4.50 From Paddington mm-8 Read online

  "Have done for the last six years. In Ibiza . Suits me better than this dreary country."

  "You get a good deal more sunshine than we do, I expect," said Inspector Craddock agreeably. "You were home not so very long ago, I understand – for Christmas, to be exact. What made it necessary for you to come back again so soon?"

  Cedric grinned.

  "Got a wire from Emma – my sister. We've never had a murder on the premises before. Didn't want to miss anything – so along I came."

  "You are interested in criminology?"

  "Oh, we needn't put it in such highbrow terms! I just like murders – Whodunnits, and all that! With a Whodunnit parked right on the family doorstep, it seemed the chance of a lifetime. Besides, I thought poor old Em might need a spot of help – managing the old man and the police and all the rest of it."

  "I see. It appealed to your sporting instincts and also to your family feelings. I've no doubt your sister will be very grateful to you – although her two other brothers have also come to be with her."

  "But not to cheer and comfort," Cedric told him. "Harold is terrifically put out. It's not at all the thing for a City magnate to be mixed up with the murder of a questionable female."

  Craddock's eyebrows rose gently.

  "Was she – a questionable female?"

  "Well, you're the authority on that point. Going by the facts, it seemed to me likely."

  "I thought perhaps you might have been able to make a guess at who she was?"

  "Come now, Inspector, you already know – or your colleagues will tell you, that I haven't been able to identify her."

  "I said a guess, Mr. Crackenthorpe. You might never have seen the woman before – but you might have been able to make a guess at who she was – or who she might have been?"

  Cedric shook his head.

  "You're barking up the wrong tree. I've absolutely no idea. You're suggesting, I suppose, that she may have come to the Long Barn to keep an assignation with one of us? But we none of us live here. The only people in the house were a woman and an old man. You don't seriously believe that she came here to keep a date with my revered Pop?"

  "Our point is – Inspector Bacon agrees with me – that the woman may once have had some association with this house. It may have been a considerable number of years ago. Cast your mind back, Mr. Crackenthorpe."

  Cedric thought a moment or two, then shook his head.

  "We've had foreign help from time to time, like most people, but I can't think of any likely possibility. Better ask the others – they'd know more than I would."

  "We shall do that, of course."

  Craddock leaned back in his chair and went on:

  "As you have heard at the inquest, the medical evidence cannot fix the time of death very accurately. Longer than two weeks, less than four – which brings it somewhere around Christmas-time. You have told me you came home for Christmas. When did you arrive in England and when did you leave?"

  Cedric reflected.

  "Let me see… I flew. Got here on the Saturday before Christmas – that would be the 21st."

  "You flew straight from Majorca ?"

  "Yes. Left at five in the morning and got here midday."

  "And you left?"

  "I flew back on the following Friday, the 27th."

  "Thank you."

  Cedric grinned.

  "Leaves me well within the limit, unfortunately. But really, Inspector, strangling young women is not my favourite form of Christmas fun."

  "I hope not, Mr. Crackenthorpe."

  Inspector Bacon merely looked disapproving.

  "There would be a remarkable absence of peace and good will about such an action, don't you agree?"

  Cedric addressed this question to Inspector Bacon who merely grunted. Inspector Craddock said politely:

  "Well, thank you, Mr. Crackenthorpe. That will be all."

  "And what do you think of him?" Craddock asked as Cedric shut the door behind him.

  Bacon grunted again.

  "Cocky enough for anything," he said.

  "I don't care for the type, myself. A loose-living lot, these artists, and very likely to be mixed up with a disreputable class of woman."

  Craddock smiled.

  "I don't like the way he dresses, either," went on Bacon. "No respect – going to an inquest like that. Dirtiest pair of trousers I've seen in a long while. And did you see his tie? Looked as though it was made of coloured string. If you ask me, he's the kind that would easily strangle a woman and make no bones about it."

  "Well, he didn't strangle this one – if he didn't leave Majorca until the 21st. And that's a thing we can verify easily enough."

