4:50 From Paddington

by Agatha Christie

  This statement, or one closely resembling it, was voiced by Harold Crackenthorpe.

  “By the way—er—Miss—er—er Eyelesbarrow, just what made you go looking in that sarcophagus?”

  Lucy had already wondered just when this thought would occur to one of the family. She had known that the police would ask it first thing; what surprised her was that it seemed to have occurred to no one else until this moment.

  Cedric, Emma, Harold and Mr. Wimborne all looked at her.

  Her reply, for what it was worth, had naturally been prepared for some time.

  “Really,” she said in a hesitating voice. “I hardly know… I did feel that the whole place needed a thorough clearing out and cleaning. And there was”—she hesitated—“a very peculiar and disagreeable smell….”

  She had counted accurately on the immediate shrinking of everyone from the unpleasantness of this idea….

  Mr. Wimborne murmured: “Yes, yes, of course…about three weeks the police surgeon said… I think, you know, we must all try and not let our minds dwell on this thing.” He smiled encouragingly at Emma who had turned very pale. “Remember,” he said, “this wretched young woman was nothing to do with any of us.”

  “Ah, but you can’t be so sure of that, can you?” said Cedric.

  Lucy Eyelesbarrow looked at him with some interest. She had already been intrigued by the rather startling differences between the three brothers. Cedric was a big man with a weather-beaten rugged face, unkempt dark hair and a jocund manner. He had arrived from the airport unshaven, and though he had shaved in preparation for the inquest, he was still wearing the clothes in which he had arrived and which seemed to be the only ones he had; old grey flannel trousers, and a patched and rather threadbare baggy jacket. He looked the stage Bohemian to the life and proud of it.

  His brother Harold, on the contrary, was the perfect picture of a City gentleman and a director of important companies. He was tall with a neat erect carriage, had dark hair going slightly bald on the temples, a small black moustache, and was impeccably dressed in a dark well-cut suit and a pearl-grey tie. He looked what he was, a shrewd and successful business man.

  He now said stiffly:

  “Really, Cedric, that seems a most uncalled-for remark.”

  “Don’t see why? She was in our barn after all. What did she come there for?”

  Mr. Wimborne coughed, and said:

  “Possibly some—er—assignation. I understand that it was a matter of local knowledge that the key was kept outside on a nail.”

  His tone indicated outrage at the carelessness of such procedure. So clearly marked was this that Emma spoke apologetically.

  “It started during the war. For the A.R.P. wardens. There was a little spirit stove and they made themselves hot cocoa. And afterwards, since there was really nothing there anybody could have wanted to take, we went on leaving the key hanging up. It was convenient for the Women’s Institute people. If we’d kept it in the house it might have been awkward—when there was no one at home to give it them when they wanted it to get the place ready. With only daily women and no resident servants….”

  Her voice trailed away. She had spoken mechanically, giving a wordy explanation without interest, as though her mind was elsewhere.

  Cedric gave her a quick puzzled glance.

  “You’re worried, sis. What’s up?”

  Harold spoke with exasperation:

  “Really, Cedric, can you ask?”

  “Yes, I do ask. Granted a strange young woman has got herself killed in the barn at Rutherford Hall (sounds like a Victorian melodrama) and granted it gave Emma a shock at the time—but Emma’s always been a sensible girl—I don’t see why she goes on being worried now. Dash it, one gets used to everything.”

  “Murder takes a little more getting used to by some people than it may in your case,” said Harold acidly. “I dare say murders are two a penny in Majorca and—”

  “Ibiza, not Majorca.”

  “It’s the same thing.”

  “Not at all—it’s quite a different island.”

  Harold went on talking:

  “My point is that though murder may be an everyday commonplace to you, living amongst hot-blooded Latin people, nevertheless in England we take such things seriously.” He added with increasing irritation, “And really, Cedric, to appear at a public inquest in those clothes—”

  “What’s wrong with my clothes? They’re comfortable.”

  “They’re unsuitable.”

