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4.50 FROM
PADDINGTON by Agatha Christie

AMATEUR detective MISS JANE MARPLE cannot

help being pleased when LUCY EYELESBARROW,
who is helping her investigate a murder, tells her she
has found the body of a strangled woman in
a barn in the grounds of Rutherford Hall, where she
works as housekeeper. Miss Marple was told by her
friend, ELSPETH McGILLICUDDY, that she saw a
man strangle a woman in a train, and Miss Marple was
sure the murder had taken place as the train encircled
the grounds of the Hall near Brackhampton.

INSPECTOR BACON, of the local police force,
comes to the Hall, and LUTHER CRACKENTHORPE,
his daughter EMMA, and their physician, DR.
QUIMPER, have to inspect the body, but it is no one

they know. The Crackenthorpe brothers, HAROLD,
a successful businessman, ALFRED, not so successful,
and CEDRIC, an artist living abroad, BRYAN EAST-
LEY, widower of EDITH CRACKENTHORPE, and
MR. WIMBORNE, the family solicitor, attend the
inquest.

Back at the Hall schoolboys ALEXANDER, Bryan's
son, and JAMES STODDART-WEST, are delighted
when DETECTIVE DERMOT CRADDOCK arrives
from Scotland Yard. The police, however, cannot
identify the body, although they think the woman

was foreign. In Ceylon Mrs. McGillicuddy, on seeing

photographs, confirms the body as that of the woman

she saw being strangled. NOW READ ON:

"I SIMPLY can't make you out," said

Cedric Crackenthorpe.

He eased himself down on the
decaying wall of a long derelict
pigsty and stared at Lucy Eyelesbarrow.

"What can't you make out?"
"What you're doing here."
"I'm earning my living."

"As a skivvy?" He spoke disparag-

ingly.

"You're out of date," said Lucy.
"Skivvy, indeed! I'm a Household
Help, a Professional Domestician, or
an Answer to Prayer, mainly the lat-

ter."

"You can't like all the things you
have to do—cooking and making beds
and whirring round about with a hoopla
or whatever you call it, and sinking
your arms up to the elbows in greasy

water."

Lucy laughed.

"Not the details, perhaps, but cook-
ing satisfies my creative instincts, and
there's something in me that really
revels in clearing up mess."

"I live in a permanent mess," said
Cedric. "I like it," he added defiantly.

"You look as if you did."

"My cottage in Iviza is run on simple
straightforward lines. Three plates,
two cups and saucers, a bed, a table,
and a couple of chairs. There's dust
everywhere and smears of paint and
chips of stone—I sculpt as well as
paint—and nobody's allowed to touch
a thing. I won't have a woman near
the place."

"Not in any capacity?"

"Just what do you mean by that?"

"I was assuming that a man of such
artistic taste presumably had some kind

of love life."

"My love life, as you call it, is my
own business," said Cedric with dignity.

"What I won't have is woman in her

tidying-up interfering bossing capacity!"

"How I'd love to have a go at your
cottage," said Lucy. "It would be a
challenge!"

"You won't get the opportunity."
"I suppose not."

Some bricks fell out of the pigsty.
Cedric turned his head and looked into
its nettle-ridden depths.

"Dear old Madge," he said. "I re-
member her well. A sow of most en-
dearing disposition and a prolific
mother. Seventeen in the last litter, I
remember. We used to come here on

fine afternoons and scratch Madge's back
with a stick. She loved it."

"Why has the whole place been allowed
to get into the state it's in? It can't only

be the war?"

"You'd like to tidy this up, too, I sup-
pose? What an interfering female you
are. I quite see now why you would be
the person to discover a body! You

couldn't even leave a Greco-Roman sarco-
phagus alone." He paused and then went
on. "No, it's not only the war. It's my
father. What do you think of him, by
the way?"

"I haven't had much time for thinking."
"Don't evade the issue. He's mean and
in my opinion a bit crazy as well. Of
course he hates all of us — except perhaps
Emma. That's because of my grand-

father's will."

Lucy looked inquiring.

"My grandfather was the man who
mada-da-monitch. With the Crunchies and
the Cracker Jacks and the Cosy Crisps.
All the afternoon-tea delicacies, and then,
being far-sighted, he switched on very
early to Cheesies and Canapes so that now
we cash in on cocktail parties in a big way.
Well, the time came when father inti-
mated that he had a soul above Crunchies.
He travelled in Italy and the Balkans and
Greece and dabbled in art. My grand-
father was peeved.

"He decided my father was no man
of business and a rather poor judge of
art (quite right in both cases), so left
all his money in trust for his grandchil-
dren. Father had the income for life, but
he couldn't touch the capital. Do you
know what he did? He stopped spending
money. He came here and began to save.
I'd say that by now he's accumulated
nearly as big a fortune as my grandfather

left.

"And in the meantime all of us, Harold,
myself, Alfred, and Emma, haven't got a
penny of grandfather's money. I'm a
stony-broke painter. Harold went into
business and is now a prominent man in
the City—he's the one with the money-
making touch, though I've heard rumors
that he's in Queer Street lately. Alfred—
well, Alfred is usually known in the pri-
vacy of the family as Flash Alf——"

"Why?"

"What a lot of things you want to
know! The answer is that Alf is the black
sheep of the family. He's not actually
been to prison yet, but he's been very

near it. He was in the Ministry of

Supply during the war, but left it rather
abruptly under questionable circum-

stances. And after that there were
some dubious deals in tinned fruits—

and trouble over eggs. Nothing in a

none Help

big way—just a few doubtful deals

on the side."

"Isn't it rather unwise to tell
strangers all these things?"

"Why? Are you a police spy?"
"I might be."

"I don't think so. You were

here slaving away before the

police began to take an interest
in us. I should say —"

He broke off as his sister Emma
came through the door of the
kitchen garden.