  Bacon threw him a sharp glance.

  "I notice that you're not tipping your hand yet about the actual date of the crime."

  "No, we'll keep that dark for the present. I always like to have something up my sleeve in the early stages."

  Bacon nodded in full agreement.

  "Spring it on 'em when the time comes," he said. "That's the best plan."

  "And now," said Craddock, "we'll see what our correct City gentleman has to say about it all."

  Harold Crackenthorpe, thin-lipped, had very little to say about it. It was most distasteful – a very unfortunate incident. The newspapers, he was afraid… Reporters, he understood, had already been asking for interviews… All that sort of thing… Most regrettable… Harold's staccato unfinished sentences ended. He leaned back in his chair with the expression of a man confronted with a very bad smell.

  The inspector's probing produced no result. No, he had no idea who the woman was or could be. Yes, he had been at Rutherford Hall for Christmas. He had been unable to come down until Christmas Eve – but had stayed on over the following weekend.

  "That's that, then," said Inspector Craddock, without pressing his questions further. He had already made up his mind that Harold Crackenthorpe was not going to be helpful.

  He passed on to Alfred, who came into the room with a nonchalance that seemed just a trifle overdone.

  Craddock looked at Alfred Crackenthorpe with a faint feeling of recognition.

  Surely he had seen this particular member of the family somewhere before? Or had it been his picture in the paper? There was something discreditable attached to the memory. He asked Alfred his occupation and Alfred's answer was vague.

  "I'm in insurance at the moment. Until recently I've been interested in putting a new type of talking machine on the market. Quite revolutionary. I did very well out of that as a matter of fact."

  Inspector Craddock looked appreciative – and no one could have had the least idea that he was noticing the superficially smart appearance of Alfred's suit and gauging correctly the low price it had cost.

  Cedric's clothes had been disreputable, almost threadbare, but they had been originally of good cut and excellent material. Here there was a cheap smartness that told its own tale. Craddock passed pleasantly on to his routine questions. Alfred seemed interested – even slightly amused.

  "It's quite an idea, that the woman might once have had a job here. Not as a lady's maid; I doubt if my sister has ever had such a thing. I don't think anyone has nowadays. But, of course, there is a good deal of foreign domestic labour floating about. We've had Poles – and a temperamental German or two. As Emma definitely didn't recognise the woman, I think that washes your idea out, Inspector, Emma's got a very good memory for a face. No, if the woman came from London … What gives you the idea she came from London , by the way?"

  He slipped the question in quite casually, but his eyes were sharp and interested.

  Inspector Craddock smiled and shook his head.

  Alfred looked at him keenly.

  "Not telling, eh? Return ticket in her coat pocket, perhaps, is that it?"

  "It could be, Mr. Crackenthorpe."

  "Well, granting she came from London , perhaps the chap she came to meet had the idea that the Long Barn would be a nice place to do a quiet murder. He knows th
e set up here, evidently. I should go looking for him if I were you, Inspector."

  "We are," said Inspector Craddock, and made the two little words sound quiet and confident.

  He thanked Alfred and dismissed him.

  "You know," he said to Bacon, "I've seen that chap somewhere before…"

  Inspector Bacon gave his verdict.

  "Sharp customer," he said. "So sharp that he cuts himself sometimes."

  II

  "I don't suppose you want to see me," said Bryan Eastley apologetically, coming into the room and hesitating by the door. "I don't exactly belong to the family –"

  "Let me see, you are Mr. Bryan Eastley, the husband of Miss Edith Crackenthorpe, who died five years ago?"

  "That's right."

  "Well, it's very kind of you, Mr. Eastley, especially if you know something that you think could assist us in some way?"

  "But I don't. Wish I did. Whole thing seems so ruddy peculiar, doesn't it? Coming along and meeting some fellow in that draughty old barn in the middle of winter. Wouldn't be my cup of tea!"

  "It is certainly very perplexing," Inspector Craddock agreed.

  "Is it true that she was a foreigner? Word seems to have got round to that effect."