  “Well, anyway, they’re the only clothes I’ve got with me. I didn’t pack my wardrobe trunk when I came rushing home to stand in with the family over this business. I’m a painter and painters like to be comfortable in their clothes.”

  “So you’re still trying to paint?”

  “Look here, Harold, when you say trying to paint—”

  Mr. Wimborne cleared his throat in an authoritative manner.

  “This discussion is unprofitable,” he said reprovingly. “I hope, my dear Emma, that you will tell me if there is any further way in which I can be of service to you before I return to town?”

  The reproof had its effect. Emma Crackenthorpe said quickly:

  “It was most kind of you to come down.”

  “Not at all. It was advisable that someone should be at the inquest to watch the proceedings on behalf of the family. I have arranged for an interview with the inspector at the house. I have no doubt that, distressing as all this has been, the situation will soon be clarified. In my own mind, there seems little doubt as to what occurred. As Emma has told us, the key to the Long Barn was known locally to hang outside the door. It seems highly probable that the place was used in the winter months as a place of assignation by local couples. No doubt there was a quarrel and some young man lost control of himself. Horrified at what he had done, his eye lit on the sarcophagus and he realized that it would make an excellent place of concealment.”

  Lucy thought to herself, “Yes, it sounds most plausible. That’s just what one might think.”

  Cedric said, “You say a local couple—but nobody’s been able to identify the girl locally.”

  “It’s early days yet. No doubt we shall get an identification before long. And it is possible, of course, that the man in question was a local resident, but that the girl came from elsewhere, perhaps from some other part of Brackhampton. Brackhampton’s a big place—it’s grown enormously in the last twenty years.”

  “If I were a girl coming to meet my young man, I’d not stand for being taken to a freezing cold barn miles from anywhere,” Cedric objected. “I’d stand out for a nice bit of cuddle in the cinema, wouldn’t you, Miss Eyelesbarrow?”

  “Do we need to go into all this?” Harold demanded plaintively.

  And with the voicing of the question the car drew up before the front door of Rutherford Hall and they all got out.

  Eight

  I

  On entering the library Mr. Wimborne blinked a little as his shrewd old eyes went past Inspector Bacon whom he had already met, to the fair-haired, good-looking man beyond him.

  Inspector Bacon performed introductions.

  “This is Detective-Inspector Craddock of New Scotland Yard,” he said.

  “New Scotland Yard—hm.” Mr. Wimborne’s eyebrows rose.

  Dermot Craddock, who had a pleasant manner, went easily into speech.

  “We have been called in on the case, Mr. Wimborne,” he said. “As you are representing the Crackenthorpe family, I feel it is only fair that we should give you a little confidential information.”

  Nobody could make a better show of presenting a very small portion of the truth and implying that it was the whole truth than Inspector Craddock.

  “Inspector Bacon will agree, I am sure,” he added, glancing at his colleague.

  Inspector Bacon agreed with all due solemnity and not at all as though the whole matter were prearranged.

  “It’s like this,” said Craddock. “We have reason to beli
eve, from information that has come into our possession, that the dead woman is not a native of these parts, that she travelled down here from London and that she had recently come from abroad. Probably (though we are not sure of that) from France.”

  Mr. Wimborne again raised his eyebrows.

  “Indeed,” he said. “Indeed?”

  “That being the case,” explained Inspector Bacon, “the Chief Constable felt that the Yard was better fitted to investigate the matter.”

  “I can only hope,” said Mr. Wimborne, “that the case will be solved quickly. As you can no doubt appreciate, the whole business has been a source of much distress to the family. Although not personally concerned in any way, they are—”

  He paused for a bare second, but Inspector Craddock filled the gap quickly.

  “It’s not a pleasant thing to find a murdered woman on your property? I couldn’t agree with you more. Now I should like to have a brief interview with the various members of the family—”

  “I really cannot see—”

  “What they can tell me? Probably nothing of interest—but one never knows. I dare say I can get most of the information I want from you, sir. Information about this house and the family.”