"Hallo, Em? You're looking

very perturbed about some-

thing."

||ILLUSTRATED BY LASKIE||

||Third exciting instalment of our murder mystery serial||
"I am. I want to talk to you, Cedric."
"I must get back to the house," said Lucy
tactfully.
"Don't go," said Cedric. "Murder has
made you practically one of the family."
"I've got a lot to do," said Lucy. "I only
came out to get some parsley."
She beat a rapid retreat to the kitchen
garden. Cedric's eyes followed her.
"Good-looking girl," he said. "Who is she
really?"
"Oh, she's quite well known," said Emma.
"She's made a speciality of this kind of thing.
But never mind Lucy Eyelesbarrow, Cedric,
I'm terribly worried. Apparently the police
think that the dead woman was a foreigner,
perhaps French. Cedric, you don't think that
she could possibly be—Martine?"
For a moment or two Cedric stared at her
as though uncomprehending.
"Martine? But who on earth—oh, you
mean Martine?"
"Yes. Do you think——"
"Why on earth should it be Martine?"
"Well, her sending that telegram was odd
none Help
when you come to think of it. It must have
been roughly about the same time . . . Do
you think she may, after all, have come down
here and——"
"Nonsense. Why should Martine come
down here and find her way into the Long
Barn? What for? It seems wildly unlikely
to me."
"You don't think, perhaps, that I ought
to tell Inspector Bacon—or the other one?"
"Tell him what?"
"Well—about Martine. About her letter."
"Now don't you go complicating things,
Sis, by bringing up a lot of irrelevant stuff
that has nothing to do with all this. I was
never very convinced about that letter from
Martine, anyway."
"I was."
"You've always been good at believing im-
possible things before breakfast, old girl. My
advice to you is, sit tight, and keep your
mouth shut. It's up to the police to identify
their precious corpse. And I bet Harold
would say the same."
"Oh, I know Harold would. And Alfred,
also. But I'm worried, Cedric, I really am
worried. I don't know what I ought to do."
"Nothing," said Cedric promptly. "You
keep your mouth shut, Emma. Never go half-
way to meet trouble, that's my motto."
Emma Crackenthorpe sighed. She went
slowly back to the house uneasy in her mind.
As she came into the drive, Doctor Quim-
per emerged from the house and opened the
door of his battered Austin car. He paused
when he saw her, then, leaving the car, he
came towards her.
"Well, Emma," he said. "Your father's
in splendid shape. Murder suits him. It's
given him an interest in life. I must recom-
mend it for more of my patients."
Emma smiled mechanically. Dr. Quimper
was always quick to notice reactions.
"Anything particular the matter?" he
asked.
Emma looked up at him. She had come
to rely a lot on the kindliness and sympathy
of the doctor. He had become a friend on
whom to lean, not only a medical attendant.
||"It's very kind of you to ask me to tea," Miss Marple
said, smiling at Lucy on the sofa and Emma while
the Crackenthorpe brothers looked on.||
His calculated brusqueness did not deceive
her—she knew the kindness that lay behind
it.
"I am worried, yes," she admitted.
"Care to tell me? Don't if you don't want
to."
"I'd like to tell you. Some of it you know
already. The point is I don't know what
to do."
"I should say your judgment was usually
most reliable. What's the trouble?"
"You remember—or perhaps you don't—
what I once told you about my brother—
the one who was killed in the war?"
"You mean about his having married—or
wanting to marry—a French girl? Something
of that kind?"
"Yes. Almost immediately after I got that
letter, he was killed. We never heard any-
thing of or about the girl. All we knew,
actually, was her Christian name. We al-
ways expected her to write or to turn up,
but she didn't. We never heard anything—
until about a month ago, just before Christ-
mas."
"I remember. You got a letter, didn't
you?"
"Yes. Saying she was in England and
would like to come and see us. It was all
arranged and then, at the last minute, she
sent a wire that she had to return unexpect-
edly to France."
"Well?"
"The police think that this woman who
was killed— was French."
"They do, do they? She looked more of
an English type to me, but one can't really
judge. What's worrying you, then, is that
just possibly the dead woman might be your
brother's girl?"
"Yes."
"I think it's most unlikely," said Dr.
Quimper, adding: "But all the same, I under-
stand what you feel."
"I'm wondering if I ought not to tell the
police about— about it all. Cedric and the
others say it's quite unnecessary. What do
you think?"
"Hm." Dr. Quimper pursed up his lips. He
||To page 47||

||Continuing

4.50 From Paddington||

was silent for a moment or two,
deep in thought. Then he said,
almost unwillingly, "It's much
simpler, of course, if you say
nothing. I can understand
what your brothers feel about
it. All the same—"

"Yes?"

Quimper looked at her. His
eyes had an affectionate twinkle

in them.

"I'd go ahead and tell 'em,"
he said. "You'll go on worry-
ing if you don't. I know you."

Emma flushed a little.
"Perhaps I'm foolish."

"You do what you want to
do, my dear — and let the
rest of the family go hang!
I'd back your judgment against
the lot of them any day."
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"Girl! You, girl! Come in

here."

Lucy turned her head, sur-
prised. Old Mr. Crackenthorpe
was beckoning to her fiercely
from just inside a door.

"You want me, Mr. Cracken-
thorpe?"

"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.

"Want to show you some-
thing," he said.

Lucy looked round her. They
were in a small room evi-
dently 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

||from page 21||

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 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 in-
telligent 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, a genea-
logical tree; some of it
done so finely that one would
have had 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 there—

Edward the Confessor—Ethel-

red the Unready—whole lot of

them. And that was before the
Normans came. Before the Nor-
mans — that's something, isn't
it?"

"It is indeed."

"Now I'll show you some-
thing 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 cer-
tainly seemed nothing feeble
about old Mr. Crackenthorpe
today.

"See this? Came out of Lush-

ington — 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 to
show you?"

"Do show me," said Lucy
politely.

