4:50 From Paddington

by Agatha Christie

  Harold’s face brightened a little. He rose, took his hat and coat and left the office. Better take it easy for a day or two. He wasn’t feeling too strong yet. His car was waiting below and very soon he was weaving through London traffic to his house.

  Darwin, his manservant, opened the door.

  “Her ladyship has just arrived, sir,” he said.

  For a moment Harold stared at him. Alice! Good heavens, was it today that Alice was coming home? He’d forgotten all about it. Good thing Darwin had warned him. It wouldn’t have looked so good if he’d gone upstairs and looked too astonished at seeing her. Not that it really mattered, he supposed. Neither Alice nor he had any illusions about the feeling they had for each other. Perhaps Alice was fond of him—he didn’t know.

  All in all, Alice was a great disappointment to him. He hadn’t been in love with her, of course, but though a plain woman she was quite a pleasant one. And her family and connections had undoubtedly been useful. Not perhaps as useful as they might have been, because in marrying Alice he had been considering the position of hypothetical children. Nice relations for his boys to have. But there hadn’t been any boys, or girls either, and all that had remained had been he and Alice growing older together without much to say to each other and with no particular pleasure in each other’s company.

  She stayed away a good deal with relations and usually went to the Riviera in the winter. It suited her and it didn’t worry him.

  He went upstairs now into the drawing room and greeted her punctiliously.

  “So you’re back, my dear. Sorry I couldn’t meet you, but I was held up in the City. I got back as early as I could. How was San Raphael?”

  Alice told him how San Raphael was. She was a thin woman with sandy-coloured hair, a well-arched nose and vague, hazel eyes. She talked in a well-bred, monotonous and rather depressing voice. It had been a good journey back, the Channel a little rough. The Customs, as usual, very trying at Dover.

  “You should come by air,” said Harold, as he always did. “So much simpler.”

  “I dare say, but I don’t really like air travel. I never have. Makes me nervous.”

  “Saves a lot of time,” said Harold.

  Lady Alice Crackenthorpe did not answer. It was possible that her problem in life was not to save time but to occupy it. She inquired politely after her husband’s health.

  “Emma’s telegram quite alarmed me,” she said. “You were all taken ill, I understand.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Harold.

  “I read in the paper the other day,” said Alice, “of forty people in a hotel going down with food poisoning at the same time. All this refrigeration is dangerous, I think. People keep things too long in them.”

  “Possibly,” said Harold. Should he, or should he not mention arsenic? Somehow, looking at Alice, he felt himself quite unable to do so. In Alice’s world, he felt, there was no place for poisoning by arsenic. It was a thing you read about in the papers. It didn’t happen to you or your own family. But it had happened in the Crackenthorpe family….

  He went up to his room and lay down for an hour or two before dressing for dinner. At dinner, tête-à-tête with his wife, the conversation ran on much the same lines. Desultory, polite. The mention of acquaintances and friends at San Raphael.

  “There’s a parcel for you on the hall table, a small one,” Alice said.

  “Is there? I didn’t notice it.”

  “It’s an extraordinary thing but somebody was telling me about a murdered woman having been found in a barn, or something like that. She said it was at Rutherford Hall. I suppose it must be some other Rutherford Hall.”

  “No,” said Harold, “no, it isn’t. It was in our barn, as a matter of fact.”

  “Really, Harold! A murdered woman in the barn at Rutherford Hall—and you never told me anything about it.”

  “Well, there hasn’t been much time, really,” said Harold, “and it was all rather unpleasant. Nothing to do with us, of course. The Press milled around a good deal. Of course we had to deal with the police and all that sort of thing.”

  “Very unpleasant,” said Alice. “Did they find out who did it?” she added, with rather perfunctory interest.

  “Not yet,” said Harold.

  “What sort of woman was she?”

  “Nobody knows. French, apparently.”

  “Oh, French,” said Alice, and allowing for the difference in class, her tone was not unlike that of Inspector Bacon. “Very annoying for you all,” she agreed.

