4.50 From Paddington mm-8 Page 15

  "It interests me," said Craddock. "What actually did you suspect – or fear?"

  "Gastric cases vary, of course, but there were certain indications that would have been, shall we say, more consistent with arsenical poisoning than with plain gastro enteritis. Mind you, the two things are very much alike. Better men than myself have failed to recognise arsenical poisoning – and have given a certificate in all good faith."

  "And what was the result of your inquiries?"

  "It seemed that what I suspected could not possibly be true. Mr. Crackenthorpe assured me that he had had similar attacks before I attended him – and from the same cause, he said. They had always taken place when there was too much rich food about."

  "Which was when the house was full? With the family? Or guests?"

  "Yes. That seemed reasonable enough. But frankly, Craddock, I wasn't happy. I went so far as to write to old Dr. Morris. He was my senior partner and retired soon after I joined him. Crackenthorpe was his patient originally. I asked about these earlier attacks that the old man had had."

  "And what response did you get?"

  Quimper grinned.

  "I got a flea in the ear. I was more or less told not to be a damned fool. Well –" he shrugged his shoulders – "presumably I was a damned fool."

  "I wonder." Craddock was thoughtful.

  Then he decided to speak frankly.

  "Throwing discretion aside. Doctor, there are people who stand to benefit pretty considerably from Luther Crackenthorpe's death," The doctor nodded. "He's an old man – and a hale and hearty one. He may live to be ninety odd?"

  "Easily. He spends his life taking care of himself, and his constitution is sound."

  "And his sons – and daughter – are all getting on, and they are all feeling the pinch?"

  "You leave Emma out of it. She's no poisoner. These attacks only happen when the others are there – not when she and he are alone."

  "An elementary precaution – if she's the one," the inspector thought, but was careful not to say aloud.

  He paused, choosing his words carefully.

  "Surely – I'm ignorant in these matters – but supposing just as a hypothesis that arsenic was administered – hasn't Crackenthorpe been very lucky not to succumb?"

  "Now there," said the doctor, "you have got something odd. It is exactly that fact that leads me to believe that I have been, as old Morris puts it, a damned fool. You see, it's obviously not a case of small doses of arsenic administered regularly – which is what you might call the classic method of arsenic poisoning. Crackenthorpe has never had any chronic gastric trouble. In a way, that's what makes these sudden violent attacks seem unlikely. So, assuming they are not due to natural causes, it looks as though the poisoner is muffing it every time – which hardly makes sense."

  "Giving an inadequate dose, you mean?"

  "Yes. On the other hand, Crackenthorpe's got a strong constitution and what might do in another man, doesn't do him in. There's always personal idiosyncrasy to be reckoned with. But you'd think that by now the poisoner – unless he's unusually timid – would have stepped up the dose. Why hasn't he?

  "That is," he added, "if there is a poisoner which there probably isn't! Probably all my ruddy imagination from start to finish."

  "It's an odd problem," the inspector agreed. "It doesn't seem to make sense."

  II

  "Inspector Craddock!"

  The eager whisper made the inspector jump.

  He had been just on the point of ringing the front-door bell.

  Alexander and his friend Stoddart-West emerged cautiously from the shadows.

  "We heard your car, and we wanted to get hold of you."

  "Well, let's go inside." Craddock's hand went out to the door bell again, but Alexander pulled at his coat with the eagerness of a pawing dog.

  "We've found a clue," he breathed.

  "Yes, we've found a clue," Stoddart-West echoed.

  "Damn that girl," thought Craddock unamiably.

  "Splendid," he said in a perfunctory manner. "Let's go inside the house and look at it."

  "No." Alexander was insistent. "Someone's sure to interrupt. Come to the harness room. We'll guide you."

  Somewhat unwillingly, Craddock allowed himself to be guided round the corner of the house and along to the stable yard. Stoddart-West pushed open a heavy door, stretched up, and turned on a rather feeble electric light. The harness room, once the acme of Victorian spit and polish, was now the sad repository of everything that no one wanted. Broken garden chairs, rusted old garden implements, a vast decrepit mowing-machine, rusted spring mattresses, hammocks, and disintegrated tennis nets.

