I
"Girl! You, girl! Come in here."
Lucy turned her head, surprised. Old Mr. Crackenthorpe was
beckoning to her fiercely from just inside a door.
"You want me, Mr. Crackenthorpe?"
"Don't talk so much. Come in here."
Lucy obeyed the imperative finger. Old Mr. Crackenthorpe took
hold of her arm and pulled her inside the door and shut it.
"Want to show you something," he said.
Lucy looked round her. They were in a small room evidently
designed to be used as a study, but equally evidently not used as such for a
very long time. There were piles of dusty papers on the desk and cobwebs
festooned from the corners of the ceiling. The air smelt damp and musty.
"Do you want me to clean this room?" she asked.
Old Mr. Crackenthorpe shook his head fiercely.
"No, you don't! I keep this room locked up. Emma would like
to fiddle about in here, but I don't let her. It's my room. See these stones?
They're geological specimens."
Lucy looked at a collection of twelve or fourteen lumps of
rock, some polished and some rough.
"Lovely," she said kindly. "Most interesting."
"You're quite right. They are interesting. You're an
intelligent girl. I don't show them to everybody. I'll show you some more
things."
"It's very kind of you, but I ought really to get on with
what I was doing. With six people in the house –"
"Eating me out of house and home…. That's all they do when
they come down here! Eat. They don't offer to pay for what they eat, either.
Leeches! All waiting for me to die. Well, I'm not going to die just yet - I'm
not going to die to please them. I'm a lot stronger than even Emma knows."
"I'm sure you are."
"I'm not so old, either. She makes out I'm an old man, treats
me as an old man. You don't think I'm old, do you?"
"Of course not," said Lucy.
"Sensible girl. Take a look at this."
He indicated a large faded chart which hung on the wall. It
was, Lucy saw, genealogical tree; some of it done so finely that one would have
to have a magnifying glass to read the names. The remote forebears, however,
were written in large proud capitals with crowns over the names.
"Descended from Kings," said Mr. Crackenthorpe. "My mother's
family tree, that is - not my father』s. He was a vulgarian! Common old man!
Didn't like me! I was a cut above him always. Took after my mother's side. Had a
natural feeling for art and classical sculpture - he couldn't see anything in it
- silly old fool. Don't remember my mother – died when I was two. Last of her
family. They were sold up and she married my father. But you look here - Edward
the Confessor – Ethelred the Unready - whole lot of them. And that was before
the Normans came. Before the Normans - that's something, isn't it?"
"It is indeed."
"Now I'll show you something else." He guided her across the
room to an enormous piece of dark oak furniture. Lucy was rather uneasily
conscious of the strength of the fingers clutching her arm. There certainly
seemed nothing feeble about old Mr. Crackenthorpe today. "See this? Came out of
Lushington – that was my mother's people's place. Elizabethan, this is. Takes
four men to move it. You don't know what I keep inside it, do you? Like me show
you?"
"Do show me," said Lucy politely.
"Curious, aren't you? All women are curious." He took a key
from his pocket and unlocked the door of the lower cupboard. From this he took
out a surprisingly new-looking cash box. This, again, he unlocked.
Take a look here, my dear. Know what these are?
He lifted out a small paper-wrapped cylinder and pulled away
the paper from one end. Gold coins trickled out into his palm.
"Look at these, young lady. Look at 』em, touch 'em. Know what
they are? Bet you don't! You're too young. Sovereigns – that's what they are.
Good golden sovereigns. What we use before all these dirty bits of paper came
into fashion. Worth a lot more than silly pieces of paper. Collected them a long
time back. I've got other things in this box, too. Lots of things put away in
here. All ready for the future. Emma doesn't know - nobody knows. It's our
secret, see, girl? D』you know why I'm telling you and showing you?"
"Why?"