"Curious, aren't you? All
women are curious." He took

a key from his pocket and un-
locked the door of the lower
cupboard. From this he took
out a surprisingly new-looking
cash box. This, again, he un-

locked.

"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, hold '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 used 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 chil-
dren — 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 ad-
vice. 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 sur-

prised 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 on 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 door.
Lucy seized gratefully at the
opportunity.

"Miss Crackenthorpe's call-
ing 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 mar-
riage.
. . . . . . . . .

Dermot Craddock sat at his

desk in his room at New Scot-

land Yard. He was slumped
sideways in an easy attitude,
and was talking into the tele-
phone 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 two
or three promising lines of in-
quiry. 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 photo-
graph you sent me is so diffi-
cult for anyone to recognise.
Strangulation, it does not im-
prove 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, some-
thing. 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 some-
thing. 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 Cracken-
thorpe? 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

||To page 49||

||Continuing

4.50 From Paddington||

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 mar-
ried 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 any-
thing, 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 re-
ceive a letter just about a
month ago, signed Martine
Crackenthorpe."

"You have it?"

Emma took it from her bag
and handed it to him. Crad-
dock read it with interest. It
was written in 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

||from page 47||

a few days after our marriage
and at the same time the Ger-
mans 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 Cres-
cent 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 Cracken-
thorpe?"

"My brother-in-law, Bryan
Eastley, happened to be stay-
ing 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 should come
down the weekend after Christ-
mas 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 per-
haps . . ."

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 prob-
ably little doubt that the wo-
man who wrote to you actually
did go back to France and is
there now alive and well. On
the other hand, there is a cer-
tain coincidence of dates, as
you yourself have been clever

enough to realise.

"As you heard at the in-
quest, the woman's death ac-
cording to the police surgeon's
evidence must have occurred
about three to four weeks ago.
Now don't worry, Miss Crack-
enthorpe, just leave it to us."
He added casually, "You con-
sulted Mr. Harold Cracken-
thorpe. What about you 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 some-
times. It's not true, of course,
he has a very large income and
doesn't actually spend a quar-
ter 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 in-
clined 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 dis-
cussing the matter with him.
We were on the point of doing
so when Martine's telegram ar-

rived."

"You have taken no further
steps?"

"Yes. I wrote to the address
in London with please forward

||To page 50||

||Continuing. . . . 4.50 From
Paddington from page 49||

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 feel-
ings 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 favorite 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 en-
tirely 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 then it
seemed right to her to apply
to Edmund's family—as he him-
self 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 impos-
tor, it would be written by some
woman who had known Mar-

tine 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 grate-
fully.

"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 Cracken-
thorpe'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 wel-
come her. Why, even if she
had to return to France, did
she not write again? That is,
presuming her to be the gen-
uine article. If she were an im-
postor, of course, it's easier to
explain.

"I thought perhaps that you
might have consulted Mr. Wim-
borne, 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

businessmen.

"She may have hoped to get
sums of money out of you for
the child (hardly a child now
—a boy presumably of 15 or
16) without many questions
being asked. But instead she
found she was going to run
up against something quite dif-
ferent. 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 around it—very
valuable building land, prob-
ably, by now."

Emma looked slightly start-
led.

"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 prob-
able that there is no connection
between the woman who wrote

the letter (and who was prob-
ably trying to cash in on a
swindle) and the woman whose
body was found in the sarcopha-
gus."

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 her-
self Mrs. Crackenthorpe—Mrs.
Martine Crackenthorpe, who
was either living there, or call-
ing 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.
. . . . . . . . . . . .

"It's so very kind of you to
have asked me to take tea with

||ALL characters in the

serials and short stories
which appear in The Austra-
lian Women's Weekly are
fictitious and have no refer-
ence to any living person.||

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 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 to-
day."

"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

||To page 56||

||Continuing . . . . 4.50 From Paddington||

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 Har-
old. "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 feel-
ing I'm being followed every-
where I go by plainclothes

men."

"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 Whatsher-
name 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 sarcopha-
gus—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 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 Iviza, one
of the Balearic Islands."

||from page 50||

"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 the lurid mustard color.
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 Ced-

ric.

She smiled up at him de-
lightedly.

"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 topside 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 re-

sult of an enthusiastic search
for clues. Fresh tea was brought
in and with it came Dr. Quim-
per, who raised his eyebrows
slightly as he looked round
after acknowledging his intro-
duction 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 re-
member my own dear father.

'Got a lot of old women com-

ing?' he would say to my
mother. 'Send my tea into the
study.' Very naughty about it,
he was."

"Please don't think—" be-
gan Emma, but Cedric cut in.

"It's always tea in the study
when his dear sons come down.

Psychologically to be expected,
er, Doctor?"

Dr. Quimper, who was de-
vouring sandwiches and coffee
cake with the frank appreci-

ation of a man who has usu-

ally 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 doc-
tors," 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!"

"Not mine. Miss Eyeles-

barrow's."

"You make 'em just as
good," said Quimper loyally.

"Will you come and see

Father?"

She rose and the doctor fol-

lowed her. Miss Marple
watched them leave the room.

"Miss Crackenthorpe is a very

devoted daughter, I see," she

said.

"Can't imagine how she
sticks the old man, myself,"
said the outspoken Cedric.

"She has a very comfortable

home here, and Father is very
much attached to her," said
Harold quickly.

"Em's all right," said Ced-
ric. "Born to be an old maid."

There was a faint twinkle in
Miss Marple's eye as she said:

"Oh, do you think so?"
Harold said quickly

"My brother didn't use the
term old maid in any deroga-
tory sense, Miss Marple."

"Oh, I wasn't offended,"
said Miss Marple. "I just won-
dered if he was right. I
shouldn't say myself that Miss
Crackenthorpe would be an

old maid. She's the type, I
think, that's quite likely to
marry late in life—and make a

success of it."

