“Police being cagey. This mass poisoning does give one a bit of a turn, doesn’t it? Mentally, I mean. I’m not referring to more obvious aspects.” He added: “Better look after yourself, my girl.”
“I do,” said Lucy.
“Has young Alexander gone back to school yet?”
“I think he’s still with the Stoddart-Wests. I think it’s the day after tomorrow that school begins.”
Before getting her own lunch Lucy went to the telephone and rang up Miss Marple.
“I’m so terribly sorry I haven’t been able to come over, but I’ve been really very busy.”
“Of course, my dear, of course. Besides, there’s nothing that can be done just now. We just have to wait.”
“Yes, but what are we waiting for?”
“Elspeth McGillicuddy ought to be home very soon now,” said Miss Marple. “I wrote to her to fly home at once. I said it was her duty. So don’t worry too much, my dear.” Her voice was kindly and reassuring.
“You don’t think…” Lucy began, but stopped.
“That there will be anymore deaths? Oh, I hope not, my dear. But one never knows, does one? When anyone is really wicked, I mean. And I think there is great wickedness here.”
“Or madness,” said Lucy.
“Of course I know that is the modern way of looking at things. I don’t agree myself.”
Lucy rang off, went into the kitchen and picked up her tray of lunch. Mrs. Kidder had divested herself of her apron and was about to leave.
“You’ll be all right, miss, I hope?” she asked solicitously.
“Of course I shall be all right,” snapped Lucy.
She took her tray not into the big, gloomy dining room but into the small study. She was just finishing her meal when the door opened and Bryan Eastley came in.
“Hallo,” said Lucy, “this is very unexpected.”
“I suppose it is,” said Bryan. “How is everybody?”
“Oh, much better. Harold’s going back to London tomorrow.”
“What do you think about it all? Was it really arsenic?”
“It was arsenic all right,” said Lucy.
“It hasn’t been in the papers yet.”
“No, I think the police are keeping it up their sleeves for the moment.”
“Somebody must have a pretty good down on the family,” said Bryan. “Who’s likely to have sneaked in and tampered with the food?”
“I suppose I’m the most likely person really,” said Lucy.
Bryan looked at her anxiously. “But you didn’t, did you?” he asked. He sounded slightly shocked.
“No. I didn’t,” said Lucy.
Nobody could have tampered with the curry. She had made it—alone in the kitchen, and brought it to table, and the only person who could have tampered with it was one of the five people who sat down to the meal.
“I mean—why should you?” said Bryan. “They’re nothing to you, are they? I say,” he added, “I hope you don’t mind my coming back here like this?”
“No, no, of course I don’t. Have you come to stay?”
“Well, I’d like to, if it wouldn’t be an awful bore to you.”
“No. No, we can manage.”
“You see, I’m out of a job at the moment and I—well, I get rather fed up. Are you really sure you don’t mind?”
“Oh, I’m not the person to mind, anyway. It’s Emma.”
“Oh, Emma’s all right,” said Bryan. “Emma’s always been very nice to me. In her own way, you know. She keeps things to herself a lot, in fact, she’s rather a dark horse, old Emma. This living here and looking after the old man would get most people down. Pity she never married. Too late now, I suppose.”
“I don’t think it’s too late, at all,” said Lucy.
“Well…” Bryan considered. “A clergyman perhaps,” he said hopefully. “She’d be useful in the parish and tactful with the Mothers’ Union. I do mean the Mothers’ Union, don’t I? Not that I know what it really is, but you come across it sometimes in books. And she’d wear a hat in church on Sundays,” he added.
“Doesn’t sound much of a prospect to me,” said Lucy, rising and picking up the tray.
“I’ll do that,” said Bryan, taking the tray from her. They went into the kitchen together. “Shall I help you wash up? I do like this kitchen,” he added. “In fact, I know it isn’t the sort of thing that people do like nowadays, but I like this whole house. Shocking taste, I suppose, but there it is. You could land a plane quite easily in the park,” he added with enthusiasm.
He picked up a glass-cloth and began to wipe the spoons and forks.
“Seems a waste, its coming to Cedric,” he remarked. “First thing he’ll do is to sell the whole thing and go breaking off abroad again. Can’t see, myself, why England isn’t good enough for anybody. Harold wouldn’t want this house either, and of course it’s much too big for Emma. Now, if only it came to Alexander, he and I would be as happy together here as a couple of sand boys. Of course it would be nice to have a woman about the house.” He looked thoughtfully at Lucy. “Oh, well, what’s the good of talking? If Alexander were to get this place it would mean the whole lot of them would have to die first, and that’s not really likely, is it? Though from what I’ve seen of the old boy he might easily live to be a hundred, just to annoy them all. I don’t suppose he was much cut up by Alfred’s death, was he?”
Lucy said shortly, “No, he wasn’t.”
“Cantankerous old devil,” said Bryan Eastley cheerfully.
Twenty-two
“Dreadful, the things people go about saying,” said Mrs. Kidder. “I don’t listen, mind you, more than I can help. But you’d hardly believe it.” She waited hopefully.
“Yes, I suppose so,” said Lucy.
“About that body that was found in the Long Barn,” went on Mrs. Kidder, moving crablike backwards on her hands and knees, as she scrubbed the kitchen floor, “saying as how she’d been Mr. Edmund’s fancy piece during the war, and how she come over here and a jealous husband followed her, and did her in. It is a likely thing as a foreigner would do, but it wouldn’t be likely after all these years, would it?”
“It sounds most unlikely to me.”
“But there’s worse things than that, they say,” said Mrs. Kidder. “Say anything, people will. You’d be surprised. There’s those that say Mr. Harold married somewhere abroad and that she come over and found out that he’s committed bigamy with that lady Alice, and that she was going to bring ’im to court and that he met her down here and did her in, and hid her body in the sarcoffus. Did you ever!”
“Shocking,” said Lucy vaguely, her mind elsewhere.
“Of course I didn’t listen,” said Mrs. Kidder virtuously, “I wouldn’t put no stock in such tales myself. It beats me how people think up such things, let alone say them. All I hope is none of it gets to Miss Emma’s ears. It might upset her and I wouldn’t like that. She’s a very nice lady, Miss Emma is, and I’ve not heard a word against her, not a word. And of course Mr. Alfred being dead nobody says anything against him now. Not even that it’s a judgment, which they well might do. But it’s awful, miss, isn’t it, the wicked talk there is.”
Mrs. Kidder spoke with immense enjoyment.
“It must be quite painful for you to listen to it,” said Lucy.
“Oh, it is,” said Mrs. Kidder. “It is indeed. I says to my husband, I says, however can they?”
The bell rang.
“There’s the doctor, miss. Will you let ’im in, or shall I?”
“I’ll go,” said Lucy.
But it was not the doctor. On the doorstep stood a tall, elegant woman in a mink coat. Drawn up to the gravel sweep was a purring Rolls with a chauffeur at the wheel.
“Can I see Miss Emma Crackenthorpe, please?”
It was an attractive voice, the R’s slightly blurred. The woman was attractive too. About thirty-five, with dark hair and expensively and beautifully made up.
“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.
4.50 From Paddington Page 19
