"They're completely dependent upon her as far as I can see. Eating out of her hand - literally as you might say. By the way, they know nothing about her connection with you. We've kept that dark."
"She has no connection now with me. She has done what I asked her to do."
"So she could hand in her notice and go if she wanted to?"
"Yes."
"But she stops on. Why?"
"She has not mentioned her reasons to me. She is a very intelligent girl. I suspect that she has become interested."
"In the problem? Or in the family?"
"It may be," said Miss Marple, "that it is rather difficult to separate the two."
Craddock looked hard at her.
"Have you got anything particular in mind?"
"Oh, no - oh, dear me, no."
"I think you have."
Miss Marple shook her head.
Dermot Craddock sighed. "So all I can do is to 'prosecute my inquiries' - to put it in jargon. A policeman's life is a dull one!"
"You'll get results, I'm sure."
"Any ideas for me? More inspired guesswork?"
"I was thinking of things like theatrical companies," said Miss Marple rather vaguely. "Touring from place to place and perhaps not many home ties. One of those young women would be much less likely to be missed."
"Yes. Perhaps you've got something there. We'll pay special attention to that angle." He added, "What are you smiling about?"
"I was just thinking," said Miss Marple, "of Elspeth McGillicuddy's face when she hears we've found the body!"
II
"Well!" said Mrs. McGillicuddy. "Well!"
Words failed her. She looked across at the nicely spoken pleasant young man who had called upon her with official credentials and then down at the photographs that he had handed her.
"That's her all right," she said. "Yes, that's her. Poor soul. Well, I must say I'm glad you've found her body. Nobody believed a word I said! The police, or the railway people or anyone else. It's very galling not to be believed. At any rate, nobody could say I didn't do all I possibly could."
The nice young man made sympathetic and appreciative noises.
"Where did you say the body was found?"
"In a barn at a house called Rutherford Hall, just outside Brackhampton."
"Never heard of it. How did it get there, I wonder?"
The young man did not reply.
"Jane Marple found it, I suppose. Trust Jane."
"The body," said the young man, referring to some notes, "was found by a Miss Lucy Eyelesbarrow."
"Never heard of her either," said Mrs. McGillicuddy. "I still think Jane Marple had something to do with it."
"Anyway, Mrs. McGillicuddy, you definitely identify this picture as that of the woman whom you saw in a train?"
"Being strangled by a man. Yes, I do."
"Now, can you describe this man?"
"He was a tall man," said Mrs. McGillicuddy.
"Yes?"
"And dark."
"Yes?"
"That's all I can tell you," said Mrs. McGillicuddy. "He had his back to me. I didn't see his face."
"Would you be able to recognise him if you saw him?"
"Of course I shouldn't! He had his back to me. I never saw his face."
"You've no idea at all as to his age?"
Mrs. McGillicuddy considered. "No - not really. I mean, I don't know... He wasn't, I'm almost sure - very young. His shoulders looked - well, set, if you know what I mean."
The young man nodded. "Thirty and upward, I can't get closer than that. I wasn't really looking at him, you see. It was her - with those hands round her throat and her face - all blue... You know, sometimes I dream of it even now..."
"It must have been a distressing experience," said the young man sympathetically.
He closed his notebook and said:
"When are you returning to England?"
"Not for another three weeks. It isn't necessary, is it, for me?"
He quickly reassured her.
"Oh, no. There's nothing you could do at present. Of course, if we make an arrest -"
It was left like that.
The mail brought a letter from Miss Marple to her friend. The writing was spiky and spidery and heavily underlined.
Long practice made it easy for Mrs. McGillicuddy to decipher. Miss Marple wrote a very full account to her friend who devoured every word with great satisfaction.
She and Jane had shown them all right!
Chapter 11
"I simply can't make you out," said Cedric Crackenthorpe.
He eased himself down on the decaying wall of a long derelict pigsty and stared at Lucy Eyelesbarrow.
"What can't you make out?"
"What you're doing here."
"I'm earning my living."
"As a skivvy?" He spoke disparagingly.
"You're out of date," said Lucy. "Skivvy, indeed! I'm a Household Help, a Professional Domestician, or an Answer to Prayer, mainly the latter."
"You can't like all the things you have to do - cooking and making beds and whirring about with a hoopla or whatever you call it, and sinking your arms up to the elbows in greasy water."
Lucy laughed.
"Not the details, perhaps, but cooking satisfies my creative instincts, and there's something in me that really revels in clearing up mess."
"I live in a permanent mess," said Cedric. "I like it," he added defiantly.
"You look as though you did."
"My cottage in Ibiza is run on simple straightforward lines. Three plates, two cups and saucers, a bed, a table and a couple of chairs. There's dust everywhere and smears of paint and chips of stone - I sculpt as well as paint - and nobody's allowed to touch a thing. I won't have a woman near the place."
"Not in any capacity?"
"Just what do you mean by that?"
"I was assuming that a man of such artistic tastes presumably had some kind of love life."
"My love life, as you call it, is my own business," said Cedric with dignity. "What I won't have is woman in her tidying-up interfering bossing capacity!"
"How I'd love to have a go at your cottage," said Lucy. "It would be a challenge!"
"You won't get the opportunity."
"I suppose not."
Some bricks fell out of the pigsty.
Cedric turned his head and looked into its nettle-ridden depths.
"Dear old Madge," he said. "I remember her well. A sow of most endearing disposition and a prolific mother. Seventeen in the last litter, I remember. We used to come here on fine afternoons and scratch Madge's back with a stick. She loved it."
"Why has this whole place been allowed to get into the state it's in? It can't only be the war?"