  “And what can that possibly have to do with an unknown young woman coming from abroad and getting herself killed here?”

  “Well, that’s rather the point,” said Craddock. “Why did she come here? Had she once had some connection with this house? >Had she been, for instance, a servant here at one time? A lady’s maid, perhaps. Or did she come here to meet a former occupant of Rutherford Hall?”

  Mr. Wimborne said coldly that Rutherford Hall had been occupied by the Crackenthorpes ever since Josiah Crackenthorpe built it in 1884.

  “That’s interesting in itself,” said Craddock. “If you’d just give me a brief outline of the family history—”

  Mr. Wimborne shrugged his shoulders.

  “There is very little to tell. Josiah Crackenthorpe was a manufacturer of sweet and savoury biscuits, relishes, pickles, etc. He accumulated a vast fortune. He built this house. Luther Crackenthorpe, his eldest son, lives here now.”

  “Any other sons?”

  “One other son, Henry, who was killed in a motor accident in 1911.”

  “And the present Mr. Crackenthorpe has never thought of selling the house?”

  “He is unable to do so,” said the lawyer dryly. “By the terms of his father’s will.”

  “Perhaps you’ll tell me about the will?”

  “Why should I?”

  Inspector Craddock smiled.

  “Because I can look it up myself if I want to, at Somerset House.”

  Against his will, Mr. Wimborne gave a crabbed little smile.

  “Quite right, Inspector. I was merely protesting that the information you ask for is quite irrelevant. As to Josiah Crackenthorpe’s will, there is no mystery about it. He left his very considerable fortune in trust, the income from it to be paid to his son Luther for life, and after Luther’s death the capital to be divided equally between Luther’s children, Edmund, Cedric, Harold, Alfred, Emma and Edith. Edmund was killed in the war, and Edith died four years ago, so that on Luther Crackenthorpe’s decease the money will be divided between Cedric, Harold, Alfred, Emma and Edith’s son Alexander Eastley.”

  “And the house?”

  “That will go to Luther Crackenthorpe’s eldest surviving son or his issue.”

  “Was Edmund Crackenthorpe married?”

  “No.”

  “So the property will actually go—?”

  “To the next son— Cedric.”

  “Mr. Luther Crackenthorpe himself cannot dispose of it?”

  “No.”

  “And he has no control of the capital.”

  “No.”

  “Isn’t that rather unusual? I suppose,” said Inspector Craddock shrewdly, “that his father didn’t like him.”

  “You suppose correctly,” said Mr. Wimborne. “Old Josiah was disappointed that his eldest son showed no interest in the family business—or indeed in business of any kind. Luther spent his time travelling abroad and collecting objets d’art. Old Josiah was very unsympathetic to that kind of thing. So he left his money in trust for the next generation.”

  “But in the meantime the next generation have no income except what they make or what their father allows them, and their father has a considerable income but no power of disposal of the capital.”

  “Exactly. And what all this has to do with the murder of an unknown young woman of foreign origin I cannot imagine!”

  “It doesn’t seem to have anything to do with it,” Inspector Craddock agreed promptly, “I just wanted to ascertain all the facts.”

  Mr. Wimborne looked at him sharply, then, seemingly satisfied with the result of his scrutiny, rose to his feet.

  “I am proposing now to return to London,” he said. “Unless there is anything further you wish to know?”

  He looked from one man to the other.

  “No, thank you, sir.”

  The sound of the gong rose fortissimo from the hall outside.

  “Dear me,” said Mr. Wimborne. “One of the boys, I think, must have been performing.”

  Inspector Craddock raised his voice, to be heard above the clamour, as he said:

  “We’ll leave the family to have lunch in peace, but Inspector Bacon and I would like to return after it—say at two fifteen—and have a short interview with every member of the family.”

  “You think that is necessary?”

  “Well…” Craddock shrugged his shoulders. “It’s just an off chance. Somebody might remember something that would give us a clue to the woman’s identity.”

  “I doubt it, Inspector. I doubt it very much. But I wish you good luck. As I said just now, the sooner this distasteful business is cleared up, the better for everybody.”

