4.50 From Paddington Read online

  “Well, what is all this? Why do you want to know where I was on a particular Friday, three or four weeks ago?”

  “So you do remember that it was a Friday?”

  “I thought you said so.”

  “Perhaps I did,” said Inspector Craddock. “At any rate, Friday 20th is the day I am asking about.”

  “Why?”

  “A routine inquiry.”

  “That’s nonsense. Have you found out something more about this woman? About where she came from?”

  “Our information is not yet complete.”

  Alfred gave him a sharp glance.

  “I hope you’re not being led aside by this wild theory of Emma’s that she might have been my brother Edmund’s widow. That’s complete nonsense.”

  “This— Martine, did not at any rate apply to you?”

  “To me? Good lord, no! That would have been a laugh.”

  “She would be more likely, you think, to go to your brother Harold?”

  “Much more likely. His name’s frequently in the papers. He’s well off. Trying a touch there wouldn’t surprise me. Not that she’d have got anything. Harold’s as tight-fisted as the old man himself. Emma, of course, is the soft-hearted one of the family, and she was Edmund’s favourite sister. All the same, Emma isn’t credulous. She was quite alive to the possibility of this woman being phoney. She had it all laid on for the entire family to be there—and a hard-headed solicitor as well.”

  “Very wise,” said Craddock. “Was there a definite date fixed for this meeting?”

  “It was to be soon after Christmas—the weekend of the 27th…” he stopped.

  “Ah,” said Craddock pleasantly. “So I see some dates have a meaning to you.”

  “I’ve told you—no definite date was fixed.”

  “But you talked about it—when?”

  “I really can’t remember.”

  “And you can’t tell me what you yourself were doing on Friday, 20th December?”

  “Sorry—my mind’s an absolute blank.”

  “You don’t keep an engagement book?”

  “Can’t stand the things.”

  “The Friday before Christmas—it shouldn’t be too difficult.”

  “I played golf one day with a likely prospect.” Alfred shook his head. “No, that was the week before. I probably just mooched around. I spend a lot of my time doing that. I find one’s business gets done in bars more than anywhere else.”

  “Perhaps the people here, or some of your friends, may be able to help?”

  “Maybe. I’ll ask them. Do what I can.”

  Alfred seemed more sure of himself now.

  “I can’t tell you what I was doing that day,” he said; “but I can tell you what I wasn’t doing. I wasn’t murdering anyone in the Long Barn.”

  “Why should you say that, Mr. Crackenthorpe?”

  “Come now, my dear Inspector. You’re investigating this murder, aren’t you? And when you begin to ask ‘Where were you on such and such a day at such and such a time?’ you’re narrowing down things. I’d very much like to know why you’ve hit on Friday the 20th between—what? Lunchtime and midnight? It couldn’t be medical evidence, not after all this time. Did somebody see the deceased sneaking into the barn that afternoon? She went in and she never came out, etc.? Is that it?”

  The sharp black eyes were watching him narrowly, but Inspector Craddock was far too old a hand to react to that sort of thing.

  “I’m afraid we’ll have to let you guess about that,” he said pleasantly.

  “The police are so secretive.”

  “Not only the police. I think, Mr. Crackenthorpe, you could remember what you were doing on that Friday if you tried. Of course you may have reasons for not wishing to remember—”

  “You won’t catch me that way, Inspector. It’s very suspicious, of course, very suspicious, indeed, that I can’t remember—but there it is! Wait a minute now—I went to Leeds that week—stayed at a hotel close to the Town Hall—can’t remember its name—but you’d find it easy enough. That might have been on the Friday.”

  “We’ll check up,” said the inspector unemotionally.

  He rose. “I’m sorry you couldn’t have been more cooperative, Mr. Crackenthorpe.”

