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  "Too devoted to her father, I suppose," said Inspector Bacon.

  "She's not really as devoted as all that – but she's got the instinct some women have to make their menfolk happy. She sees that her father likes being an invalid, so she lets him be an invalid. She's the same with her brothers. Cedric feels he's a good painter, what's-his-name – Harold – knows how much she relies on his sound judgement – she lets Alfred shock her with his stories of his clever deals. Oh, yes, she's a clever woman – no fool. Well, do you want me for anything? Want me to have a look at your corpse now Johnstone has done with it" (Johnstone was the police surgeon) "and see if it happens to be one of my medical mistakes?"

  "I'd like you to have a look, yes. Doctor. We want to get her identified. I suppose it's impossible for old Mr. Crackenthorpe? Too much of a strain?"

  "Strain? Fiddlesticks. He'd never forgive you or me if you didn't let him have a peep. He's all agog. Most exciting thing that's happened to him for fifteen years or so – and it won't cost him anything!"

  "There's nothing really much wrong with him then?"

  "He's seventy-two," said the doctor. "That's all, really, that's the matter with him. He has odd rheumatic twinges – who doesn't? So he calls it arthritis. He has palpitations after meals – as well he may – he puts them down to 'heart'. But he can always do anything he wants to do! I've plenty of patients like that. The ones who are really ill usually insist desperately that they're perfectly well. Come on, let's go and see this body of yours. Unpleasant, I suppose?"

  "Johnstone estimates she's been dead between a fortnight and three weeks."

  "Quite unpleasant, then."

  The doctor stood by the sarcophagus and looked down with frank curiosity, professionally unmoved by what he had named the "unpleasantness".

  "Never seen her before. No patient of mine. I don't remember ever seeing her about in Brackhampton. She must have been quite good-looking once – hm – somebody had it in for her all right."

  They went out again into the air. Doctor Quimper glanced up at the building.

  "Found in the – what do they call it? – the Long Barn – in a sarcophagus! Fantastic! Who found her?"

  "Miss Lucy Eyelesbarrow."

  "Oh, the latest lady help? What was she doing, poking about in sarcophagi?"

  "That," said Inspector Bacon grimly, "is just what I am going to ask her. Now, about Mr. Crackenthorpe. Will you –?"

  "I'll bring him along."

  Mr. Crackenthorpe, muffled in scarves, came walking at a brisk pace, the doctor beside him.

  "Disgraceful," he said. "Absolutely disgraceful! I brought back that sarcophagus from Florence in – let me see – it must have been in 1908 – or was it 1909?"

  "Steady now," the doctor warned him. "This isn't going to be nice, you know."

  "No matter how ill I am, I've got to do my duty, haven't I?"

  A very brief visit inside the Long Barn was, however, quite long enough. Mr. Crackenthorpe shuffled out into the air again with remarkable speed.

  "Never saw her before in my life!" he said. "What's it mean? Absolutely disgraceful. It wasn't Florence – I remember now – it was Naples . A very fine specimen. And some fool of a woman has to come and get herself killed in it!"

  He clutched at the folds of his overcoat on the left side.

  "Too much for me… My heart… Where's Emma? Doctor…"

  Doctor Quimper took his arm.

  "You'll be all right," he said. "I prescribe a little stimulant. Brandy."

  They went back together towards the house.

  "Sir. Please, sir."

  Inspector Bacon turned. Two boys had arrived, breathless, on bicycles. Their faces were full of eager pleading.

  "Please, sir, can we see the body?"

  "No, you can't," said Inspector Bacon.

  "Oh, sir, please, sir. You never know. We might know who she was. Oh, please, sir, do be a sport. It's not fair. Here's a murder, right in our own barn. It's the sort of chance that might never happen again. Do be a sport, sir."

  "Who are you two?"

  "I'm Alexander Eastley, and this is my friend James Stoddart-West."

  "Have you ever seen a blonde woman wearing a light-coloured dyed squirrel coat anywhere about the place?"

