Oh. Well…” Emma hesitated. “Perhaps I ought to see her. Do I look all right, Lucy?”

“You look very nice,” said Lucy.

Emma was sitting up in bed, a soft pink shawl was round her shoulders and brought out the faint rose-pink of her cheeks. Her dark hair had been neatly brushed and combed by Nurse. Lucy had placed a bowl of autumn leaves on the dressing table the day before. Her room looked attractive and quite unlike a sick room.

“I’m really quite well enough to get up,” said Emma. “Dr. Quimper said I could tomorrow.”

“You look really quite like yourself again,” said Lucy. “Shall I bring Lady Stoddart-West up?”

“Yes, do.”

Lucy went downstairs again. “Will you come up to Miss Crackenthorpe’s room?”

She escorted the visitor upstairs, opened the door for her to pass in and then shut it. Lady Stoddart-West approached the bed with outstretched hand.

“Miss Crackenthorpe? I really do apologize for breaking in on you like this. I have seen you, I think, at the sports at the school.”

“Yes,” said Emma, “I remember you quite well. Do sit down.”

In the chair conveniently placed by the bed Lady Stoddart-West sat down. She said in a quiet low voice:

“You must think it very strange of me coming here like this, but I have reason. I think it is an important reason. You see, the boys have been telling me things. You can understand that they were very excited about the murder that happened here. I confess I did not like it at the time. I was nervous. I wanted to bring James home at once. But my husband laughed. He said that obviously it was a murder that had nothing to do with the house and the family, and he said that from what he remembered from his boyhood, and from James’s letters, both he and Alexander were enjoying themselves so wildly that it would be sheer cruelty to bring them back. So I gave in and agreed that they should stay on until the time arranged for James to bring Alexander back with him.”

Emma said: “You think we ought to have sent your son home earlier?”

“No, no, that is not what I mean at all. Oh, it is difficult for me, this! But what I have to say must be said. You see, they have picked up a good deal, the boys. They told me that this woman—the murdered woman—that the police have an idea that she may be a French girl whom your eldest brother—who was killed in the war—knew in France. That is so?”

“It is a possibility,” said Emma, her voice breaking slightly, “that we are forced to consider. It may have been so.”

“There is some reason for believing that the body is that of this girl, this Martine?”

“I have told you, it is a possibility.”

“But why—why should they think that she was Martine? Did she have letters on her—papers?”

“No. Nothing of that kind. But you see, I had had a letter, from this Martine.”

“You had had a letter—from Martine?”

“Yes. A letter telling me she was in England and would like to come and see me. I invited her down here, but got a telegram saying she was going back to France. Perhaps she did go back to France. We do not know. But since then an envelope was found here addressed to her. That seems to show that she had come down here. But I really don’t see…” She broke off.

Lady Stoddart-West broke in quickly:

“You really do not see what concern it is of mine? That is very true. I should not in your place. But when I heard this—or rather, a garbled account of this—I had to come to make sure it was really so because, if it is—”

“Yes?” said Emma.

“Then I must tell you something that I had never intended to tell you. You see, I am Martine Dubois.”

Emma stared at her guest as though she could hardly take in the sense of her words.

“You!” she said. “You are Martine?”

The other nodded vigorously. “But, yes. It surprises you, I am sure, but it is true. I met your brother Edmund in the first days of the war. He was indeed billeted at our house. Well, you know the rest. We fell in love. We intended to be married, and then there was the retreat to Dunkirk, Edmund was reported missing. Later he was reported killed. I will not speak to you of that time. It was long ago and it is over. But I will say to you that I loved your brother very much….

“Then came the grim realities of war. The Germans occupied France. I became a worker for the Resistance. I was one of those who was assigned to pass Englishmen through France to England. It was in that way that I met my present husband. He was an Air Force officer, parachuted into France to do special work. When the war ended we were married. I considered once or twice whether I should write to you or come and see you, but I decided against it. It could do no good, I thought, to take up old memories. I had a new life and I had no wish to recall the old.” She paused and then said: “But it gave me, I will tell you, a strange pleasure when I found that my son James’s greatest friend at his school was a boy whom I found to be Edmund’s nephew. Alexander, I may say, is very like Edmund, as I dare say you yourself appreciate. It seemed to me a very happy state of affairs that James and Alexander should be such friends.”

