"I had to tell my father, of course. He got very worked up," she smiled faintly.
"He was convinced it was a put-up thing to get money out of us. My father gets very excited about money. He believes, or pretends to believe, that he is a very poor man, and that he must save every penny he can. I believe elderly people do get obsessions of that kind sometimes. It's not true, of course, he has a very large income and doesn't actually spend a quarter of it - or used not to until these days of high income tax. Certainly he has a large amount of savings put by." She paused and then went on. "I told my other two brothers also. Alfred seemed to consider it rather a joke, though he, too, thought it was almost certainly an imposture. Cedric just wasn't interested - he's inclined to be self-centered. Our idea was that the family would receive Martine, and that our lawyer, Mr. Wimborne, should also be asked to be present."
"What did Mr. Wimborne think about the matter?"
"We hadn't got as far as discussing the matter with him. We were on the point of doing so when Martine's telegram arrived."
"You have taken no further steps?"
"Yes. I wrote to the address in London with 'Please forward' on the envelope, but I have had no reply of any kind."
"Rather a curious business... Hm..."
He looked at her sharply.
"What do you yourself think about it?"
"I don't know what to think."
"What were your reactions at the time? Did you think the letter was genuine - or did you agree with your father and brothers? What about your brother-in-law, by the way, what did he think?"
"Oh, Bryan thought that the letter was genuine."
"And you?"
"I - wasn't sure."
"And what were your feelings about it - supposing that this girl really was your brother Edmund's widow?"
Emma's face softened.
"I was very fond of Edmund. He was my favourite brother. The letter seemed to me exactly the sort of letter that a girl like Martine would write under the circumstances. The course of events she described was entirely natural. I assumed that by the time the war ended she had either married again or was with some man who was protecting her and the child. Then perhaps, this man had died, or left her, and it then seemed right to her to apply to Edmund's family - as he himself had wanted her to do. The letter seemed genuine and natural to me - but, of course, Harold pointed out that if it was written by an impostor, it would be written by some woman who had known Martine and who was in possession of all the facts, and so could write a thoroughly plausible letter. I had to admit the justice of that - but all the same..."
She stopped.
"You wanted it to be true?" said
Craddock gently.
She looked at him gratefully.
"Yes, I wanted it to be true. I would be so glad if Edmund had left a son."
Craddock nodded.
"As you say, the letter, on the face of it, sounds genuine enough. What is surprising is the sequel, Martine Crackenthorpe's abrupt departure for Paris and the fact that you have never heard from her since. You had replied kindly to her, were prepared to welcome her. Why, even if she had to return to France, did she not write again? That is, presuming her to be the genuine article. If she were an impostor, of course, it's easier to explain. I thought perhaps that you might have consulted Mr. Wimborne, and that he might have instituted inquiries which alarmed the woman. That, you tell me, is not so. But it's still possible that one or other of your brothers may have done something of the kind. It's possible that this Martine may have had a background that would not stand investigation. She may have assumed that she would be dealing only with Edmund's affectionate sister, not with hard-headed suspicious business men. She may have hoped to get sums of money out of you for the child (hardly a child now - a boy presumably of fifteen or sixteen) without many questions being asked. But instead she found she was going to run up against something quite different. After all, I should imagine that serious legal aspects would arise. If Edmund Crackenthorpe left a son, born in wedlock, he would be one of the heirs to your grandfather's estate?"
Emma nodded.
"Moreover, from what I have been told, he would in due course inherit Rutherford Hall and the land round it - very valuable building land, probably, by now."
Emma looked slightly startled. "Yes, I hadn't thought of that." "Well, I shouldn't worry," said Inspector Craddock. "You did quite right to come and tell me. I shall make inquiries, but it seems to me highly probable that there is no connection between the woman who wrote the letter (and who was probably trying to cash in on a swindle) and the woman whose body was found in the sarcophagus."
Emma rose with a sigh of relief.
"I'm so glad I've told you. You've been very kind."