  "Well, I can't remember exactly," said Alexander astutely. "If I were to have a look – "

  "Take 'em in, Sanders," said Inspector Bacon to the constable who was standing by the barn door. "One's only young once!"

  "Oh, sir, thank you, sir." Both boys were vociferous. "It's very kind of you, sir."

  Bacon turned away towards the house.

  "And now," he said to himself grimly, "for Miss Lucy Eyelesbarrow!"

  III

  After leading the police to the Long Barn, and giving a brief account of her actions, Lucy had retired into the background, but she was under no illusion that the police had finished with her.

  She had just finished preparing potatoes for chips that evening when word was brought to her that Inspector Bacon required her presence. Putting aside the large bowl of cold water and salt in which the chips were reposing, Lucy followed the policeman to where the Inspector awaited her. She sat down and awaited his questions composedly.

  She gave her name – and her address in London , and added of her own accord:

  "I will give you some names and addresses of references if you want to know all about me."

  The names were very good ones. An Admiral of the Fleet, the Provost of an Oxford College , and a Dame of the British Empire . In spite of himself Inspector Bacon was impressed.

  "Now, Miss Eyelesbarrow, you went into the Long Barn to find some paint. Is that right? And after having found the paint you got a crowbar, forced up the lid of this sarcophagus and found the body. What were you looking for in the sarcophagus?"

  "I was looking for a body," said Lucy.

  "You were looking for a body – and you found one! Doesn't that seem to you a very extraordinary story?"

  "Oh, yes, it is an extraordinary story. Perhaps you will let me explain it to you."

  "I certainly think you had better do so."

  Lucy gave him a precise recital of the events which had led up to her sensational discovery.

  The inspector summed it up in an outraged voice.

  "You were engaged by an elderly lady to obtain a post here and to search the house and grounds for a dead body? Is that right?"

  "Yes."

  "Who is this elderly lady?"

  "Miss Jane Marple. She is at present living at 4 Madison Road ."

  The Inspector wrote it down.

  "You expect me to believe this story?"

  Lucy said gently: "Not, perhaps, until after you have interviewed Miss Marple and got her confirmation of it."

  "I shall interview her all right. She must be cracked."

  Lucy forbore to point out that to be proved right is not really a proof of mental incapacity. Instead she said:

  "What are you proposing to tell Miss Crackenthorpe? About me, I mean?"

  "Why do you ask?"

  "Well, as far as Miss Marple is concerned I've done my job, I've found the body she wanted found. But I'm still engaged by Miss Crackenthorpe, and there are two hungry boys in the house and probably some more of the family will soon be coming down after all this upset. She needs domestic help. If you go and tell her that I only took this post in order to hunt for dead bodies she'll probably throw me out. Otherwise I can get on with my job and be useful."

  The Inspector looked hard at her.

  "I'm not saying anything to anyone at present," he said. "I haven't verified your statement yet. For all I know you may be making the whole thing up."

  Lucy rose.

  "Thank you. Then I'll go back to the kitchen and get on with things."

  Chapter 7

  I

  "We'd better have the Yard in on it, is that what you think, Bacon?"

  The Chief Constable looked inquiringly at Inspector Bacon. The inspecto
r was a big solid man – his expression was that of one utterly disgusted with humanity.

  "The woman wasn't a local, sir," he said.

  "There's some reason to believe – from her underclothing – that she might have been a foreigner. Of course," added Inspector Bacon hastily, "I'm not letting on about that yet awhile. We're keeping it up our sleeves until after the inquest."

  The Chief Constable nodded.

  "The inquest will be purely formal, I suppose?"

  "Yes, sir. I've seen the Coroner."

  "And it's fixed for – when?"

  "Tomorrow. I understand the other members of the Crackenthorpe family will be here for it. There's just a chance one of them might be able to identify her. They'll all be here."

  He consulted a list he held in his hand.