  They went out from the dining room and crossed into the small study where they usually sat when they were alone. Harold was feeling quite exhausted by now. “I’ll go up to bed early,” he thought.

  He picked up the small parcel from the hall table, about which his wife had spoken to him. It was a small neatly waxed parcel, done up with meticulous exactness. Harold ripped it open as he came to sit down in his usual chair by the fire.

  Inside was a small tablet box bearing the label, “Two to be taken nightly.” With it was a small piece of paper with the chemist’s heading in Brackhampton. “Sent by request of Doctor Quimper” was written on it.

  Harold Crackenthorpe frowned. He opened the box and looked at the tablets. Yes, they seemed to be the same tablets he had been having. But surely, surely Quimper had said that he needn’t take anymore? “You won’t want them, now.” That’s what Quimper had said.

  “What is it, dear?” said Alice. “You look worried.”

  “Oh, it’s just—some tablets. I’ve been taking them at night. But I rather thought the doctor said don’t take anymore.”

  His wife said placidly: “He probably said don’t forget to take them.”

  “He may have done, I suppose,” said Harold doubtfully.

  He looked across at her. She was watching him. Just for a moment or two he wondered—he didn’t often wonder about Alice—exactly what she was thinking. That mild gaze of hers told him nothing. Her eyes were like windows in an empty house. What did Alice think about him, feel about him? Had she been in love with him once? He supposed she had. Or did she marry him because she thought he was doing well in the City, and she was tired of her own impecunious existence? Well, on the whole, she’d done quite well out of it. She’d got a car and a house in London, she could travel abroad when she felt like it and get herself expensive clothes, though goodness knows they never looked like anything on Alice. Yes, on the whole she’d done pretty well. He wondered if she thought so. She wasn’t really fond of him, of course, but then he wasn’t really fond of her. They had nothing in common, nothing to talk about, no memories to share. If there had been children—but there hadn’t been any children—odd that there were no children in the family except young Edie’s boy. Young Edie. She’d been a silly girl, making that foolish, hasty war-time marriage. Well, he’d given her good advice.

  He’d said: “It’s all very well, these dashing young pilots, glamour, courage, all that, but he’ll be no good in peace time, you know. Probably be barely able to support you.”

  And Edie had said, what did it matter? She loved Bryan and Bryan loved her, and he’d probably be killed quite soon. Why shouldn’t they have some happiness? What was the good of looking to the future when they might well be bombed any minute. And after all, Edie had said, the future doesn’t really matter because some day there’ll be all grandfather’s money.

  Harold squirmed uneasily in his chair. Really, that will of his grandfather’s had been iniquitous! Keeping them all dangling on a string. The will hadn’t pleased anybody. It didn’t please the grandchildren and it made their father quite livid. The old boy was absolutely determined not to die. That’s what made him take so much care of himself. But he’d have to die soon. Surely, surely he’d have to die soon. Otherwise—all Harold’s worries swept over him once more making him feel sick and tired and giddy.

  Alice was still watching him, he noticed. Those pale, thoughtful eyes, they made him uneasy somehow.

  “I think
I shall go to bed,” he said. “It’s been my first day out in the City.”

  “Yes,” said Alice, “I think that’s a good idea. I’m sure the doctor told you to take things easily at first.”

  “Doctors always tell you that,” said Harold.

  “And don’t forget to take your tablets, dear,” said Alice. She picked up the box and handed it to him.

  He said good night and went upstairs. Yes, he needed the tablets. It would have been a mistake to leave them off too soon. He took two of them and swallowed them with a glass of water.

  Twenty-four

  “Nobody could have made more of a muck of it than I seem to have done,” said Dermot Craddock gloomily.

  He sat, his long legs stretched out, looking somehow incongruous in faithful Florence’s somewhat overfurnished parlour. He was thoroughly tired, upset and dispirited.

  Miss Marple made soft, soothing noises of dissent. “No, no, you’ve done very good work, my dear boy. Very good work indeed.”