  “Most unfortunate for me! There’s Cedric with a safe alibi in Ibiza, and Harold, no doubt, checked with business appointments and public dinners every hour—and here am I with no alibi at all. Very sad. And all so silly. I’ve already told you I don’t murder people. And why should I murder an unknown woman, anyway? What for? Even if the corpse is the corpse of Edmund’s widow, why should any of us wish to do away with her? Now if she’d been married to Harold in the war, and had suddenly reappeared—then it might have been awkward for the respectable Harold—bigamy and all that. But Edmund! Why we’d all have enjoyed making Father stump up a bit to give her an allowance and send the boy to a decent school. Father would have been wild, but he couldn’t in decency refuse to do something. Won’t you have a drink before you go, Inspector? Sure? Too bad I haven’t been able to help you.”

  III

  “Sir, listen, do you know what?”

  Inspector Craddock looked at his excited sergeant.

  “Yes, Wetherall, what is it?”

  “I’ve placed him, sir. That chap. All the time I was trying to fix it and suddenly it came. He was mixed up in that tinned food business with Dicky Rogers. Never got anything on him—too cagey for that. And he’s been in with one or more of the Soho lot. Watches and that Italian sovereign business.”

  Of course! Craddock realized now why Alfred’s face had seemed vaguely familiar from the first. It had all been small-time stuff—never anything that could be proved. Alfred had always been on the outskirts of the racket with a plausible innocent reason for having been mixed up in it at all. But the police had been quite sure that a small steady profit came his way.

  “That throws rather a light on things,” Craddock said.

  “Think he did it?”

  “I shouldn’t have said he was the type to do murder. But it explains other things—the reason why he couldn’t come up with an alibi.”

  “Yes, that looked bad for him.”

  “Not really,” said Craddock. “It’s quite a clever line—just to say firmly you can’t remember. Lots of people can’t remember what they did and where they were even a week ago. It’s especially useful if you don’t particularly want to call attention to the way you spend your time—interesting rendezvous at lorry pull-ups with the Dicky Rogers crowd, for instance.”

  “So you think he’s all right?”

  “I’m not prepared to think anyone’s all right just yet,” said Inspector Craddock. “You’ve got to work on it, Wetherall.”

  Back at his desk, Craddock sat frowning, and making little notes on the pad in front of him.

  Murderer (he wrote)… A tall dark man!!!

  Victim?… Could have been Martine, Edmund

  Crackenthorpe’s girlfriend or widow.

  Or

  Could have been Anna Stravinska. Went out of circulation at appropriate time, right age and appearance, clothing, etc. No connections with Rutherford Hall as far as is known. Could be Harold’s first wife! Bigamy!

  " " first mistress. Blackmail!

  If connection with Alfred, might be blackmail. Had knowledge that could have sent him to gaol? If Cedric—might have had connections with him abroad— Paris? Balearics?

  Or

  Victim could be Anna S. posing as Martine

  or

  Victim is unknown woman killed by unknown murderer!

  “And most probably the latter,” said Craddock aloud.

  He reflected gloomily on the situation. You couldn’t get far with a case until you had the motive. All the motives suggested so far seemed either inadequate or far fetched.

  Now if only it had been the murder of old Mr. Crackenthorpe… Plenty of motive there….

  Something stirred in his memory….

/>   He made further notes on his pad.

  Ask Dr. Q. about Christmas illness.

  Cedric—alibi.

  Consult Miss M. for the latest gossip.

  Sixteen

  When Craddock got to 4 Madison Road he found Lucy Eyelesbarrow with Miss Marple.

  He hesitated for a moment in his plan of campaign and then decided that Lucy Eyelesbarrow might prove a valuable ally.

  After greetings, he solemnly drew out his notecase, extracting three pound notes, added three shillings and pushed them across the table to Miss Marple.

  “What’s this, Inspector?”

  “Consultation fee. You’re a consultant—on murder! Pulse, temperature, local reactions, possible deepseated cause of said murder. I’m just the poor harassed local G.P.”

  Miss Marple looked at him and twinkled. He grinned at her. Lucy Eyelesbarrow gave a faint gasp and then laughed.

  “Why, Inspector Craddock—you’re human after all.”

  “Oh, well, I’m not strictly on duty this afternoon.”