"Not very likely living here,"

said Cedric. "Never sees any-
body she could marry."

Miss Marple's twinkle became
more pronounced than ever.

"There are always clergymen

—and doctors."

Her eyes, gentle and mis-
chievous, went from one to
another.

It was clear that she had

suggested to them something
that they had never thought of
and which they did not find
overpleasing.

Miss Marple rose to her feet,

dropping, as she did so, several
little woolly scarves and her

bag.

The three brothers were most
attentive picking things up.

"So kind of you," fluted Miss

Marple. "Oh, yes, and my little

blue muffler. Yes—as I say—

so kind to ask me here. I've

been picturing, you know, just
what your home was like—so
that I can visualise dear Lucy
working here."

"Perfect home conditions—
with murder thrown in," said
Cedric.

"Cedric!" Harold's voice was

angry.

Miss Marple smiled up at

Cedric.

"Do you know who you re-

mind me of? Young Thomas

Eade, our bank manager's son.
Always out to shock people. It
didn't do in banking circles, of

course, so he went to the West
Indies ... He came home
when his father died and in-
herited quite a lot of money.
So nice for him. He was al-

ways better at spending money
than making it."

Lucy took Miss Marple home.
On her way back a figure
stepped out of the darkness and
stood in the glare of the head-
lights just as she was about

to turn into the back lane. He
held up his hand and Lucy
recognised Alfred Cracken-
thorpe.

"That's better," he observed,

as he got in. "Brrr, it's cold! I

fancied I'd like a nice bracing
walk. I didn't. Taken the old
lady home all right?"

"Yes. She enjoyed herself
very much."

"One could see that. Funny
what a taste old ladies have
for any kind of society, how-
ever dull. And, really, noth-
ing could be duller than

Rutherford Hall. Two days
here is about as much as I can
stand. How do you manage to
stick it out, Lucy? Don't mind
if I call you Lucy, do you?"

"Not at all. I don't find it

dull. Of course with me it's
not a permanency."

"I've been watching you —
you're a smart girl, Lucy. Too

smart to waste yourself cooking
and cleaning."

"Thank you, I prefer cook-
ing and cleaning to the office

desk."

"So would I. But there

||To page 57||

||Continuing . . . . 4.50 From Paddington||

other ways of living. You

could be a freelance."

"I am."

"Not this way. I mean, work-

ing for yourself, pitting your

wits against—"

"Against what?"

"The powers that be! All
the silly pettifogging rules and
regulations that hamper us all

nowadays. The interesting
thing is there's always a way
round them if you're smart
enough to find it. And you're
smart. Come, now, does this
idea appeal to you?"

"Possibly."

Lucy manoeuvred the car
into the stable yard.

"Not going to commit your-

self?"

"I'd have to hear more."

"Frankly, my dear girl, I

could use you. You've got the
sort of manner that's invaluable
—creates confidence."

"Do you want me to help
you sell gold bricks?"

"Nothing so risky. Just a

little by-passing of the law—no
more." His hand slipped up
her arm. "You're an attractive
girl, Lucy. I'd like you as a

partner."

"I'm flattered."

"Meaning nothing doing?
Think about it. Think of the
fun, the pleasure you'd get out
of outwitting all the sobersides.
The trouble is, one needs capi-

tal."

"I'm afraid I haven't got

any."

"Oh, it wasn't a touch! I'll
be laying my hands on some
before long. My revered Papa
can't live for ever, mean old
brute. When he pops off I lay
my hands on some real money.
What about it, Lucy?"

"What are the terms?"

"Marriage if you fancy it.
Women seem to, no matter how
advanced and self-supporting
they are. Besides, married
women can't be made to give
evidence against their hus-

bands."

"Not so flattering!"

"Come off it, Lucy! Don't
you realise I've fallen for

you?"

Rather to her surprise, Lucy
was aware of a queer fascina-
tion. There was a quality of
charm about Alfred, perhaps

due to sheer animal magnetism.
She laughed and slipped from
his encircling arm.

"There is no time for dalli-
ance. There's dinner to think

about."

"So there is, Lucy, and
you're a lovely cook. What's

for dinner?"

"Wait and see! You're as
bad as the boys!"

They entered the house and
Lucy hurried to the kitchen.
She was rather surprised to be
interrupted in her preparations
by Harold Crackenthorpe.

"Miss Eyelesbarrow, can I
speak to you about something?"

"Would later do, Mr. Crac-

kenthorpe? I'm rather behind

hand."

"Certainly, certainly. After

dinner?"

"Yes, that will do."

Dinner was duly served and
appreciated. Lucy finished
washing up and came out into
the hall to find Harold Crac-
kenthorpe waiting for her.

"Yes, Mr. Crackenthorpe?"

"Shall we come in here?" He
opened the door of the draw-
ing-room and led the way. He
shut the door behind her.

"I shall be leaving early in
the morning," he explained,
"but I want to tell you how
struck I have been by your
ability."

"Thank you," said Lucy,
feeling a little surprised.

"I feel that your talents are
wasted here — definitely

wasted."

"Do you? I don't."

At any rate, he can't ask me
to marry him, thought Lucy.
He's got a wife already.

"I suggest that, having very
kindly seen us through this
lamentable crisis, you call on
me in London. If you will ring
up and make an appointment, I
will leave instructions with my
secretary. The truth is that
we could use someone of your
outstanding ability in the firm.
We could discuss fully in what
field your talents would be most
ably employed. I can offer
you, Miss Eyelesbarrow, a very
good salary indeed with bril-

||from page 56||

liant prospects. I think you
will be agreeably surprised."

His smile was magnanimous.
Lucy said demurely: "Thank
you, Mr. Crackenthorpe. I'll

think about it."

"Don't wait too long. These
opportunities should not be
missed by a young woman
anxious to make her way in

the world."

Again his teeth flashed.

