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  “No. I think, you know,” said Miss Marple in her gentle serious voice, “that the only thing to do is to tell the exact truth.”

  “About you?”

  “About everything.”

  A sudden grin split the whiteness of Lucy’s face.

  “That will be quite simple for me,” she said. “But I imagine they’ll find it quite hard to believe!”

  She rang off, waited a moment, and then rang and got the police station.

  “I have just discovered a dead body in a sarcophagus in the Long Barn at Rutherford Hall.”

  “What’s that?”

  Lucy repeated her statement and anticipating the next question gave her name.

  She drove back, put the car away and entered the house.

  She paused in the hall for a moment, thinking.

  Then she gave a brief sharp nod of the head and went to the library where Miss Crackenthorpe was sitting helping her father to do The Times crossword.

  “Can I speak to you a moment Miss Crackenthorpe?”

  Emma looked up, a shade of apprehension on her face. The apprehension was, Lucy thought, purely domestic. In such words do useful household staff announce their imminent departure.

  “Well, speak up, girl, speak up,” said old Mr. Crackenthorpe irritably.

  Lucy said to Emma:

  “I’d like to speak to you alone, please.”

  “Nonsense,” said Mr. Crackenthorpe. “You say straight out here what you’ve got to say.”

  “Just a moment, Father.” Emma rose and went towards the door.

  “All nonsense. It can wait,” said the old man angrily.

  “I’m afraid it can’t wait,” said Lucy.

  Mr. Crackenthorpe said, “What impertinence!”

  Emma came out into the hall. Lucy followed her and shut the door behind them.

  “Yes?” said Emma. “What is it? If you think there’s too much to do with the boys here, I can help you and—”

  “It’s not that at all,” said Lucy. “I didn’t want to speak before your father because I understand he is an invalid and it might give him a shock. You see, I’ve just discovered the body of a murdered woman in that big sarcophagus in the Long Barn.”

  Emma Crackenthorpe stared at her.

  “In the sarcophagus? A murdered woman? It’s impossible!”

  “I’m afraid it’s quite true. I’ve rung up the police. They will be here at any minute.”

  A slight flush came into Emma’s cheeks.

  “You should have told me first—before notifying the police.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Lucy.

  “I didn’t hear you ring up—” Emma’s glance went to the telephone on the hall table.

  “I rang up from the post office just down the road.”

  “But how extraordinary. Why not from here?”

  Lucy thought quickly.

  “I was afraid the boys might be about—might hear—if I rang up from the hall here.”

  “I see… Yes… I see… They are coming—the police, I mean?”

  “They’re here now,” said Lucy, as with a squeal of brakes a car drew up at the front door and the front doorbell pealed through the house.

  II

  “I’m sorry, very sorry—to have asked this of you,” said Inspector Bacon.

  His hand under her arm, he led Emma Crackenthorpe out of the barn. Emma’s face was very pale, she looked sick, but she walked firmly erect.

  “I’m quite sure that I’ve never seen the woman before in my life.”

  “We’re very grateful to you, Miss Crackenthorpe. That’s all I wanted to know. Perhaps you’d like to lie down?”

  “I must go to my father. I telephoned Dr. Quimper as soon as I heard about this and the doctor is with him now.”

  Dr. Quimper came out of the library as they crossed the hall. He was a tall genial man, with a casual offhand cynical manner that his patients found very stimulating.

  He and the inspector nodded to each other.

  “Miss Crackenthorpe has performed an unpleasant task very bravely,” said Bacon.

  “Well done, Emma,” said the doctor, patting her on the shoulder. “You can take things. I’ve always known that. Your father’s all right. Just go in and have a word with him, and then go into the dining room and get yourself a glass of brandy. That’s a prescription.”

  Emma smiled at him gratefully and went into the library.

  “That woman’s the salt of the earth,” said the doctor, looking after her. “A thousand pities she’s never married. The penalty of being the only female in a family of men. The other sister got clear, married at seventeen, I believe. This one’s quite a handsome woman really. She’d have been a success as a wife and mother.”

  “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 judgment—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—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 re
member 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.”

  Seven

  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 inspector was a big stolid 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 not, 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 were 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.”