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  “No, no, not quite that. I think really it’s most unlikely. But—”

  “But there is some possibility that worries you. You’d better tell me about it—because we may be able to set your mind at rest.”

  Emma took a moment or two before speaking. Then she said:

  “You have seen three of my brothers. I had another brother, Edmund, who was killed in the war. Shortly before he was killed, he wrote to me from France.”

  She opened her handbag and took out a worn and faded letter. She read from it:

  “I hope this won’t be a shock to you, Emmie, but I’m getting married—to a French girl. It’s all been very sudden—but I know you’ll be fond of Martine—and look after her if anything happens to me. Will write you all the details in my next—by which time I shall be a married man. Break it gently to the old man, won’t you? He’ll probably go up in smoke.”

  Inspector Craddock held out a hand. Emma hesitated, then put the letter into it. She went on, speaking rapidly.

  “Two days after receiving this letter, we had a telegram saying Edmund was Missing, believed killed. Later he was definitely reported killed. It was just before Dunkirk—and a time of great confusion. There was no Army record, as far as I could find out, of his having been married—but as I say, it was a confused time. I never heard anything from the girl. I tried, after the war, to make some inquiries, but I only knew her Christian name and that part of France had been occupied by the Germans and it was difficult to find out anything, without knowing the girl’s surname and more about her. In the end I assumed that the marriage had never taken place and that the girl had probably married someone else before the end of the war, or might possibly herself have been killed.”

  Inspector Craddock nodded. Emma went on.

  “Imagine my surprise to receive a letter just about a month ago, signed Martine Crackenthorpe.”

  “You have it?”

  Emma took it from her bag and handed it to him. Craddock read it with interest. It was written in a slanting French hand—an educated hand.

  Dear Mademoiselle,

  I hope it will not be a shock to you to get this letter. I do not even know if your brother Edmund told you that we were married.

  He said he was going to do so. He was killed only a few days after

  our marriage and at the same time the Germans occupied our village. After the war ended, I decided that I would not write to you or approach you, though Edmund had told me to do so. But by then I had made a new life for myself, and it was not necessary.

  But now things have changed. For my son’s sake I write this letter.

  He is your brother’s son, you see, and I— I can no longer give him the advantages he ought to have. I am coming to England early next week. Will you let me know if I can come and see you? My address for letters is 126 Elvers Crescent, N.10. I hope again this will not be the great shock to you.

  I remain with assurance of my excellent sentiments,

  Martine Crackenthorpe

  Craddock was silent for a moment or two. He reread the letter carefully before handing it back.

  “What did you do on receipt of this letter, Miss Crackenthorpe?”

  “My brother-in-law, Bryan Eastley, happened to be staying with me at the time and I talked to him about it. Then I rang up my brother Harold in London and consulted him about it. Harold was rather sceptical about the whole thing and advised extreme caution. We must, he said, go carefully into this woman’s credentials.”

  Emma paused and then went on:

  “That, of course, was only common sense and I quite agreed. But if this girl—woman—was really the Martine about whom Edmund had written to me, I felt that we must make her welcome. I wrote to the address she gave in her letters, inviting her to come down to Rutherford Hall and meet us. A few days later I received a telegram from London: Very sorry forced to return to France unexpectedly. Martine. There was no further letter or news of any kind.”

  “All this took place—when?”

  Emma frowned.

  “It was shortly before Christmas. I know, because I wanted to suggest her spending Christmas with us—but my father would not hear of it—so I suggested she could come down the weekend after Christmas while the family would still be there. I think the wire saying she was returning to France came actually a few days before Christmas.”

  “And you believe that this woman whose body was found in the sarcophagus might be this Martine?”

  “No, of course I don’t. But when you said she was probably a foreigner—well, I couldn’t help wondering…if perhaps….”

  Her voice died away.

  Craddock spoke quickly and reassuringly.

  “You did quite right to tell me about this. We’ll look into it. I should say there is probably little doubt that the woman who wrote to you actually did go back to France and is there now alive and well. On the other hand, there is a certain coincidence of dates, as you yourself have been clever enough to realize. As you heard at the inquest, the woman’s death according to the police surgeon’s evidence must have occurred about three to four weeks ago. Now don’t worry, Miss Crackenthorpe, just leave it to us.” He added casually, “You consulted Mr. Harold Crackenthorpe. What about your father and your other brothers?”

  “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-centred. 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 letter?”

  “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 imposter, it would be written by some woman who had known Martine and who was in possession of all the facts, and so would write a thoroughly plausible letter. I had to admit the justice of that—but all the same….”

  She stopped.

  “You wanted it to be tr
ue?” 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 imposter, 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 enquiries, but it seems to me highly probably 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, N.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.

  Thirteen

  I

  “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, 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 we only 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 or other 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 plainclothesmen.”

  “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 Whatshername 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 top side 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 psychologist 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. 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!”