  Shaking his head, he went slowly out of the room.

  II

  Lucy had gone straight to the kitchen on getting back from the inquest, and was busy with preparations for lunch when Bryan Eastley put his head in.

  “Can I give you a hand in any way?” he asked. “I’m handy about the house.”

  Lucy gave him a quick, slightly preoccupied glance. Bryan had arrived at the inquest direct in his small M.G. car, and she had not as yet had much time to size him up.

  What she saw was likeable enough. Eastley was an amiable-looking young man of thirty-odd with brown hair, rather plaintive blue eyes and an enormous fair moustache.

  “The boys aren’t back yet,” he said, coming in and sitting on the end of the kitchen table. “It will take ’em another twenty minutes on their bikes.”

  Lucy smiled.

  “They were certainly determined not to miss anything.”

  “Can’t blame them. I mean to say—first inquest in their young lives and right in the family so to speak.”

  “Do you mind getting off the table, Mr. Eastley? I want to put the baking dish down there.”

  Bryan obeyed.

  “I say, that fat’s corking hot. What are you going to put in it?”

  “Yorkshire pudding.”

  “Good old Yorkshire. Roast beef of old England, is that the menu for today?”

  “Yes.”

  “The funeral baked meats, in fact. Smells good.” He sniffed appreciatively. “Do you mind my gassing away?”

  “If you came in to help I’d rather you helped.” She drew another pan from the oven. “Here—turn all these potatoes over so that they brown on the other side….”

  Bryan obeyed with alacrity.

  “Have all these things been fizzling away in here while we’ve been at the inquest? Supposing they’d been all burnt up.”

  “Most improbable. There’s a regulating number on the oven.”

  “Kind of electric brain, eh, what? Is that right?”

  Lucy threw a swift look in his direction.

  “Quite right. Now put the pan in the oven. Here, tak
e the cloth. On the second shelf— I want the top for the Yorkshire pudding.”

  Bryan obeyed, but not without uttering a shrill yelp.

  “Burnt yourself?”

  “Just a bit. It doesn’t matter. What a dangerous game cooking is!”

  “I suppose you never do your own cooking?”

  “As a matter of fact I do—quite often. But not this sort of thing. I can boil an egg—if I don’t forget to look at the clock. And I can do eggs and bacon. And I can put a steak under the grill or open a tin of soup. I’ve got one of those little electric whatnots in my flat.”

  “You live in London?”

  “If you call it living—yes.”

  His tone was despondent. He watched Lucy shoot in the dish with the Yorkshire pudding mixture.

  “This is awfully jolly,” he said and sighed.

  Her immediate preoccupations over, Lucy looked at him with more attention.

  “What is—this kitchen?”

  “Yes. Reminds me of our kitchen at home—when I was a boy.”

  It struck Lucy that there was something strangely forlorn about Bryan Eastley. Looking closely at him, she realized that he was older than she had at first thought. He must be close on forty. It seemed difficult to think of him as Alexander’s father. He reminded her of innumerable young pilots she had known during the war when she had been at the impressionable age of fourteen. She had gone on and grown up into a post-war world—but she felt as though Bryan had not gone on, but had been passed by in the passage of years. His next words confirmed this. He had subsided on to the kitchen table again.

  “It’s a difficult sort of world,” he said, “isn’t it? To get your bearings in, I mean. You see, one hasn’t been trained for it.”

  Lucy recalled what she had heard from Emma.

  “You were a fighter pilot, weren’t you?” she said. “You’ve got a D.F.C.”

  “That’s the sort of thing that puts you wrong. You’ve got a gong and so people try to make it easy for you. Give you a job and all that. Very decent of them. But they’re all admin. jobs, and one simply isn’t any good at that sort of thing. Sitting at a desk getting tangled up in figures. I’ve had ideas of my own, you know, tried out a wheeze or two. But you can’t get the backing. Can’t get the chaps to come in and put down the money. If I had a bit of capital—”