Craddock accompanied her to the door.
Then he rang for Detective-Sergeant Wetherall.
"Bob, I've got a job for you. Go to 126 Elvers Crescent, No.10. Take photographs of the Rutherford Hall woman with you. See what you can find out about a woman calling herself Mrs. Crackenthorpe - Mrs. Martine Crackenthorpe, who was either living there, or calling for letters there, between the dates of, say, 15th to the end of December."
"Right, sir."
Craddock busied himself with various other matters that were waiting attention on his desk. In the afternoon he went to see a theatrical agent who was a friend of his. His inquiries were not fruitful.
Later in the day when he returned to his office he found a wire from Paris on his desk.
Particulars given by you might apply to Anna Stravinska of Ballet Maritski.
Suggest you come over. Dessin, Prefecture. Craddock heaved a big sigh of relief, and his brow cleared.
At last! So much, he thought, for the Martine Crackenthorpe hare... He decided to take the night ferry to Paris.
Chapter 13
"It's so very kind of you to have asked me to take tea with you," said Miss Marple to Emma Crackenthorpe.
Miss Marple was looking particularly woolly and fluffy - a picture of a sweet old lady. She beamed as she looked round her - at Harold Crackenthorpe in his well-cut dark suit, and at Alfred handing her sandwiches with a charming smile, at Cedric standing by the mantelpiece in a ragged tweed jacket scowling at the rest of his family.
"We are very pleased that you could come," said Emma politely.
There was no hint of the scene which had taken place after lunch that day when Emma had exclaimed: "Dear me, I quite forgot. I told Miss Eyelesbarrow that she could bring her old aunt to tea today."
"Put her off," said Harold brusquely.
"We've still got a lot to talk about. We don't want strangers here."
"Let her have tea in the kitchen or somewhere with the girl," said Alfred.
"Oh, no, I couldn't do that," said Emma firmly. "That would be very rude."
"Oh, let her come," said Cedric. "We can draw her out a little about the wonderful Lucy. I should like to know more about that girl, I must say. I'm not sure that I trust her. Too smart by half."
"She's very well connected and quite genuine," said Harold. "I've made it my business to find out. One wanted to be sure. Poking about and finding the body the way she did."
"If only we knew who this damned woman was," said Alfred.
Harold added angrily:
"I must say, Emma, that I think you were out of your senses, going and suggesting to the police that the dead woman might be Edmund's French girl friend. It will make them convinced that she came here, and that probably one of us killed her."
"Oh, no, Harold. Don't exaggerate."
"Harold's quite right," said Alfred. "Whatever possessed you, I don't know. I've a feeling I'm being followed everywhere I go by plain-clothes men."
"I told her not to do it," said Cedric. "Then Quimper backed her up."
"It's no business of his," said Harold angrily. "Let him stick to pills and powders and National Health."
"Oh, do stop quarrelling," said Emma wearily. "I'm really glad this old Miss Whats-her-name is coming to tea. It will do us all good to have a stranger here and be prevented from going over and over the same things again and again. I must go and tidy myself up a little."
She left the room.
"This Lucy Eyelesbarrow," said Harold, and stopped. "As Cedric says, it is odd that she should nose about in the barn and go opening up a sarcophagus - really a Herculean task. Perhaps we ought to take steps. Her attitude, I thought, was rather antagonistic at lunch -"
"Leave her to me," said Alfred. "I'll soon find out if she's up to anything."
"I mean, why open up that sarcophagus?"
"Perhaps she isn't really Lucy Eyelesbarrow at all," suggested Cedric.
"But what would be the point -?"
Harold looked thoroughly upset. "Oh, damn!"
They looked at each other with worried faces.
"And here's this pestilential old woman coming to tea. Just when we want to think."
"We'll talk things over this evening," said Alfred. "In the meantime, we'll pump the old aunt about Lucy."
So Miss Marple had duly been fetched by Lucy and installed by the fire and she was now smiling up at Alfred as he handed her sandwiches with the approval she always showed towards a good-looking man.