  "We come here a good deal," said Alexander. "One can really be private here."

  There were certain tokens of occupancy about. The decayed mattresses had been piled up to make a kind of divan, there was an old rusted table on which reposed a large tin of chocolate biscuits, there was a hoard of apples, a tin of toffee, and a jigsaw puzzle.

  "It really is a clue, sir," said Stoddart-West eagerly, his eyes gleaming behind his spectacles. "We found it this afternoon."

  "We've been hunting for days. In the bushes –"

  "And inside hollow trees –"

  "And we went all through the ash bins –"

  "There were some jolly interesting things there, as a matter of fact –"

  "And then we went into the boiler house –"

  "Old Hillman keeps a great galvanised tub there full of waste paper –"

  "For when the boiler goes out and he wants to start it again –"

  "Any odd paper that's blowing about. He picks it up and shoves it in there –"

  "And that's where we found it –"

  "Found what?" Craddock interrupted the duet.

  "The clue. Careful, Stodders, get your gloves on."

  Importantly, Stoddart-West, in the best detective story tradition, drew on a pair of rather dirty gloves and took from his pocket a Kodak photographic folder. From this he extracted in his gloved fingers with the utmost care a soiled and crumpled envelope which he handed importantly to the inspector.

  Both boys held their breath in excitement.

  Craddock took it with due solemnity.

  He liked the boys and he was ready to enter into the spirit of the thing.

  The letter had been through the post, there was no enclosure inside, it was just a torn envelope – addressed to Mrs. Martine Crackenthorpe, 126 Elvers Crescent , N.10.

  "You see?" said Alexander breathlessly. "It shows she was here – Uncle Edmund's French wife, I mean – the one there's all the fuss about. She must have actually been here and dropped it somewhere. So it looks, doesn't it –"

  Stoddart-West broke in:

  "It looks as though she was the one who got murdered – I mean, don't you think, sir, that it simply must have been her in the sarcophagus?"

  They waited anxiously.

  Craddock played up.

  "Possible, very possible," he said.

  "This is important, isn't it?"

  "You'll test it for fingerprints, won't you, sir?»

  "Of course," said Craddock.

  Stoddart-West gave a deep sigh.

  "Smashing luck for us, wasn't it?" he said. "On our last day, too."

  "Last day?"

  "Yes," said Alexander. "I'm going to Stodders' place tomorrow for the last few days of the holidays. Stodders' people have got a smashing house – Queen Anne, isn't it?"

  "William and Mary," said Stoddart-West.

  "I thought your mother said –"

  "Mum's French. She doesn't really know about English architecture."

  "But your father said it was built –"

  Craddock was examining the envelope.

  Clever of Lucy Eyelesbarrow. How had she managed to fake the post mark? He peered closely, but the light was too feeble. Great fun for the boys, of course, but rather awkward for him. Lucy, drat her, hadn't considered that angle. If this were genuine, it would enfor
ce a course of action. There…

  Beside him a learned architectual argument was being hotly pursued. He was deaf to it.

  "Come on, boys," he said, "we'll go into the house. You've been very helpful."

  Chapter 18

  I

  Craddock was escorted by the boys through the back door into the house. This was, it seemed, their common mode of entrance. The kitchen was bright and cheerful. Lucy, in a large white apron, was rolling out pastry. Leaning against the dresser, watching her with a kind of dog-like attention, was Bryan Eastley. With one hand he tugged at his large fair moustache.

  "Hallo, Dad," said Alexander kindly. "You out here again?"

  "I like it out here," said Bryan , and added: "Miss Eyelesbarrow doesn't mind."

  "Oh, I don't mind," said Lucy. "Good evening, Inspector Craddock."

  "Coming to detect in the kitchen?" asked Bryan with interest.

  "Not exactly. Mr. Cedric Crackenthorpe is still here, isn't he?"

  "Oh, yes, Cedric's here. Do you want him?"

  "I'd like a word with him – yes, please."

