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  Craddock took the folder from his pocket. Using the tips of his fingers, he extracted the envelope.

  "Don't touch it, please, but do you recognise this?"

  "But…" Emma stared at him, bewildered,

  "That's my handwriting. That's the letter I wrote to Martine."

  "I thought it might be."

  "But how did you get it? Did she –? Have you found her?"

  "It would seem possible that we have – found her. This empty envelope was found here."

  "In the house?"

  "In the grounds."

  "Then – she did come here! She… You mean – it was Martine there – in the sarcophagus?"

  "It would seem very likely, Miss Crackenthorpe," said Craddock gently. It seemed even more likely when he got back to town. A message was awaiting him from Armand Dessin.

  "One of the girlfriends has had a postcard from Anna Stravinska. Apparently the cruise story was true! She has reached Jamaica and is having, in your phrase, a wonderful time!"

  Craddock crumpled up the message and threw it into the wastepaper basket.

  III

  "I must say," said Alexander, sitting up in bed, thoughtfully consuming a chocolate bar, "that this has been the most smashing day ever. Actually finding a real clue!"

  His voice was awed.

  "In fact the whole holidays have been smashing," he added happily. "I don't suppose such a thing will ever happen again."

  "I hope it won't happen again to me," said Lucy who was on her knees packing Alexander's clothes into a suitcase. "Do you want all this space fiction with you?"

  "Not those two top ones. I've read them. The football and my football boots, and the gum-boots can go separately."

  "What difficult things you boys do travel with."

  "It won't matter. They're sending the Rolls for us. They've got a smashing Rolls. They've got one of the new Mercedes-Benzes too."

  "They must be rich."

  "Rolling! Jolly nice, too. All the same, I rather wish we weren't leaving here. Another body might turn up."

  "I sincerely hope not."

  "Well, it often does in books. I mean somebody who's seen something or heard something gets done in, too. It might be you," he added, unrolling a second chocolate bar.

  "Thank you!"

  "I don't want it to be you," Alexander assured her. "I like you very much and so does Stodders. We think you're out of this world as a cook. Absolutely lovely grub. You're very sensible, too."

  This last was clearly an expression of high approval. Lucy took it as such, and said: "Thank you. But I don't intend to get killed just to please you."

  "Well, you'd better be careful, then," Alexander told her.

  He paused to consume more nourishment and then said in a slightly offhand voice:

  "If Dad turns up from time to time, you'll look after him, won't you?"

  "Yes, of course," said Lucy, a little surprised.

  "The trouble with Dad is," Alexander informed her, "that London life doesn't suit him. He gets in, you know, with quite the wrong type of women." He shook his head in a worried manner.

  "I'm very fond of him," he added, "but he needs someone to look after him. He drifts about and gets in with the wrong people. It's a great pity Mum died when she did. Bryan needs a proper home life."

  He looked solemnly at Lucy and reached out for another chocolate bar.

  "Not a fourth one, Alexander," Lucy pleaded. "You'll be sick."

  "Oh, I don't think so. I ate six running once and I wasn't. I'm not the bilious type." He paused and then said:

  " Bryan likes you, you know."

  "That's very nice of him."

  "He's a bit of an ass in some ways," said Bryan 's son, "but he was a jolly good fighter pilot. He's awfully brave. And he's awfully good-natured."

  He paused. Then, averting his eyes to the ceiling, he said rather self-consciously:

  "I think, really, you know, it would be a good thing if he married again… Somebody decent… I shouldn't, myself, mind at all having a stepmother… not, I mean, if she was a decent sort…"

  With a sense of shock Lucy realised that there was a definite point in Alexander's conversation.

  "All this stepmother bosh," went on Alexander, still addressing the ceiling, "is really quite out of date. Lots of chaps Stodders and I know have stepmothers – divorce and all that – and they get on quite well together. Depends on the stepmother, of course. And, of course, it does make a bit of confusion taking you out and on Sports Day, and all that. I mean if there are two sets of parents. Though again it helps if you want to cash in!" He paused, confronted with the problems of modern life. "It's nicest to have your own home and your own parents – but if your mother's dead – well, you see what I mean? If she's a decent sort," said Alexander for the third time.