"Thank you so much... May I ask...? Oh, egg and sardine, yes, that will be very nice. I'm afraid I'm always rather greedy over my tea. As one gets on, you know... And, of course, at night only a very light meal... I have to be careful."
She turned to her hostess once more.
"What a beautiful house you have. And so many beautiful things in it. Those bronzes, now, they remind me of some my father bought - at the Paris Exhibition. Really, your grandfather did? In the classical style, aren't they? Very handsome. How delightful for you having your brothers with you? So often families are scattered - India, though I suppose that is all done with now - and Africa - the west coast, such a bad climate."
"Two of my brothers live in London."
"That is very nice for you."
"But my brother Cedric is a painter and lives in Ibiza, one of the Balearic Islands."
"Painters are so fond of islands, are they not?" said Miss Marple. "Chopin - that was Majorca, was it not? But he was a musician. It is Gauguin I am thinking of. A sad life - misspent, one feels. I myself never really care for paintings of native women - and although I know he is very much admired - I have never cared for that lurid mustard colour. One really feels quite bilious looking at his pictures."
She eyed Cedric with a slightly disapproving air.
"Tell us about Lucy as a child, Miss Marple," said Cedric.
She smiled up at him delightedly.
"Lucy was always so clever," she said. "Yes, you were, dear - now don't interrupt. Quite remarkable at arithmetic. Why, I remember when the butcher overcharged me for topside of beef..."
Miss Marple launched full steam ahead into reminiscences of Lucy's childhood and from there to experiences of her own in village life.
The stream of reminiscence was interrupted by the entry of Bryan and the boys rather wet and dirty as a result of an enthusiastic search for clues. Tea was brought in and with it came Dr. Quimper who raised his eyebrows slightly as he looked round after acknowledging his introduction to the old lady.
"Hope your father's not under the weather, Emma?"
"Oh, no - that is, he was just a little tired this afternoon -"
"Avoiding visitors, I expect," said Miss Marple with a roguish smile. "How well I remember my own dear father. 'Got a lot of old pussies coming?' he would say to my mother. 'Send my tea into the study.' Very naughty about it, he was."
"Please don't think -" began Emma, but Cedric cut in. "It's always tea in the study when his dear sons come down. Psychologically to be expected, eh, Doctor?"
Dr. Quimper, who was devouring sandwiches and coffee cake with the frank appreciation of a man who has usually too little time to spend on his meals, said:
"Psychology's all right if it's left to the psychologists. Trouble is, everyone is an amateur phychologist nowadays. My patients tell me exactly what complexes and neuroses they're suffering from, without giving me a chance to tell them. Thanks, Emma, I will have another cup. No time for lunch today."
"A doctor's life, I always think, is so noble and self-sacrificing," said Miss Marple.
"You can't know many doctors," said Dr. Quimper. "Leeches they used to be called, and leeches they often are! At any rate, we do get paid nowadays, the State sees to that. No sending in of bills that you know won't ever be met. The trouble is that all one's patients are determined to get everything they can 'out of the Government', and as a result, if little Jenny coughs twice in the night, or little Tommy eats a couple of green apples, out the poor doctor has to come in the middle of the night. Oh, well! Glorious cake, Emma. What a cook you are!"
"Not mine, Miss Eyelesbarrow's."
"You make 'em just as good," said Quimper loyally.
"Will you come and see Father?"
She rose and the doctor followed her.
Miss Marple watched them leave the room.
"Miss Crackenthorpe is a very devoted daughter, I see," she said.
"Can't imagine how she sticks the old man, myself," said the outspoken Cedric.
"She has a very comfortable home here, and her father is very much attached to her," said Harold quickly.
"Em's all right," said Cedric. "Born to be an old maid."
There was a faint twinkle in Miss Marple's eye as she said:
"Oh, do you think so?"
Harold said quickly:
"My brother didn't use the term old maid in any derogatory sense, Miss Marple."