  "Harold Crackenthorpe, he's something in the City – quite an important figure, I understand. Alfred – don't quite know what he does. Cedric – that's the one who lives abroad. Paints!" The inspector invested the word with its full quota of sinister significance. The Chief Constable smiled into his moustache.

  "No reason, is there, to believe the Crackenthorpe family are connected with the crime in any way?" he asked.

  "Not apart from the fact that the body was found on the premises," said Inspector Bacon. "And of course it's just possible that this artist member of the family might be able to identify her. What beats me is this extraordinary rigmarole about the train."

  "Ah, yes. You've been to see this old lady, this – er –" (he glanced at the memorandum lying on his desk) "Miss Marple?"

  "Yes, sir. And she's quite set and definite about the whole thing. Whether she's barmy or hot, I don't know, but she sticks to her story – about what her friend saw and all the rest of it. As far as all that goes, I dare say it's just make-believe – sort of thing old ladies do make up, like seeing flying saucers at the bottom of the garden, and Russian agents in the lending library. But it seems quite clear that she did engage this young woman, the lady help, and told her to look for a body – which the girl did."

  "And found one," observed the Chief Constable. "Well, it's all a very remarkable story. Marple, Miss Jane Marple – the name seems familiar somehow… Anyway, I'll get on to the Yard. I think you're right about its not being a local case – though we won't advertise the fact just yet. For the moment we'll tell the Press as little as possible."

  II

  The inquest was a purely formal affair. No one came forward to identify the dead woman. Lucy was called to give evidence of finding the body and medical evidence was given as to the cause of death – strangulation. The proceedings were then adjourned.

  It was a cold blustery day when the Crackenthorpe family came out of the hall where the inquest had been held. There were five of them all told, Emma, Cedric, Harold, Alfred, and Bryan Eastley, the husband of the dead daughter Edith. There was also Mr. Wimborne, the senior partner of the firm of solicitors who dealt with the Crackenthorpes' legal affairs. He had come down specially from London at great inconvenience to attend the inquest. They all stood for a moment on the pavement, shivering. Quite a crowd had assembled; the piquant details of the "Body in the Sarcophagus" had been fully reported in both the London and the local Press.

  A murmur went round: "That's them…"

  Emma said sharply: "Let's get away."

  The big hired Daimler drew up to the kerb. Emma got in and motioned to Lucy.

  Mr. Wimborne, Cedric and Harold followed.

  Bryan Eastley said: "I'll take Alfred with me in my little bus."

  The chauffeur shut the door and the Daimler prepared to roll away.

  "Oh, stop!" cried Emma. "There are the boys!"

  The boys, in spite of aggrieved protests, had been left behind at Rutherford Hall, but they now appeared grinning from ear to ear.

  "We came on our bicycles," said Stoddart-West.

  "The policeman was very kind and let us in at the back of the hall. I hope you don't mind, Miss Crackenthorpe," he added politely.

  "She doesn't mind," said Cedric, answering for his sister. "You're only young once. Your first inquest, I expect?"

  "It was rather disappointing," said Alexander. "All over so soon."

  "We can't stay here talking," said Harold irritably. "There's quite a crowd. And all those men with cameras."

  At a sign from him, the chauffeur pulled away from the kerb. The boys waved cheerfully.

  "All over so soon!" said Cedric. "That's what they think, the young innocents! It's just beginning."

  "It's all very unfortunate. Most unfortunate," said Harold. "I suppose –"

  He looked at Mr. Wimborne who compressed his thin lips and shook his head with distaste.

  "I hope," he said sententiously, "that the whole matter will soon be cleared up satisfactorily. The police are very efficient. However, the whole thing, as Harold says, has been most unfortunate."

  He looked, as he spoke, at Lucy, and there was distinct disapproval in his glance.

  "If it had not been for this young woman," his eyes seemed to say, "poking about where she had no business to be – none of this would have happened."

  This sentiment, or one closely resembling it, was voiced by Harold Crackenthorpe.

  "By the way – er – Miss – er – er – Eyelesbarrow, just what made you go looking in that sarcophagus?"