  Lucy felt touched.

  "I think you're very sensible, Alexander," she said. "We must try and find a nice wife for your father."

  "Yes," said Alexander noncommittally.

  He added in an offhand manner:

  "I thought I'd just mention it. Bryan likes you very much. He told me so…"

  "Really," thought Lucy to herself. "There's too much match-making round here. First Miss Marple and now Alexander!"

  For some reason or other, pigsties came into her mind.

  She stood up.

  "Good-night, Alexander. There will be only your washing things and pyjamas to put in in the morning. Goodnight."

  "Good-night," said Alexander. He slid down in bed, laid his head on the pillow, closed his eyes, giving a perfect picture of a sleeping angel, and was immediately asleep.

  Chapter 19

  I

  "Not what you'd call conclusive," said Sergeant Wetherall with his usual gloom.

  Craddock was reading through the report on Harold Crackenthorpe's alibi for 20th December.

  He had been noticed at Sotheby's about three-thirty, but was thought to have left shortly after that. His photograph had not been recognised at Russell's teashop, but as they did a busy trade there at teatime, and he was not an habitue, that was hardly surprising. His manservant confirmed that he had returned to Cardigan Gardens to dress for his dinner-party at a quarter to seven – rather late, since the dinner was at seven-thirty, and Mr. Crackenthorpe had been somewhat irritable in consequence.

  Did not remember hearing him come in that evening, but, as it was some time ago, could not remember accurately and, in any case, he frequently did not hear Mr. Crackenthorpe come in. He and his wife liked to retire early whenever they could.

  The garage in the mews where Harold kept his car was a private lock-up that he rented and there was no one to notice who came or went or any reason to remember one evening in particular.

  "All negative," said Craddock, with a sigh.

  "He was at the Caterers' Dinner all right, but left rather early before the end of the speeches."

  "What about the railway stations?"

  But there was nothing there, either at Brackhampton or at Paddington. It was nearly four weeks ago, and it was highly unlikely that anything would have been remembered.

  Craddock sighed, and stretched out his hand for the data on Cedric. That again was negative, though a taxi-driver had made a doubtful recognition of having taken a fare to Paddington that day some time in the afternoon 'what looked something like that bloke. Dirty trousers and a shock of hair. Cussed and swore a bit because fare had gone up since he was last in England .' He identified the day because a horse called Crawler had won the two-thirty and he'd had a tidy bit on. Just after dropping the gent, he'd heard it on the radio in his cab and had gone home forthwith to celebrate.

  "Thank God for racing!" said Craddock, and put the report aside.

  "And here's Alfred," said Sergeant Wetherall.

  Some nuance in his voice made Craddock look up sharply. Wetherall had the pleased appearance of a man who has kept a titbit until the end.

  In the main the check was unsatisfactory. Alfred
lived alone in his flat and came and went at unspecified times. His neighbours were not the inquisitive kind and were in any case office workers who were out all day. But towards the end of the report, Wetherall's large finger indicated the final paragraph.

  Sergeant Leakie, assigned to a case of thefts from lorries, had been at the Load of Bricks, a lorry pull-up on the Waddington-Brackhampton Road , keeping certain lorry drivers under observation. He had noticed at an adjoining table. Chick Evans, one of the Dicky Rogers mob. With him had been Alfred Crackenthorpe whom he knew by sight, having seen him give evidence in the Dicky Rogers case. He'd wondered what they were cooking up together. Time, 9:30 p.m., Friday, 20th December. Alfred Crackenthorpe had boarded a bus a few minutes later, going in the direction of Brackhampton. William Baker, ticket collector at Brackhampton station, had clipped ticket of gentleman whom he recognised by sight as one of Miss Crackenthorpe's brothers, just before departure of eleven-fifty-five train for Paddington. Remembers day as there had been story of some batty old lady who swore she had seen somebody murdered in a train that afternoon.

  "Alfred?" said Craddock as he laid the report down. "Alfred? I wonder."