  “I’ve done very good work, have I? I’ve let a whole family be poisoned. Alfred Crackenthorpe’s dead and now Harold’s dead too. What the hell’s going on here. That’s what I should like to know.”

  “Poisoned tablets,” said Miss Marple thoughtfully.

  “Yes. Devilishly cunning, really. They looked just like the tablets that he’d been having. There was a printed slip sent in with them ‘by Doctor Quimper’s instructions.’ Well, Quimper never ordered them. There were chemist’s labels used. The chemist knew nothing about it, either. No. That box of tablets came from Rutherford Hall.”

  “Do you actually know it came from Rutherford Hall?”

  “Yes. We’ve had a thorough check up. Actually, it’s the box that held the sedative tablets prescribed for Emma.”

  “Oh, I see. For Emma….”

  “Yes. It’s got her fingerprints on it and the fingerprints of both the nurses and the fingerprint of the chemist who made it up. Nobody else’s, naturally. The person who sent them was careful.”

  “And the sedative tablets were removed and something else substituted?”

  “Yes. That of course is the devil with tablets. One tablet looks exactly like another.”

  “You are so right,” agreed Miss Marple. “I remember so very well in my young days, the black mixture and the brown mixture (the cough mixture that was) and the white mixture, and Doctor So-and- So’s pink mixture. People didn’t mix those up nearly as much. In fact, you know, in my village of St. Mary Mead we still like that kind of medicine. It’s a bottle they always want, not tablets. What were the tablets?” she asked.

  “Aconite. They were the kind of tablets that are usually kept in a poison bottle, diluted one in a hundred for outside application.”

  “And so Harold took them, and died,” Miss Marple said thoughtfully. Dermot Craddock uttered something like a groan.

  “You mustn’t mind my letting off steam to you,” he said. “Tell it all to Aunt Jane; that’s how I feel!”

  “That’s very, very nice of you,” said Miss Marple, “and I do appreciate it. I feel towards you, as Sir Henry’s godson, quite differently from the way I feel to any ordinary detective-inspector.”

  Dermot Craddock gave her a fleeting grin. “But the fact remains that I’ve made the most ghastly mess of things all along the line,” he said. “The Chief Constable down here calls in Scotland Yard, and what do they get? They get me making a prize ass of myself!”

  “No, no,” said Miss Marple.

  “Yes, yes. I don’t know who poisoned Alfred, I don’t know who poisoned Harold, and, to cap it all, I haven’t the least idea who the original murdered woman was! This Martine business seemed a perfectly safe bet. The whole thing seemed to tie up. And now what happens? The real Martine shows up and turns out, most improbably, to be the wife of Sir Robert Stoddart-West. So, who’s the woman in the barn now? Goodness knows. First I go all out on the idea she’s Anna Stravinska, and then she’s out of it—”

  He was arrested by Miss Marple giving one of her small peculiarly significant coughs.

  “But is she?” she murmured.

  Craddock stared at her. “Well, that postcard from Jamaica—”

  “Yes,” said Miss Marple; “but that isn’t really evidence, is it? I mean, anyone can get a postcard sent from almost anywhere, I suppose. I remember Mrs. Brierly, such a very bad nervous breakdown. Finally, they said she ought to go to the mental hospital for observation, and she was so worried about the children knowing about it and so she wrote fourteen postcards and arranged that they should be posted from different places abroad, and told them that Mummy was going abroad on a holiday.” She added, looking at Dermot Craddock, “You see what I mean.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Craddock, staring at her. “Naturally we’d have checked that postcard if it hadn’t been for the Martine business fitting the bill so well.”

  “So convenient,” murmured Miss Marple.

  “It tied up,” said Craddock. “After all, there’s the letter Emma received signed Martine Crackenthorpe. Lady Stoddart-West didn’t send that, but somebody did. Somebody who was going to pretend to be Martine, and who was going to cash in, if possible, on being Martine. You can’t deny that.”

  “No, no.”