"Goodnight, Miss Eyelesbar-
row. Sleep well."

"Well," said Lucy to her-
self, "well . . . this is all very
interesting . . ."

ON her way up to

bed Lucy encountered Cedric

on the stairs.

"Look here, Lucy, there's
something I want to say to
you."

"Do you want me to marry
you and come to Iviza and look
after you?"

Cedric looked very much
taken aback, and slightly

alarmed.

"I never thought of such a
thing."

"Sorry. My mistake."

"I just wanted to know if
you've a timetable in the

house?"

"Is that all? There's one
on the hall table."

"You know," said Cedric re-
provingly, "you shouldn't go
about thinking everyone wants
to marry you. You're quite a
good-looking girl, but not as
good-looking as all that. There's
a name for that sort of thing—
it grows on you and you get
worse. Actually, you're the
last girl in the world I should
care to marry. The last girl."

"Indeed?" said Lucy. "You
needn't rub it in. Perhaps
you'd prefer me as a step-

mother?"

"What's that?" Cedric

stared at her, stupefied.

"You heard me," said Lucy,

and went into her room and
shut the door.
. . . . . . . . .

Dermot Craddock was frater-
nising with Armand Dessin, of
the Paris Prefecture. The two
men had met on one or two
occasions and got on well to-
gether. Since Craddock spoke
French fluently, most of their
conversation was conducted in
that language.

"It is an idea only," Dessin
warned him. "I have a picture
here of the corps de ballet—
that is she, the fourth from the
left—it says anything to you,
yes?"

Inspector Craddock said that
actually it didn't. A strangled
young woman is not easy to
recognise, and in this picture
all the young women concerned
were heavily made up and were
wearing extravagant bird head-

dresses.

"It could be," he said. "I
can't go further than that. Who
was she? What do you know

about her?"

"Almost less than nothing,"
said the other cheerfully. "She
was not important, you see.
And the Ballet Maritski — it
is not important, either. It
plays in suburban theatres and
goes on tour—it has no real
names, no stars, no famous bal-
lerinas. But I will take you to
see Madame Joliet, who runs
it."

Madame Joliet was a brisk

businesslike Frenchwoman with

a shrewd eye, a small mous-
tache, and a good deal of
adipose tissue.

"Me, I do not like the
police!" She scowled at them,
without camouflaging her dis-
like of the visit. "Always, if
they can, they make me em-
barrassments."

"No, no, Madame, you must
not say that," said Dessin, who
was a tall, thin, melancholy
looking man. "When have I
ever caused you embarrass-

ments?"

"Over that little fool who
drank the carbolic acid," said
Madame Joliet promptly. "And
all because she has fallen in

love with the chef d'orchestre
—who does not care for

her. Over that you made
the big brouhaha! Which is not
good for my beautiful ballet."

"On the contrary, big box-
office business," said Dessin,
"And that was three years ago.

You should not bear malice.
Now about this girl, Anna

Stravinska."

"Well, what about her?" said
madame cautiously.

"Is she Russian?" asked In-
pector Craddock.

"No, indeed. You mean, be-
cause of her name? But they
call themselves names like that,
these girls. She was not im-
portant, she did not dance well,
she was not particularly good-
looking. She danced well enough
for the corps de ballet — but

no solos."

"Was she French?"

"Perhaps. She had a French
passport. But she told me once
that she had an English hus-

band."

"She told you that she had
an English husband? Alive—
or dead?"

Madame Joliet shrugged her

shoulders.

"Dead, or he had left her.
How should I know which?

These girls—there is always

some trouble with men—"

"When did you last see her?"
"I take my company to Lon-
don for six weeks. We play at
Torquay, at Bournemouth, at
Eastbourne, at somewhere else
I forget and at Hammersmith.
Then we come back to France,
but Anna—she does not come.
She sends a message only that
she leaves the company to live
with her husband's family—
some nonsense of that kind. I
did not think it is true myself.
I think it more likely that she
has met a man, you under-
stand."

Inspector Craddock nodded.
He perceived that that was what
Madame Joliet would in-
variably think.

"And it is no loss to me. I
do not care. I can get girls just
as good and better to come and
dance, so I shrug the shoulders
and do not think of it any more.
Why should I? They are all the
same, these girls, mad about

men."

"What date was this?"

"When we return to France?
It was—yes—the Sunday be-
fore Christmas. And Anna she
leaves two—or is it three—days
before that? I cannot remember
exactly . . . But the end of the
week at Hammersmith we have
to dance without her—and it

means rearranging things . . .
It was very naughty of her—
but these girls — the moment
they meet a man they are all
the same. Only I say to every-
body, 'Zut, I do not take her
back, that one!' "

"Very annoying for you."

"Ah! Me—I do not care. No
doubt she passes the Christmas
holiday with some man she has
picked up. It is not my affair.
I can find other girls — girls
who will leap at the chance of
dancing in the Ballet Maritski
and who can dance as well or
better than Anna."

Madame Joliet paused and
then asked with a sudden gleam

of interest:

"Why do you want to find

her? Has she come into
money?"

"On the contrary," said In-
spector Craddock politely. "We
think she may have been mur-
dered."

Madame Joliet relapsed into

indifference.

"It happens. Ah, well! She
was a good Catholic. She
went to Mass on Sundays, and

no doubt to confession."

"Did she ever speak to you,
Madame, of a son?"

"A son? Do you mean she
had a child? That, now, I
should consider most unlikely."

"She may have had a child
before she adopted a stage
life," said Craddock. "During
the war, for instance."

"Ah! dans la guerre. That is
always possible. But if so, I
know nothing about it."

"Who among the other girls

were her closest friends?"

"I can give you two or three
names—but she was not very
intimate with anyone."

They could get nothing else
useful from Madame Joliet.