  "Puts him right on the spot, there," Wetherall pointed out.

  Craddock nodded. Yes, Alfred could have travelled down by the 4:33 to Brackhampton committing murder on the way.

  Then he could have gone out by bus to the Load of Bricks. He could have left there at nine-thirty and would have had plenty of time to go to Rutherford Hall, move the body from the embankment to the sarcophagus, and get into Brackhampton in time to catch the 11:55 back to London . One of the Dicky Rogers gang might even have helped him move the body, though Craddock doubted this. An unpleasant lot, but not killers.

  "Alfred?" he repeated speculatively.

  II

  At Rutherford Hall there had been a gathering of the Crackenthorpe family.

  Harold and Alfred had come down from London and very soon voices were raised and tempers were running high.

  On her own initiative, Lucy mixed cocktails in a jug with ice and took them towards the library. The voices sounded clearly in the hall, and indicated that a good deal of acrimony was being directed towards Emma.

  "Entirely your fault, Emma." Harold's deep bass voice rang out angrily. "How you could be so short-sighted and foolish beats me. If you hadn't taken that letter to Scotland Yard – and started all this –" Alfred's higher-pitched voice said: "You must have been out of your senses!"

  "Now don't bully her," said Cedric. "What's done is done. Much more fishy if they'd identified the woman as the missing Martine and we'd all kept mum about having heard from her."

  "It's all very well for you, Cedric," said Harold angrily. "You were out of the country on the 20th which seems to be the day they are inquiring about. But it's very embarrassing for Alfred and myself. Fortunately, I can remember where I was that afternoon and what I was doing."

  "I bet you can," said Alfred. "If you'd arranged a murder, Harold, you'd arrange your alibi very carefully, I'm sure."

  "I gather you are not so fortunate," said Harold coldly.

  "That depends," said Alfred. "Anything's better than presenting a cast-iron alibi to the police if it isn't really cast iron. They're so clever at breaking these things down."

  "If you are insinuating that I killed the woman –"

  "Oh, do stop, all of you," cried Emma. "Of course none of you killed the woman."

  "And just for your information, I wasn't out of England on the 20th," said Cedric. "And the police are wise to it! So we're all under suspicion."

  "If it hadn't been for Emma –"

  "Oh, don't begin again, Harold," cried Emma.

  Dr. Quimper came out of the study where he had been closeted with old Mr. Crackenthorpe. His eye fell on the jug in Lucy's hand.

  "What's this? A celebration?"

  "More in the nature of oil on troubled waters. They're at it hammer and tongs in there."

  "Recriminations?"

  "Mostly abusing Emma."

  Dr. Quimper's eyebrows rose.

  "Indeed?" He took the jug from Lucy's hand, opened the library door and went in.

  "Good-evening."

  "Ah, Dr. Quimper, I should like a word with you." It was Harold's voice, raised and irritable. "I should like to know what you meant by interfering in a private and family matter, and telling my sister to go to Scotland Yard about it."

  Dr. Quimper said calmly:

  "Miss Crackenthorpe asked my advice. I gave it to her. In my opinion, she did perfectly right."

  "You dare to say –"

  "Girl!"

  It was old Mr. Crackenthorpe's familiar salutation. He was peering out of the study door just behind Lucy.

  Lucy turned rather reluctantly.

  "Yes, Mr. Crackenthorpe?"

  "What are you giving us for dinner tonight? I want curry. You make a very good curry. It's ages since we've had curry."

  "The boys don't care much for curry, you see."

  "The boys – the boys. What do the boys matter? I'm the one who matters. And, anyway, the boys have gone – good riddance. I want a nice hot curry, do you hear?"

  "All right, Mr. Crackenthorpe, you shall have it."

  "That's right. You're a good girl, Lucy. You look after me, and I'll look after you."

  Lucy went back to the kitchen. Abandoning the fricassee of chicken which she had planned, she began to assemble the preparations for curry. The front door banged and from the window she saw Dr. Quimper stride angrily from the house to his car and drive away.

  Lucy sighed. She missed the boys. And in a way she missed Bryan , too.