  Lucy had already wondered just when this thought would occur to one of the family. She had known that the police would ask it first thing: what surprised her was that it seemed to have occurred to no one else until this moment.

  Cedric, Emma, Harold and Mr. Wimborne all looked at her.

  Her reply, for what it was worth, had naturally been prepared for some time.

  "Really," she said in a hesitating voice, "I hardly know… I did feel that the whole place needed a thorough clearing out and cleaning. And there was –" she hesitated – "a very peculiar and disagreeable smell…"

  She had counted accurately on the immediate shrinking of everyone from the unpleasantness of this idea…

  Mr. Wimborne murmured: "Yes, yes, of course… about three weeks the police surgeon said… I think, you know, we must all try and not let our minds dwell on this thing." He smiled encouragingly at Emma who had turned very pale. "Remember," he said, "this wretched young woman was nothing to do with any of us."

  "Ah, but you can't be so sure of that, can you?" said Cedric.

  Lucy Eyelesbarrow looked at him with some interest. She had already been intrigued by the rather startling differences between the three brothers. Cedric was a big man with a weather-beaten rugged face, unkempt dark hair, and a jocund manner. He had arrived from the airport unshaven, and though he had shaved in preparation for the inquest, he was still wearing the clothes in which he had arrived and which seemed to be the only ones he had, old grey flannel trousers, and a patched and rather threadbare baggy jacket.

  He looked the stage Bohemian to the life and proud of it.

  His brother Harold, on the contrary, was the perfect picture of a City gentleman and a director of important companies. He was tall with a neat erect carriage, had dark hair going slightly bald on the temples, a small black moustache, and was impeccably dressed in a dark well-cut suit and a pearl-grey tie. He looked what he was, a shrewd and successful business man.

  He now said stiffly:

  "Really, Cedric, that seems a most uncalled for remark."

  "Don't see why? She was in our barn after all. What did she come there for?"

  Mr. Wimborne coughed, and said: "Possibly some – er – assignation. I understand that it was a matter of local knowledge that the key was kept outside on a nail."

  His tone indicated outrage at the carelessness of such procedure. So clearly marked was this that Emma spoke apologetically.

  "It started during the war. For the A.R.P. wardens. There was a little spirit stove and they made themselves hot cocoa. And afterwards, since there was really nothing there anybody could have wanted to take, we went on leaving the
key hanging up. It was convenient for the Women's Institute people. If we'd kept it in the house it might have been awkward – when there was no one at home to give it them when they wanted it to get the place ready. With only daily women and no resident servants…"

  Her voice tailed away. She had spoken mechanically, giving a wordy explanation without interest, as though her mind was elsewhere.

  Cedric gave her a quick puzzled glance. "You're worried, sis. What's up?"

  Harold spoke with exasperation: "Really, Cedric, can you ask?"

  "Yes, I do ask. Granted a strange young woman has got herself killed in the barn at Rutherford Hall (sounds like a Victorian melodrama) and granted it gave Emma a shock at the time – but Emma's always been a sensible girl – I don't see why she goes on being worried now. Dash it, one gets used to everything."

  "Murder takes a little more getting used to by some people than it may in your case," said Harold acidly. "I dare say murders are two a penny in Majorca and –"

  "Ibiza, not Majorca ."

  "It's the same thing."

  "Not at all – it's quite a different island."

  Harold went on talking:

  "My point is that though murder may be an everyday commonplace to you, living amongst hot-blooded Latin people, nevertheless in England we take such things seriously." He added with increasing irritation, "And really, Cedric, to appear at a public inquest in those clothes –"

  "What's wrong with my clothes? They're comfortable."

  "They're unsuitable."

  "Well, anyway, they're the only clothes I've got with me. I didn't pack my wardrobe trunk when I came rushing home to stand in with the family over this business. I'm a painter and painters like to be comfortable in their clothes."

  "So you're still trying to paint?"

  "Look here, Harold, when you say trying to paint –"