  "Does that fact suggest anything to you?" The inspector looked at him sharply, but Bryan seemed amiably vacuous.

  "No, it doesn't, as a matter of fact."

  "Maybe she was French," said Inspector Bacon, with dark suspicion.

  Bryan was roused to slight animation.

  A look of interest came into his blue eyes, and he tugged at his big fair moustache.

  "Really? Gay Paree?" He shook his head. "On the whole it seems to make it even more unlikely, doesn't it? Messing about in the barn, I mean. You haven't had any other sarcophagus murders, have you? One of these fellows with an urge – or a complex? Thinks he's Caligula or someone like that?"

  Inspector Craddock did not even trouble to reject this speculation. Instead he asked in a casual manner:

  "Nobody in the family got any French connections, or – or – relationships that you know of?"

  Bryan said that the Crackenthorpes weren't a very gay lot.

  "Harold's respectably married," he said. "Fish-faced woman, some impoverished peer's daughter. Don't think Alfred cares about women much – spends his life going in for shady deals which usually go wrong in the end. I dare say Cedric's got a few Spanish senoritas jumping through hoops for him in Ibiza . Women rather fall for Cedric. Doesn't always shave and looks as though he never washes. Don't see why that should be attractive to women, but apparently it is – I say, I'm not being very helpful, am I?"

  He grinned at them.

  "Better get young Alexander on the job. He and James Stoddart-West are out hunting for clues in a big way. Bet you they turn up something."

  Inspector Craddock said he hoped they would. Then he thanked Bryan Eastley and said he would like to speak to Miss Emma Crackenthorpe.

  III

  Inspector Craddock looked with more attention at Emma Crackenthorpe than he had done previously. He was still wondering about the expression that he had surprised on her face before lunch. A quiet woman. Not stupid. Not brilliant either. One of those comfortable pleasant women whom men were inclined to take for granted, and who had the art of making a house into a home, giving it an atmosphere of restfulness and quiet harmony. Such, he thought, was Emma Crackenthorpe.

  Women such as this were often underrated. Behind their quiet exterior they had force of character, they were to be reckoned with. Perhaps, Craddock thought, the clue to the mystery of the dead woman in the sarcophagus was hidden away in the recesses of Emma's mind.

  Whilst these thoughts were passing through his head; Craddock was asking various unimportant questions.

  "I don't suppose there is much that you haven't already told Inspector Bacon," he said. "So I needn't worry you with many questions."

  "Please ask me anything you like."

  "As Mr. Wimborne told you, we have reached the conclusion that the dead woman was not a native of these parts. That may be a relief to you – Mr. Wimborne seemed to think it would be – but it makes it really more difficult for us. She's less easily identified."

  "But didn't she have anything – a handbag? Papers?"

  Craddock shook his head.

  "No handbag, nothing in her pockets."

  "You've no idea of her name – of where she came from – anything at all?"

  Craddock thought to himself: She wants to know – she's very anxious to know – who the woman is. Has she felt like that all along, I wonder? Bacon didn't give me that impression – and he's a shrewd man…

  "We know nothing about her," he said. "That's why we hoped one of you could help us. Are you sure you can't? Even if you didn't recognise her – can you think of anyone she might be?"

  He thought, but perhaps he imagined it, that there was a very slight pause before she answered.

  "I've absolutely no idea," she said.

  Imperceptibly, Inspector Craddock's manner changed. It was hardly noticeable except as a slight hardness in his voice.

  "When Mr. Wimborne told you that the woman was a foreigner, why did you assume that she was French?"

  Emma was not disconcerted. Her eyebrows rose slightly.

  "Did I? Yes, I believe I did. I don't really know why – except that one always tends to think foreigners are French until one finds out what nationality they really are. Most foreigners in this country are French, aren't they?"

  "Oh, I really wouldn't say that was so, Miss Crackenthorpe. Not nowadays. We have so many nationalities over here, Italians, Germans, Austrians, all the Scandinavian countries –"

  "Yes, I suppose you're right."