"Because I don't want you to think I'm a played-out sick old
man. Lots of life in the old dog yet. My wife's been dead a long time. Always
objecting to everything, she was. Didn't like the names I gave the children -
good Saxon names - no interest in that family tree. I never paid any attention
to what she said, though – and she was a poor-spirited creature - always gave
in. now you're a spirited filly – a very nice filly indeed. I'll give you some
advice. Don't throw yourself away on a young man. Young men are fools! You want
to take care of your future. You wait…." His fingers pressed into Lucy's arm. He
leaned to her ear. "I don't say more than that. Wait. Those silly fools think
I'm going to die soon. I'm not. Shouldn't be surprised if I outlived the lot of
them. And then we'll see! Oh, yes, then we'll see. Harold's got no children.
Cedric and Alfred aren't married. Emma – Emma will never marry now. She's a bit
sweet to Quimper - but Quimper will never think of marrying Emma. There's
Alexander, of course. Yes, there's Alexander…. But, you know, I'm fond of
Alexander…. Yes, that's awkward. I'm fond of Alexander."
He paused for a moment, frowning, then said:
"Well, girl, what about it? What about it, eh?"
"Miss Eyelesbarrow…."
Emma's voice came faintly through the closed study. Lucy
seized gratefully at the opportunity.
"Miss Crackenthorpe's calling me. I must go. Thank you so
much for all you have shown me…."
"Don't forget… our secret…"
"I won't forget," said Lucy, and hurried out into the hall
not quite certain as to whether she had or had not just received a conditional
proposal of marriage.
II
Dermot Craddock sat at his desk in his room at New Scotland
Yard. He was slumped sideways in an easy attitude, and was talking into the
telephone receiver which he held with one elbow propped up on the table. He was
speaking in French, a language in which he was tolerably proficient.
"It was only an idea, you understand," he said.
"But decidedly it is an idea," said the voice at the other
end, from the Prefecture in Paris. "Already I have set inquiries in motion in
those circles. My agent reports that he has tow or three promising lines of
inquiry. Unless there is some family life – or a lover, these women drop out of
circulation very easily and no one troubles about them. They have gone on tour,
or there is some new man – it is no one's business to ask. It is a pity that the
photograph you sent me is so difficult for anyone to recognise. Strangulation,
it does not improve the appearance. Still, that cannot be helped. I go now to
study the latest reports of my agents on this matter. There will be, perhaps,
something. Au revoir, mon cher."
As Craddock reiterated the farewell politely, a slip of paper
was placed before him on the desk. It read:
Miss Emma Crackenthorpe.
To see Detective-Inspector Craddock.
Rutherford Hall case.
He replaced the receiver and said to the police constable:
"Bring Miss Crackenthorpe up."
As he waited, he leaned back in his chair, thinking.
So he had not been mistaken – there was something that Emma
Crackenthorpe knew – not much, perhaps, but something. And she had decided to
tell him.
He rose to his feet as she was shown in, shook hands, settled
her in a chair and offered her a cigarette which she refused. Then there was a
momentary pause. She was trying, he decided, to find just the words she wanted.
He leaned forward.
"You have come to tell me something, Miss Crackenthorpe? Can
I help you? You've been worried about something, haven't you? Some little thing,
perhaps, that you feel probably has nothing to do with the case, but on the
other hand, just might be related to it. You've come here to tell me about it,
haven't you? It's to do, perhaps, with the identity of the dead woman. You think
you know who she was?"
"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's your brother's
son, you see, and I - I can no longer give him the advantages he ought t have. I
am coming to England early next week. Will you let me know if I can come and see
you? My address for letter 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 letter 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."
"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 it - so I
suggested she should come down the week-end 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 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 realise. 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 matter?"
"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
impostor, it would be written by some woman who had known Martine and who was in
possession of all the facts, and so could write a thoroughly plausible letter. I
had to admit the justice of that - but all the same…"
She stopped.
"You wanted it to be true?" 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 impostor, of course, it's easier to explain. I
though 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 hardheaded 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 inquiries, but it seems to me
highly probable 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.
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