  Oh, well. She sat down and began to peel mushrooms.

  At any rate, she'd give the family a rattling good dinner.

  Feed the brutes!

  III

  It was 3 a .m. when Dr. Quimper drove his car into the garage, closed the doors and came in pulling the front door behind him rather wearily. Well, Mrs. Josh Simpkins had a fine healthy pair of twins to add to her present family of eight. Mr. Simpkins had expressed no elation over the arrival.

  "Twins," he had said gloomily. "What's the good of they? Quads now, they're good for something. All sorts of things you get sent, and the Press comes round and there's pictures in the paper and they do say as Her Majesty sends you a telegram. But what's twins except two mouths to feed instead of one? Never been twins in our family, nor in the missus's either. Don't seem fair, somehow."

  Dr. Quimper walked upstairs to his bedroom and started throwing off his clothes.

  He glanced at his watch. Five minutes past three. It had proved an unexpectedly tricky business bringing those twins into the world, but all had gone well. He yawned. He was tired – very tired. He looked appreciatively at his bed.

  Then the telephone rang.

  Dr. Quimper swore, and picked up the receiver.

  "Dr. Quimper?"

  "Speaking."

  "This is Lucy Eyelesbarrow from Rutherford Hall. I think you'd better come over. Everybody seems to have been taken ill."

  "Taken ill? How? What symptoms?"

  Lucy detailed them.

  "I'll be over straight away. In the meantime…" He gave her short sharp instructions.

  Then he quickly resumed his clothes, flung a few extra things into his emergency bag, and hurried down to his car.

  IV

  It was some three hours later when the doctor and Lucy, both of them somewhat exhausted, sat down by the kitchen table to drink large cups of black coffee.

  "Ha," Dr. Quimper drained his cup, set it down with a clatter on the saucer. "I needed that. Now, Miss Eyelesbarrow, let's get down to brass tacks."

  Lucy looked at him. The lines of fatigue showed clearly on his face making him look older than his forty-four years, the dark hair on his temples was necked with grey, and there were lines under his eyes.

  "As far as I can judge," said the doctor, "they'll be all right now. But how come? That's what I want to know. Who
cooked the dinner?"

  "I did," said Lucy.

  "And what was it? In detail."

  "Mushroom soup. Curried chicken and rice. Syllabubs. A savoury of chicken livers in bacon."

  "Canapes Diane," said Dr. Quimper unexpectedly.

  Lucy smiled faintly.

  "Yes, Canapes Diane."

  "All right – let's go through it. Mushroom soup – out of a tin, I suppose?"

  "Certainly not. I made it."

  "You made it. Out of what?"

  "Half a pound of mushrooms, chicken stock, milk, a mix of butter and flour, and lemon juice."

  "Ah. And one's supposed to say 'It must have been the mushrooms.'"

  "It wasn't the mushrooms. I had some of the soup myself and I'm quite all right."

  "Yes, you're quite all right. I hadn't forgotten that."

  Lucy flushed.

  "If you mean –"

  "I don't mean. You're a highly intelligent girl. You'd be groaning upstairs, too, if I'd meant what you thought I meant. Anyway, I know all about you. I've taken the trouble to find out."

  "Why on earth did you do that?"

  Dr. Quimper's lips were set in a grim line.

  "Because I'm making it my business to find out about the people who come here and settle themselves in. You're a bona fide young woman who does this particular job for a livelihood, and you seem never to have had any contact with the Crackenthorpe family previous to coming here. So you're not a girl-friend of either Cedric, Harold, or Alfred – helping them to do a bit of dirty work."

  "Do you really think –?"

  "I think quite a lot of things," said Quimper . "But I have to be careful. That's the worst of being a doctor. Now let's get on. Curried chicken. Did you have some of that?"

  "No. When you've cooked a curry, you've dined off the smell, I find. I tasted it, of course. I had soup and some syllabub."

  "How did you serve the syllabub?"

  "In individual glasses."

  "Now, then, how much of all this is cleared up?"

  "If you mean washing up, everything was washed up and put away."