  “I told you we had met before,” said Miss Marple to Lucy. “Sir Henry Clithering is his godfather—a very old friend of mine.”

  “Would you like to hear, Miss Eyelesbarrow, what my godfather said about her—the first time we met? He described her as just the finest detective God ever made—natural genius cultivated in a suitable soil. He told me never to despise the”—Dermot Craddock paused for a moment to seek for a synonym for “old pussies”—“—er elderly ladies. He said they could usually tell you what might have happened, what ought to have happened, and even what actually did happen! And,” he said, “they can tell you why it happened. He added that this particular—er—elderly lady—was at the top of the class.”

  “Well!” said Lucy. “That seems to be a testimonial all right.”

  Miss Marple was pink and confused and looked unusually dithery.

  “Dear Sir Henry,” she murmured. “Always so kind. Really I’m not at all clever—just perhaps, a slight knowledge of human nature—living, you know, in a village—”

  She added, with more composure:

  “Of course, I am somewhat handicapped, by not actually being on the spot. It is so helpful, I always feel, when people remind you of other people—because types are alike everywhere and that is such a valuable guide.”

  Lucy looked a little puzzled, but Craddock nodded comprehendingly.

  “But you’ve been to tea there, haven’t you?” he said.

  “Yes, indeed. Most pleasant. I was a little disappointed that I didn’t see old Mr. Crackenthorpe—but one can’t have everything.”

  “Do you feel that if you saw the person who had done the murder, you’d know?” asked Lucy.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that, dear. One is always inclined to guess—and guessing would be very wrong when it is a question of anything as serious as murder. All one can do is to observe the people concerned—or who might have been concerned—and see of whom they remind you.”

  “Like Cedric and the bank manager?”

  Miss Marple corrected her.

  “The bank manager’s son, dear. Mr. Eade himself was far more like Mr. Harold—a very conservative man—but perhaps a little too fond of money—the sort of man, too, who could go a long way to avoid scandal.”

  Craddock smiled, and said:

  “And Alfred?”

  “Jenkins at the garage,” Miss Marple replied promptly. “He didn’t exactly appropriate tools?—but he used to exchange a broken or inferior jack for a good one. And I believe he wasn’t very honest over batteries—though I don’t understand these things very well. I know Raymond left off dealing with him and went to the garage on the Milchester road. As for Emma,” continued Miss Marple thoughtfully, “she reminds me very much of Geraldine Webb—always very quiet, almost dowdy—and bullied a good deal by her elderly mother. Quite a surprise to everybody when the mother died unexpectedly and Geraldine came into a nice sum of money and went and had her hair cut and permed, and went off on a cruise, and came back married to a very nice barrister. They had two children.”

  The parallel was clear enough. Lucy said, rather uneasily: “Do you think you ought to have said what you did about Emma marrying? It seemed to upset the brothers.”

  Miss Marple nodded.

  “Yes,” she said. “So like men—quite unable to see what’s going on under their eyes. I don’t believe you noticed yourself.”

  “No,” admitted Lucy. “I never thought of anything of that kind. They both seemed to me—”

  “So old?” said Miss Marple smiling a little. “But Dr. Quimper isn’t much over forty, I should say, though he’s going grey on the temples, and it’s obvious that he’s longing for some kind of home life; and Emma Crackenthorpe is under forty—not too old to marry and have a family. The doctor’s wife died quite young having a baby, so I have heard.”

  “I believe she did. Emma said something about it one day.”

  “He must be lonely,” said Miss Marple. “A busy hard-working doctor needs a wife—someone sympathetic—not too young.”

  “Listen, darling,” said Lucy. “Are we investigating crime, or are we match-making?”

  Miss Marple twinkled.

  “I’m afraid I am rather romantic. Because I am an old maid, perhaps. You know, dear Lucy, that, as far as I am concerned, you have fulfilled your contract. If you really want a holiday abroad before taking up your next engagement, you would have time still for a short trip.”