  "I'll go and see if he's in," said Bryan .

  "He may have gone round to the local." He unpropped himself from the dresser.

  "Thank you so much," said Lucy to him. "My hands are all over flour or I'd go."

  "What are you making?" asked Stoddart-West anxiously.

  "Peach flan."

  "Good-oh," said Stoddart-West.

  "Is it nearly supper-time?" asked Alexander.

  "No."

  "Gosh! I'm terribly hungry."

  "There's the end of the ginger cake in the larder."

  The boys made a concerted rush and collided in the door.

  "They're just like locusts," said Lucy.

  "My congratulations to you," said Craddock.

  "What on – exactly?"

  "Your ingenuity – over this!"

  "Over what?"

  Craddock indicated the folder containing the letter.

  "Very nicely done," he said.

  "What are you talking about?"

  "This, my dear girl – this." He half drew it out.

  She stared at him uncomprehendingly.

  Craddock felt suddenly dizzy.

  "Didn't you fake this clue – and put it in the boiler room for the boys to find? Quick – tell me."

  "I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about," said Lucy. "Do you mean that –?"

  Craddock slipped the folder quickly back in his pocket as Bryan returned.

  "Cedric's in the library," he said. "Go on in."

  He resumed his place on the dresser.

  Inspector Craddock went to the library.

  II

  Cedric Crackenthorpe seemed delighted to see the inspector.

  "Doing a spot more sleuthing down here?" he asked. "Got any further?"

  "I think I can say we are a little further on, Mr. Crackenthorpe."

  "Found out who the corpse was?"

  "We've not got a definite identification, but we have a fairly shrewd idea."

  "Good for you."

  "Arising out of our latest information, we want to get a few statements. I'm starting with you, Mr. Crackenthorpe, as you're on the spot."

  "I shan't be much longer. I'm going back to Ibiza in a day or two."

  "Then I seem to be just in time."

  "Go ahead."

  "I should like a detailed account, please, of exactly where you were and what you were doing on Friday, 20th December."

  Cedric shot a quick glance at him. Then he leaned back, yawned, assumed an air of great nonchalance, and appeared to be lost in the effort of remembrance.

  "Well, as I've already told you, I was in Ibiza . Trouble is, one day there is so like another. Painting in the morning, siesta from three p.m. to five. Perhaps a spot of sketching if the light's suitable. Then an aperitif, sometimes with the Mayor, sometimes with the doctor, at the cafe in the Piazza. After that some kind of a scratch meal. Most of the evening in Scotty's Bar with some of my lower-class friends. Will that do you?"

  "I'd rather have the truth, Mr. Crackenthorpe."

  Cedric sat up.

  "That's a most offensive remark, Inspector."

  "Do you think so? You told me, Mr. Crackenthorpe, that you left Ibiza on 21st December and arrived in England that same day?"

  "So I did. Em! Hi, Em?"

  Emma Crackenthorpe came through the adjoining door from the small morningroom. She looked inquiringly from Cedric to the inspector.

  "Look here, Em. I arrived here for Christmas on the Saturday before, didn't I? Came straight from the airport?"

  "Yes," said Emma wonderingly. "You got here about lunch time."

  "There you are," said Cedric to the inspector.

  "You must think us very foolish, Mr, Crackenthorpe," said Craddock pleasantly. "We can check on these things, you know. I think, if you'll show me your passport –"

  He paused expectantly.

  "Can't find the damned thing," said Cedric. "Was looking for it this morning. Wanted to send it to Cook's."

  "I think you could find it, Mr. Crackenthorpe. But it's not really necessary. The records show that you actually entered this country on the evening of 19th December. Perhaps you will now account to me for your movements between that time until lunch-time on 21st December when you arrived here."

  Cedric looked very cross indeed.

  "That's the hell of life nowadays," he said angrily. "All this red tape and form-filling. That's what comes of a bureaucratic state. Can't go where you like and do as you please any more! Somebody's always asking questions. What's all this fuss about the 20th, anyway? What's special about the 20th?"