She leaned forward and placed her hand on Emma’s arm. “But you see, dear Emma, do you not, that when I heard this story about the murder, about this dead woman being suspected to be the Martine that Edmund had known, that I had to come and tell you the truth. Either you or I must inform the police of the fact. Whoever the dead woman is, she is not Martine.”

“I can hardly take it in,” said Emma, “that you, you should be the Martine that dear Edmund wrote to me about.” She sighed, shaking her head, then she frowned perplexedly. “But I don’t understand. Was it you, then, who wrote to me?”

Lady Stoddart-West shook a vigorous head. “No, no, of course I did not write to you.”

“Then…” Emma stopped.

“Then there was someone pretending to be Martine who wanted perhaps to get money out of you? That is what it must have been. But who can it be?”

Emma said slowly: “I suppose there were people at the time, who knew?”

The other shrugged her shoulders. “Probably, yes. But there was no one intimate with me, no one very close to me. I have never spoken of it since I came to England. And why wait all this time? It is curious, very curious.”

Emma said: “I don’t understand it. We will have to see what Inspector Craddock has to say.” She looked with suddenly softened eyes at her visitor. “I’m so glad to know you at last, my dear.”

“And I you… Edmund spoke of you very often. He was very fond

of you. I am happy in my new life, but all the same, I don’t quite forget.”

Emma leaned back and heaved a sigh. “It’s a terrible relief,” she said. “As long as we feared that the dead woman might be Martine—it seemed to be tied up with the family. But now—oh, it’s an absolute load off my back. I don’t know who the poor soul was but she can’t have had anything to do with us!”

Twenty-three

The streamlined secretary brought Harold Crackenthorpe his usual afternoon cup of tea.

“Thanks, Miss Ellis, I shall be going home early today.”

“I’m sure you ought really not to have come at all, Mr. Crackenthorpe,” said Miss Ellis. “You look quite pulled down still.”

“I’m all right,” said Harold Crackenthorpe, but he did feel pulled down. No doubt about it, he’d had a very nasty turn. Ah, well, that was over.

Extraordinary, he thought broodingly, that Alfred should have succumbed and the old man should have come through. After all, what was he—seventy-three—seventy-four? Been an invalid for years. If there was one person you’d have thought would have been taken off, it would have been the old man. But no. It had to be Alfred. Alfred who, as far as Harold knew, was a healthy wiry sort of chap. Nothing much the matter with him.

He leaned back in his chair sighing. That girl was right. He didn’t feel up to things yet, but he had wanted to come down to the office. Wanted to get the hang of how affairs were going. Touch and go. All this—he looked round him—the richly appointed office, the pale gleaming wood, the expensive modern chairs, it all looked prosperous enough, and a good thing too! That’s where Alfred had always gone wrong. If you looked prosperous, people thought you were prosperous. There were no rumours going around as yet about his financial stability. All the same, the crash couldn’t be delayed very long. Now, if only his father had passed out instead of Alfred, as surely, surely he ought to have done. Practically seemed to thrive on arsenic! Yes, if his father had succumbed—well, there wouldn’t have been anything to worry about.

Still, the great thing was not to seem worried. A prosperous appearance. Not like poor old Alfred who always looked seedy and shiftless, who looked in fact exactly what he was. One of those small-time speculators, never going all out boldly for the big money. In with a shady crowd here, doing a doubtful deal there, never quite rendering himself liable to prosecution but going very near the edge. And where had it got him? Short periods of affluence and then back to seediness and shabbiness, once more. No broad outlook about Alfred. Taken all in all, you couldn’t say Alfred was much loss. He’d never been particularly fond of Alfred and with Alfred out of the way the money that was coming to him from that old curmudgeon, his grandfather, would be sensibly increased, divided not into five shares but into four shares. Very much better.

Tags: Agatha Christie Miss Marple Mystery
Source: readsnovelonline.net