Shown the compact, she said
Anna had one of that kind,

||To page 58||

||Continuing . . . . 4.50 From Paddington||

but so had most of the other
girls. Anna had perhaps bought
a fur in London—she did not
know. "Me, I occupy myself
with the rehearsals, with the
stage lighting, with all the dif-
ficulties of my business. I have
not time to notice what my

artists wear."

After Madame Joliet, they
interviewed the girls whose
names she had given them. One
or two of them had known
Anna fairly well, but they all
said that she had not been
one to talk much about herself,
and that when she did, it was,
so one said, mostly lies.

"She liked to pretend things
—stories about having been the
mistress of a Grand Duke—or
of a great English financier—
or how she worked for the Re-
sistance in the war. Even a
story about being a film star in
Hollywood."

Another girl said:

"I think that really she had
had a very tame bourgeois ex-
istence. She liked to be in
ballet because she thought it
was romantic, but she was not
a good dancer. You under-
stand that if she were to say,
'My father was a draper in
Amiens,' that would not be
romantic! So instead she made
up things."

"Even in London," said the
first girl, "she threw out hints
about a very rich man who was
going to take her on a cruise
round the world, because she
reminded him of his dead
daughter who had died in a
car accident. What a joke!"

"She told me she was going
to stay with a rich lord in
Scotland," said the second girl.
"She said she would shoot the
deer there."

None of this was helpful. All
that seemed to emerge from it
was that Anna Stravinska was
a proficient liar. She was cer-
tainly not shooting deer with
a peer in Scotland, and it
seemed equally unlikely that
she was on the sun deck of a
liner cruising round the world.
But neither was there any real
reason to believe that her body
had been found in a sarcopha-
gus at Rutherford Hall. The
identification by the girls and

Madame Joliet was very un-
certain and hesitating. It
looked something like Anna,
they all agreed. But really!
All swollen up—it might be
anybody!

The only fact that was
established was that on the 19th
of December Anna Stravinska
had decided not to return to

France, and that on the 20th

of December a woman resem-

bling her in appearance had
travelled to Brackhampton by
the 4.33 train and had been
strangled.

If the woman in the sar-

cophagus was not Anna Stravin-
ska, where was Anna now?

To that, Madame Joliet's
answer was simple and inevit-

able.

"With a man!"

And it was probably the cor-
rect answer, Craddock reflected
ruefully.

One other possibility had to
be considered—raised by the
casual remark that Anna had
once referred to having an Eng-
lish husband.

Had that husband been Ed-
mund Crackenthorpe?

IT seemed un-

likely, considering the word
picture of Anna that had been
given him by those who knew

her. What was much more

probable was that Anna had at
one time known the girl Mar-
tine sufficiently intimately to be
acquainted with the necessary

details.

It might have been Anna

who wrote that letter to Emma

Crackenthorpe and, if so,
Anna would have been quite
likely to have taken fright at
any question of an investiga-
tion. Perhaps she had even
thought it prudent to sever her

connection with the Ballet

Maritski. Again, where was she
now?

And again, inevitably,
Madame Joliet's answer seemed
the most likely.

With a man . . .

Before leaving Paris, Crad-
dock discussed with Dessin the
question of the woman named
Martine. Dessin was inclined
to agree with his English col-
league that the matter had
probably no connection with
the woman found in the sar-
cophagus. All the same, he
agreed, the matter ought to be
investigated.

He assured Craddock that
the Surete would do their best

to discover if there actually
was any record of a marriage
between Lieutenant Edmund
Crackenthorpe of the 4th
Southshire Regiment and a
French girl whose Christian
name was Martine. Time—just
prior to the fall of Dunkirk.

He warned Craddock, how-
ever, that a definite answer was
doubtful. The area in question
had not only been occupied by
the Germans at almost exactly
that time, but subsequently
that part of France had suffered
severe war damage at the time
of the invasion. Many build-
ings and records had been des-
troyed.

"But rest assured, my dear
colleague, we shall do our

best."

With this, he and Craddock
took leave of each other.

On Craddock's return Serg-
eant Wetherall was waiting to
report with gloomy relish:

"Accommodation address,
sir— that's what 126 Elvers
Crescent is. Quite respectable

and all that."

"Any identifications?"

"No, nobody could recognise
the photograph as that of a
woman who had called for let-
ters, but I don't think they
would anyway—it's a month
ago, very near, and a good
many people use the place. It's

||Printed by Conpress Printing
Limited for the Publisher. Aus-
tralian Consolidated press Limited
168-174 Castlereagh Street. Sydney||

||from page 57||

actually a boarding-house for

students."

"She might have stayed there
under another name."

"If so, they didn't recognise
her as the original of the
photograph."

He added :

"We circularised the hotels
—nobody registering as Mar-
tine Crackenthorpe anywhere.
On receipt of your call from
Paris, we checked up on Anna
Stravinska. She was regis-
tered with other members of
the company in a cheap hotel
off Brook Green. Mostly
theatricals there. She cleared
out on the night of Thursday
19th after the show. No further
record."

Craddock nodded. He sug-
gested a line of further inquiries
—though he had little hopes

of success from them.

After some thought, he rang
up Wimborne, Henderson, and
Carstairs and asked for an ap-
pointment with Mr. Wimborne.

In due course, he was ushered
into a particularly airless room

where Mr. Wimborne was sit-

ting behind a large old-

fashioned desk covered with

bundles of dusty-looking papers.

Various deed boxes labelled Sir

John ffouldes, dec. Lady Der-
rin, George Rowbotham, Esq.,
ornamented the walls; whether
as relics of a bygone era or as
part of present-day legal affairs,
the Inspector did not know.

Mr. Wimborne eyed his visi-
tor with polite wariness charac-
teristic of a family lawyer to-
wards the police.

"What can I do for you,
Inspector?"

"This letter . . ." Craddock
pushed Martine's letter across
the table. Mr. Wimborne
touched it with a distasteful

finger but did not pick it up.
His color rose very slightly and
his lips tightened.