  "It happens to be the day we believe the murder was committed. You can refuse to answer, of course, but –"

  "Who says I refuse to answer? Give a chap time. And you were vague enough about the date of the murder at the inquest. What's turned up new since then?"

  Craddock did not reply.

  Cedric said, with a sidelong glance at Emma:

  "Shall we go into the other room?"

  Emma said quickly: "I'll leave you."

  At the door, she paused and turned.

  "This is serious, you know, Cedric. If the 20th was the day of the murder, then you must tell Inspector Craddock exactly what you were doing."

  She went through into the next room and closed the door behind her.

  "Good old Em," said Cedric. "Well, here goes. Yes, I left Ibiza on the 19th all right. Planned to break the journey in Paris , and spend a couple of days routing up some old friends on the left Bank. But, as a matter of fact, there was a very attractive woman on the plane… Quite a dish. To put it plainly, she and I got off together. She was on her way to the States, had to spend a couple of nights in London to see about some business or other. We got to London on the 19th. We stayed at the Kingsway Palace in case your spies haven't found that out yet! Called myself John Brown – never does to use your own name on these occasions."

  "And on the 20th?"

  Cedric made a grimace.

  "Morning pretty well occupied by a terrific hangover."

  "And the afternoon. From three o'clock onwards?"

  "Let me see. Well, I mooned about, as you might say. Went into the National Gallery – that's respectable enough. Saw a film. Rowenna of the Range. I've always had a passion for Westerns. This was a corker… Then a drink or two in the bar and a bit of a sleep in my room, and out about ten o'clock with the girl-friend and a round of various hot spots – can't even remember most of their names – Jumping Frog was one, I think. She knew ' em all. Got pretty well plastered and, to tell you the truth, don't remember much more till I woke up the next morning – with an even worse hangover. Girlfriend hopped off to catch her plane and I poured cold water over my head, got a chemist to give me a devil's brew, and then started off for this place, pretending I'd just arrived at Heathrow. No need to upset Emma, I thought. You know what women are – always hurt if you d
on't come straight home. I had to borrow money from her to pay the taxi. I was completely cleaned out. No use asking the old man. He'd never cough up. Mean old brute. Well, Inspector, satisfied?"

  "Can any of this be substantiated, Mr. Crackenthorpe? Say, between 3 p.m. and 7 p.m."

  "Most unlikely, I should think," said Cedric cheerfully. "National Gallery where the attendants look at you with lacklustre eyes and a crowded picture house. No, not likely."

  Emma re-entered. She held a small engagement book in her hand.

  "You want to know what everyone was doing on 20th December, is that right, Inspector Craddock?"

  "Well – er – yes, Miss Crackenthorpe."

  "I have just been looking in my engagement book. On the 20th I went into Brackhampton to attend a meeting of the Church Restoration Fund. That finished about a quarter to one and I lunched with Lady Adington and Miss Bartlett who were also on the Committee, at the Cadena Cafe. After lunch I did some shopping, stores for Christmas, and also Christmas presents. I went to Greenford's and Lyall and Swift's, Boots', and probably several other shops. I had tea about a quarter to five in the Shamrock Tea Rooms and then went to the station to meet Bryan who was coming by train. I got home about six o'clock and found my father in a very bad temper. I had left lunch ready for him, but Mrs. Hart who was to come in in the afternoon and give him his tea had not arrived. He was so angry that he had shut himself in his room and would not let me in or speak to me. He does not like my going out in the afternoon, but I make a point of doing so now and then."

  "You're probably wise. Thank you, Miss Crackenthorpe."

  He could hardly tell her that as she was a woman, height five foot seven, her movements that afternoon were of no great importance. Instead he said:

  "Your other two brothers came down later, I understand?"

  "Alfred came down late on Saturday evening. He tells me he tried to ring me on the telephone the afternoon I was out – but my father, if he is upset, will never answer the telephone. My brother Harold did not come down until Christmas Eve."

  "Thank you, Miss Crackenthorpe."

  "I suppose I mustn't ask –" she hesitated – "what has come up new that prompts these inquiries?"