  "You didn't have some special reason for thinking that this woman was likely to be French."

  She didn't hurry to deny it. She just thought a moment and then shook her head almost regretfully.

  "No," she said. "I really don't think so."

  Her glance met his placidly, without flinching. Craddock looked towards Inspector Bacon. The latter leaned forward and presented a small enamel powder compact.

  "Do you recognise this, Miss Crackenthorpe?"

  She took it and examined it.

  "No. It's certainly not mine."

  "You've no idea to whom it belonged?"

  "No."

  "Then I don't think we need worry you any more – for the present."

  "Thank you."

  She smiled briefly at them, got up, and left the room. Again he may have imagined it, but Craddock thought she moved rather quickly, as though a certain relief hurried her.

  "Think she knows anything?" asked Bacon.

  Inspector Craddock said ruefully:

  "At a certain stage one is inclined to think everyone knows a little more than they are willing to tell you."

  "They usually do, too," said Bacon out of the depth of his experience. "Only," he added, "it quite often isn't anything to do with the business in hand. It's some family peccadillo or some silly scrape that people are afraid is going to be dragged into the open."

  "Yes, I know. Well, at least –"

  But whatever Inspector Craddock had been about to say never got said, for the door was flung open and old Mr. Crackenthorpe shuffled in in a high state of indignation.

  "A pretty pass," he said. "Things have come to a pretty pass, when Scotland Yard comes down and doesn't have the courtesy to talk to the head of the family first! Who's the master of this house, I'd like to know? Answer me that? Who's master here?"

  "You are, of course, Mr. Crackenthorpe," said Craddock soothingly and rising as he spoke. "But we understood that you had already told Inspector Bacon all you knew, and that, your health not being good, we must not make too many demands upon it. Dr. Quimper said –"

  "I dare say – I dare say. I'm not a strong man… As for Dr. Quimper, he's a regular old woman – perfectly good doctor, understands my case – but inclined to wrap me up in cotton
-wool. Got a bee in his bonnet about food. Went on at me Christmas-time when I had a bit of a turn – what did I eat? When? Who cooked it? Who served it? Fuss, fuss, fuss! But though I may have indifferent health, I'm well enough to give you all the help that's in my power. Murder in my own house – or at any rate in my own barn! Interesting building, that. Elizabethan. Local architect says not – but fellow doesn't know what he's talking about. Not a day later than 1580 – but that's not what we're talking about. What do you want to know? What's your present theory?"

  "It's a little too early for theories, Mr. Crackenthorpe. We are still trying to find out who the woman was?"

  "Foreigner, you say?"

  "We think so."

  "Enemy agent?"

  "Unlikely, I should say."

  "You'd say – you'd say! They're everywhere, these people. Infiltrating! Why the Home Office lets them in beats me. Spying on industrial secrets, I'd bet. That's what she was doing."

  "In Brackhampton?"

  "Factories everywhere. One outside my own back gate."

  Craddock shot an inquiring glance at Bacon who responded.

  "Metal Boxes."

  "How do you know that's what they're really making? Can't swallow all these fellows tell you. All right, if she wasn't a spy, who do you think she was? Think she was mixed up with one of my precious sons? It would be Alfred, if so. Not Harold, he's too careful. And Cedric doesn't condescend to live in this country. All right, then, she was Alfred's bit of skirt. And some violent fellow followed her down here, thinking she was coming to meet him and did her in. How's that?"

  Inspector Craddock said diplomatically that it was certainly a theory. But Mr. Alfred Crackenthorpe, he said, had not recognised her.

  "Pah! Afraid, that's all! Alfred always was a coward. But he's a liar, remember, always was! Lie himself black in the face. None of my sons are any good. Crowd of vultures, waiting for me to die, that's their real occupation in life." He chuckled. "And they can wait. I won't die to oblige them! Well, if that's all I can do for you… I'm tired. Got to rest."

  He shuffled out again.

  "Alfred's bit of skirt?" said Bacon questioningly. "In my opinion the old man just made that up." He paused, hesitated.