"You'd like to tidy this up, too, I suppose? What an interfering female you are. I quite see now why you would be the person to discover a body! You couldn't even leave a Greco-Roman sarcophagus alone." He paused and then went on.
"No, it's not only the war. It's my father. What do you think of him, by the way?"
"I haven't had much time for thinking."
"Don't evade the issue. He's as mean as hell, and in my opinion a bit crazy as well. Of course he hates all of us - except perhaps Emma. That's because of my grandfather's will."
Lucy looked inquiring.
"My grandfather was the man who made the money. With the Crunchies and the Cracker Jacks and the Cosy Crisps. All the afternoon tea delicacies, and then, being far sighted, he switched on very early to Cheesies and Canapes so that now we cash in on cocktail parties in a big way. Well, the time came when father intimated that he had a soul above Crunchies. He travelled in Italy and the Balkans and Greece and dabbled in art. My grandfather was peeved. He decided my father was no man of business and a rather poor judge of art (quite right in both cases), so left all his money in trust for his grandchildren. Father had the income for life, but he couldn't touch the capital. Do you know what he did? He stopped spending money. He came here and began to save. I'd say that by now he's accumulated nearly as big a fortune as my grandfather left. And in the meantime all of us, Harold, myself, Alfred and Emma haven't got a penny of grandfather's money. I'm a stony-broke painter. Harold went into business and is now a prominent man in the City - he's the one with the moneymaking touch, though I've heard rumours that he's in Queer Street lately. Alfred - well, Alfred is usually known in the privacy of the family as Flash Alf -"
"Why?"
"What a lot of things you want to know! The answer is that Alf is the black sheep of the family. He's not actually been to prison yet, but he's been very near it. He was in the Ministry of Supply during the war, but left it rather abruptly under questionable circumstances. And after that there were some dubious deals in tinned fruits - and trouble over eggs. Nothing in a big way - just a few doubtful deals on the side."
"Isn't it rather unwise to tell strangers all these things?"
"Why? Are you a police spy?"
"I might be."
"I don't think so. You were here slaving away before the police began to take an interest in us. I should say -"
He broke off as his sister Emma came through the door of the kitchen garden.
"Hallo, Em? You're looking very perturbed about something."
"I am. I want to talk to you, Cedric."
"I must get back to the house," said Lucy, tactfully.
"Don't go," said Cedric. "Murder has made you practically one of the family."
"I've got a lot to do," said Lucy. "I only came out to get some parsley."
She beat a rapid retreat to the kitchen garden. Cedric's eyes followed her.
"Good-looking girl," he said. "Who is she really?"
"Oh, she's quite well known," said Emma. "She's made a speciality of this kind of thing. But never mind Lucy Eyelesbarrow, Cedric, I'm terribly worried. Apparently the police think that the dead woman was a foreigner, perhaps French. Cedric, you don't think that she could possibly be - Martine?"
II
For a moment or two Cedric stared at her as though uncomprehending.
"Martine? But who on earth - oh, you mean Martine?"
"Yes. Do you think -"
"Why on earth should it be Martine?"
"Well, her sending that telegram was odd when you come to think of it. It must have been roughly about the same time... Do you think that she may, after all, have come down here and -"
"Nonsense. Why should Martine come down here and find her way into the Long Barn? What for? It seems wildly unlikely tone."
"You don't think, perhaps, that I ought to tell Inspector Bacon - or the other one?"
"Tell him what?"
"Well - about Martine. About her letter."
"Now don't you go complicating things, sis, by bringing up a lot of irrelevant stuff that has nothing to do with all this. I was never very convinced about that letter from Martine, anyway."
"I was."
"You've always been good at believing impossible things before breakfast, old girl. My advice to you is, sit tight, and keep your mouth shut. It's up to the police to identify their precious corpse. And I bet Harold would say the same."
"Oh, I know Harold would. And Alfred, also. But I'm worried, Cedric, I really am worried. I don't know what I ought to do."
"Nothing," said Cedric promptly. "You keep your mouth shut, Emma. Never go half-way to meet trouble, that's my motto."
Emma Crackenthorpe sighed. She went slowly back to the house uneasy in her mind.
As she came into the drive. Doctor Quimper emerged from the house and opened the door of his battered Austin car. He paused when he saw her, then leaving the car, he came towards her.
"Well, Emma," he said. "Your father's in splendid shape. Murder suits him. It's given him an interest in life. I must recommend it for more of my patients."
Emma smiled mechanically. Dr. Quimper was always quick to notice reactions.
"Anything particular the matter?" he asked.
Emma looked up at him. She had come to rely a lot on the kindliness and sympathy of the doctor. He had become a friend on whom to lean, not only a medical attendant.
His calculated brusqueness did not deceive her - she knew the kindness that lay behind it.
"I am worried, yes," she admitted.
"Care to tell me? Don't if you don't want to."
"I'd like to tell you. Some of it you know already. The point is I don't know what to do."
"I should say your judgement was usually most reliable. What's the trouble?"
"You remember - or perhaps you don't - what I once told you about my brother - the one who was killed in the war?"
"You mean about his having married - or wanting to marry - a French girl? Something of that kind?"
"Yes. Almost immediately after I got that letter, he was killed. We never heard anything of or about the girl. All we knew, actually, was her Christian name. We always expected her to write or to turn up, but she didn't. We never heard anything - until about a month ago, just before Christmas."
"I remember. You got a letter, didn't you?"
"Yes. Saying she was in England and would like to come and see us. It was all arranged and then, at the last minute, she sent a wire that she had to return unexpectedly to France."
"Well?"
"The police think that this woman who was killed - was French."
"They do, do they? She looked more of an English type to me, but one can't really judge. What's worrying you then, is that just possibly the dead woman might be your brother's girl?"