"Quite so," he said; "quite
so! I received a letter from
Miss Emma Crackenthorpe
yesterday morning, informing
me of her visit to Scotland
Yard and of—ah—all the cir-
cumstances. I may say that
I am at a loss to understand—
quite at a loss—why I was not
consulted about this letter at
the time of its arrival! Most
extraordinary! I should have
been informed immediately
..."

Inspector Craddock repeated
soothingly such platitudes as
seemed best calculated to re-
duce Mr. Wimborne to an
amenable frame of mind.

"I'd no idea that there was
ever any question of Edmund's
having married," said Mr. Wim-
borne in an injured voice.

Inspector Craddock said that
he supposed—in war time—and
left it to trail away vaguely.

"War time!" snapped Mr.
Wimborne with waspish acer-
bity. "Yes, indeed, we were in
Lincoln's Inn Fields at the out-
break of war and there was a
direct hit on the house next
door, and a great number of
our records were destroyed. Not
the really important documents,
of course; they had been re-
moved to the country for
safety. But it caused a great

deal of confusion.

"Of course, the Cracken-
thorpe business was in my
father's hands at that time. He
died six years ago. I dare say
he may have been told about
this so-called marriage of Ed-
mund's—but on the face of it,
it looks as though that mar-
riage, even if contemplated,
never took place, and so, no
doubt, my father did not con-
sider the story of any import-
ance. I must say, all this
sounds very fishy to me. This
coming forward, after all these
years, and claiming a marriage
and a legitimate son. Very

fishy indeed. What proofs had
she got, I'd like to know?"

"Just so," said Craddock.
"What would her position or
her son's position be?"

"The idea was, I suppose,
that she would get the Cracken-
thorpes to provide for her and

for the boy."

"Yes, but I meant, what
would she and the son be en-
titled to, legally speaking—if
she could prove her claim?"

"Oh, I see." Mr. Wimborne
picked up his spectacles which
he had laid aside in his irri-
tation, and put them on, star-
ing through them at Inspector
Craddock with shrewd atten-
tion.

"Well, at the moment, noth-
ing. But if she could prove that
the boy was the son of Edmund
Crackenthorpe, born in lawful
wedlock, then the boy would
be entitled to his share of
Josiah Crackenthorpe's trust on
the death of Luther Cracken-

thorpe. More than that, he'd
inherit Rutherford Hall, since
he's the son of the eldest son."

"Would anyone want to in-
herit the house?"

"To live in? I should say,
certainly not. But that estate,
my dear Inspector, is worth a
considerable amount of money.
Very considerable. Land for
industrial and building pur-
poses. Land which is now in
the heart of Brackhampton.
Oh, yes, a very considerable in-

heritance."

"If Luther Crankenthorpe
dies, I believe you told me that
Cedric gets it?"

"He inherits the real-estate
—yes, as the eldest surviving

son."

"Cedric Crackenthorpe, I
have been given to understand,
is not interested in money?"

Mr. Wimborne gave Crad-
dock a cold stare.

"Indeed? I am inclined, my-
self, to take statements of such
a nature with what I might
term a grain of salt. There are
doubtless certain unworldly
people who are indifferent to
money. I myself have never

met one."

Mr. Wimborne obviously de-
rived a certain satisfaction from
this remark.

Inspector Craddock hastened
to take advantage of this ray

of sunshine.

"Harold and Alfred Cracken-
thorpe," he ventured, "seem to
have been a good deal upset by
the arrival of this letter?"

"Well they might be," said
Mr. Wimborne. "Well they
might be."

"It would reduce their even-
tual inheritance?"

"Certainly. Edmund Crack-
enthorpe's son— always pre-

suming there is a son—would
be entitled to a fifth share of
the trust money."

"That doesn't really seem a
very serious loss?"

Mr. Wimborne gave him a
shrewd glance.

"It is a totally inadequate
motive for murder, if that is
what you mean."

"But I suppose they're both
pretty hard up," Craddock

murmured.

He sustained Mr. Wimborne's
sharp glance with perfect impas-
sivity.

"Oh! So the police have been
making inquiries? Yes, Alfred
is almost incessantly in low
water. Occasionally he is very
flush of money for a short time
—but it soon goes. Harold, as
you seem to have discovered,
is at present somewhat pre-
cariously situated."

"In spite of his appearance
of financial prosperity?"

"Facade. All facade! Half
these city concerns don't even
know if they're solvent or not.
Balance sheets can be made to
look all right to the inexpert
eye. But when the assets that
are listed aren't really assets—
when those assets are trembling
on the brink of a crash—where

are you?"

"Where, presumably, Harold
Crackenthorpe is, in bad need
of money."

"Well, he wouldn't have got
it by strangling his late
brother's widow," said Mr.
Wimborne. "And nobody's mur-
dered Luther Crackenthorpe,
which is the only murder that
would do the family any good.
So, really, Inspector, I don't
quite see where your ideas are
leading you?"

The worst of it was, Inspec-
tor Craddock thought, that he
wasn't very sure himself.

INSPECTOR

CRADDOCK had made an

appointment with Harold
Crackenthorpe at his office, and
he and Sergeant Wetherall
arrived there punctually. The

office was on the fourth floor

of a big block of city offices.
Inside everything showed pros-
perity and the acme of modern

business taste.

A neat young woman took
his name, spoke in a discreet
murmur through a telephone,
and then, rising, showed them
into Harold Crackenthorpe's
private office.

Harold was sitting behind a
large leather-topped desk and
was looking as impeccable and
self-confident as ever. If, as
the Inspector's private know-
ledge led him to surmise, he
was close upon Queer Street,

no trace of it showed.

He looked up with a frank
welcoming interest.

"Good morning, Inspector
Craddock. I hope this means
that you have some definite

news for us at last?"

"Hardly that, I am afraid,
Mr. Crackenthorpe. It's just
a few more questions I'd like

to ask."