  “And then, the envelope of the letter Emma wrote to her with the London address on it. Found at Rutherford Hall, showing she’d actually been there.”

  “But the murdered woman hadn’t been there!” Miss Marple pointed out. “Not in the sense you mean. She only came to Rutherford Hall after she was dead. Pushed out of a train on to the railway embankment.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “What the envelope really proves is that the murderer was there. Presumably he took that envelope off her with her other papers and things, and then dropped it by mistake—or—I wonder now, was it a mistake? Surely Inspector Bacon, and your men too, made a thorough search of the place, didn’t they, and didn’t find it. It only turned up later in the boiler house.”

  “That’s understandable,” said Craddock. “The old gardener chap used to spear up any odd stuff that was blowing about and shove it in there.”

  “Where it was very convenient for the boys to find,” said Miss Marple thoughtfully.

  “You think we were meant to find it?”

  “Well, I just wonder. After all, it would be fairly easy to know where the boys were going to look next, or even to suggest to them… Yes, I do wonder. It stopped you thinking about Anna Stravinska anymore, didn’t it?”

  Craddock said: “And you think it really may be her all the time?”

  “I think someone may have got alarmed when you started making inquiries about her, that’s all… I think somebody didn’t want those inquiries made.”

  “Let’s hold on to the basic fact that someone was going to impersonate Martine,” said Craddock. “And then for some reason—didn’t. Why?”

  “That’s a very interesting question,” said Miss Marple.

  “Somebody sent a note saying Martine was going back to France, then arranged to travel down with the girl and kill her on the way. You agree so far?”

  “Not exactly,” said Miss Marple. “I don’t think, really, you’re making it simple enough.”

  “Simple!” exclaimed Craddock. “You’re mixing me up,” he complained.

  Miss Marple said in a distressed voice that she wouldn’t think of doing anything like that.

  “Come, tell me,” said Craddock, “do you or do you not think you know who the murdered woman was?” Miss Marple sighed. “It’s so difficult,” she said, “to put it the right way. I mean, I don’t know who she was, but at the same time I’m fairly sure who she was, if you know what I mean.”

  Craddock threw up his head. “Know what you mean? I haven’t the faintest idea.” He looked out through the window. “There’s your Lucy Eyelesbarrow coming to see you,” he said. “Well, I’ll be off. My amour propre is very low this afternoon and having a young woman coming in, radiant with eff
iciency and success, is more than I can bear.”

  Twenty-five

  “I looked up tontine in the dictionary,” said Lucy.

  The first greetings were over and now Lucy was wandering rather aimlessly round the room, touching a china dog here, an antimacassar there, the plastic work-box in the window.

  “I thought you probably would,” said Miss Marple equably.

  Lucy spoke slowly, quoting the words. “Lorenzo Tonti, Italian banker, originator, 1653, of a form of annuity in which the shares of subscribers who die are added to the profit shares of the survivors.” She paused. “That’s it, isn’t it? That fits well enough, and you were thinking of it even then before the last two deaths.”

  She took up once more her restless, almost aimless prowl round the room. Miss Marple sat watching her. This was a very different Lucy Eyelesbarrow from the one she knew.

  “I suppose it was asking for it really,” said Lucy. “A will of that kind, ending so that if there was only one survivor left he’d get the lot. And yet—there was quite a lot of money, wasn’t there? You’d think it would be enough shared out…” She paused, the words trailing off.

  “The trouble is,” said Miss Marple, “that people are greedy. Some people. That’s so often, you know, how things start. You don’t start with murder, with wanting to do murder, or even thinking of it. You just start by being greedy, by wanting more than you’re going to have.” She laid her knitting down on her knee and stared ahead of her into space. “That’s how I came across Inspector Craddock first, you know. A case in the country. Near Medenham Spa. That began the same way, just a weak amiable character who wanted a great deal of money. Money that that person wasn’t entitled to, but there seemed an easy way to get it. Not murder then. Just something so easy and simple that it hadn’t seemed wrong. That’s how things begin… But it ended with three murders.”