  “And leave Rutherford Hall? Never! I’m the complete sleuth by now. Almost as bad as the boys. They spend their entire time looking for clues. They looked all through the dustbins yesterday. Most unsavoury—and they haven’t really the faintest idea what they were looking for. If they come to you in triumph, Inspector Craddock, bearing a torn scrap of paper with Martine—if you value your life keep away from the Long Barn! on it, you’ll know that I’ve taken pity on them and concealed it in the pigsty!”

  “Why the pigsty, dear?” asked Miss Marple with interest. “Do they keep pigs?”

  “Oh, no, not nowadays. It’s just— I go there sometimes.”

  For some reason Lucy blushed. Miss Marple looked at her with increased interest.

  “Who’s at the house now?” asked Craddock.

  “Cedric’s there, and Bryan’s down for the weekend. Harold and Alfred are coming down tomorrow. They rang up this morning. I somehow got the impression that you had been putting the cat among the pigeons, Inspector Craddock.”

  Craddock smiled.

  “I shook them up a little. Asked them to account for their movements on Friday, 20th December.”

  “And could they?”

  “Harold could. Alfred couldn’t—or wouldn’t.”

  “I think alibis must be terribly difficult,” said Lucy. “Times and places and dates. They must be hard to check up on, too.”

  “It takes time and patience—but we manage.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ll be coming to Rutherford Hall presently to have a word with Cedric, but I want to get hold of Dr. Quimper first.”

  “You’ll be just about right. He has his surgery at six and he’s usually finished about half past. I must get back and deal with dinner.”

  “I’d like your opinion on one thing, Miss Eyelesbarrow. What’s the family view about this Martine business—amongst themselves?”

  Lucy replied promptly.

  “They’re all furious with Emma for going to you about it—and with Dr. Quimper who, it seemed, encouraged her to do so. Harold and Alfred think it was a try on and not genuine. Emma isn’t sure. Cedric thinks it was phoney, too, but he doesn’t take it as seriously as the other two. Bryan, on the other hand, seems quite sure that it’s genuine.”

  “Why, I wonder?”

  “Well, Bryan’s rather like that. Just accepts things at their face value. He thinks it was Edmund’s wife—or rather widow—and that she had suddenly to go back to France, but that they’ll hear from her again sometime. The fact that she h
asn’t written, or anything, up to now, seems to him to be quite natural because he never writes letters himself. Bryan’s rather sweet. Just like a dog that wants to be taken for a walk.”

  “And do you take him for a walk, dear?” asked Miss Marple. “To the pigsties, perhaps?”

  Lucy shot a keen glance at her.

  “So many gentlemen in the house, coming and going,” mused Miss Marple.

  When Miss Marple uttered the word “gentlemen” she always gave it its full Victorian flavour—an echo from an era actually before her own time. You were conscious at once of dashing full-blooded (and probably whiskered) males, sometimes wicked, but always gallant.

  “You’re such a handsome girl,” pursued Miss Marple, appraising Lucy. “I expect they pay you a good deal of attention, don’t they?”

  Lucy flushed slightly. Scrappy remembrances passed across her mind. Cedric, leaning against the pigsty wall. Bryan sitting disconsolately on the kitchen table. Alfred’s fingers touching hers as he helped her collect the coffee cups.

  “Gentlemen,” said Miss Marple, in the tone of one speaking of some alien and dangerous species, “are all very much alike in some ways—even if they are quite old.…”

  “Darling,” cried Lucy. “A hundred years ago you would certainly have been burned as a witch!”

  And she told her story of old Mr. Crackenthorpe’s conditional proposal of marriage.

  “In fact,” said Lucy, “they’ve all made what you might call advances to me in a way. Harold’s was very correct—an advantageous financial position in the City. I don’t think it’s my attractive appearance—they must think I know something.”

  She laughed.

  But Inspector Craddock did not laugh.

  “Be careful,” he said. “They might murder you instead of making advances to you.”

  “I suppose it might be simpler,” Lucy agreed.

  Then she gave a slight shiver.

  “One forgets,” she said. “The boys have been having such fun that one almost thought of it all as a game. But it’s not a game.”