"More questions? Surely by
now we have answered every-
thing imaginable."

"I dare say it feels like that
to you, Mr. Crackenthorpe, but
it's just a question of our regu-

lar routine."

"Well, what is it this time?"
He spoke impatiently.

"I should be glad if you
could tell me exactly what you
were doing on the afternoon
and evening of December 20
last—say between the hours of
3 p.m. and midnight."

Harold Crackenthorpe went
an angry shade of plum-red.

"That seems to be a most
extraordinary question to ask
me. What does it mean, I

should like to know?"

Craddock smiled gently.

"It just means that I should
like to know where you were
between the hours of 3 p.m.
and midnight on Friday, Dec-

ember 20."

"Why?"

"It would help to narrow
things down."

"Narrow them down? You
have extra information, then?"

"We hope that we're getting
a little closer, sir."

"I'm not at all sure that I
ought to answer your question.
Not, that is, without having my
solicitor present."

"That, of course, is entirely
up to you," said Craddock.
"You are not bound to answer
any questions, and you have a
perfect right to have a solici-
tor present before you do so."

"You are not—let me be
quite clear—er—warning me
in any way?"

"Oh, no, sir." Inspector
Craddock looked properly
shocked. "Nothing of that kind.
The question I am asking you,
I am asking of several other
people as well. There's nothing
directly personal about this.
It's just a matter of necessary

eliminations."

"Well, of course—I'm anxious
to assist in any way I can. Let
me see now. Such a thing isn't
easy to answer offhand, but
we're very systematic here. Miss
Ellis, I expect, can help."

He spoke briefly into one of
the telephones on his desk and
almost immediately a stream-
lined young woman in a well-

cut black suit entered with a
notebook.

"My secretary, Miss Ellis, In-
spector Craddock. Now, Miss
Ellis, the Inspector would like

to know what I was doing on

||To page 60||

||Continuing. . . .

4.50 From Paddington||

the afternoon and evening of
—what was the date!"

"Friday, December 20."

"Friday, December 20. I
expect you will have some

record."

"Oh, yes." Miss Ellis left the
room, returned with an office
memorandum calendar and
turned the pages.

"You were in the office on
the morning of December 20.
You had a conference with Mr.
Goldie about the Cromatie

merger, you lunched with Lord
Forthville at the Berkeley—"

"Ah, it was that day, yes."

"You returned to the office
at about 3 o'clock and dictated
half a dozen letters. You then
left to attend Sotheby's sale
rooms where you were inter-
ested in some rare manuscripts
which were coming up for sale
that day. You did not return
to the office again, but I have
a note to remind you that you
were attending the Catering
Club dinner that evening." She
looked up interrogatively.

"Thank you, Miss Ellis."

Miss Ellis glided from the

room.

"That is all quite clear in my
mind," said Harold. "I went
to Sotheby's that afternoon but

the items I wanted there went

for far too high a price. I had
tea in a small place in Jermyn
Street—Russells, I think, it is
called. I dropped into a News
Theatre for about half an hour
or so, then went home—I live
at 43 Cardigan Gardens. The
Catering Club dinner took
place at seven-thirty at Caterers'
Hall, and after it I returned

home to bed. I think that

should answer your questions."

"That's all very clear, Mr.
Crackenthorpe. What time was
it when you returned home to

dress?"

"I don't think I can remem-
ber exactly. Soon after six, I
should think."

"And after the dinner?"

"It was, I think, half-past
eleven when I got home."

"Did your manservant let
you in? Or perhaps Lady Alice
Crackenthorpe—"

"My wife, Lady Alice, is
abroad in the South of France

and has been since early in
December. I let myself in with
my latch key."

"So there is no one who can
vouch for your returning home
when you said you did?"

Harold gave him a cold

stare.

"I dare say the servants
heard me come in. I have a
man and wife. But, really,
Inspector—"

"Please, Mr. Crackenthorpe,
I know these kind of questions
are annoying, but I have nearly
finished. Do you own a car?"

"Yes, a Humber Hawk."
"You drive it yourself?"

"Yes. I don't use it much ex-
cept at weekends. Driving in
London is quite impossible
nowadays."

"I presume you use it when
you go down to see your father
and sister at Brackhampton?"

"Not unless I am going to
stay there for some length of
time. If I just go down for the
night—as, for instance, to the
inquest the other day—I always
go by train. There is an excel-
lent train service and it is far

quicker than going by car. The
car my sister hires meets me at
the station."

"Where do you keep your

car?"

"I rent a garage in the Mews
behind Cardigan Gardens. Any
more questions?"

"I think that's all for now,"
said Inspector Craddock, smil-
ing and rising. "I'm very sorry
for having to bother you."

When they were outside Ser-
geant Wetherall, a man who
lived in a state of dark sus-

picion of all and sundry, re-
marked meaningly: "He didn't
like those questions — didn't
like them at all. Put out, he

was."

"If you have not committed
a murder it naturally annoys

you if it seems someone thinks
that you have," said Inspector
Craddock mildly. "It would
particularly annoy an ultra re-
spectable man like Harold
Crackenthorpe. There's noth-
ing in that. What we've got to
find out now is if anyone actu-
ally saw Harold Crackenthorpe
at the sale that afternoon, and
the same applies to the tea-
shop place.

"He could easily have tra-
velled by the 4.33, pushed the
woman out of the train, and
caught a train back to London
in time to appear at the dinner.
In the same way, he could have
driven his car down that night,
moved the body to the sarco-
phagus, and driven back again.
Make inquiries in the Mews."

"Yes, sir. Do you think
that's what he did do?"

"How do I know?" asked In-

spector Craddock. "He's a tall,

dark man. He could have been
on that train, and he's got a
connection with Rutherford
Hall. He's a possible suspect
in this case. Now for brother
Alfred."

ALFRED CRACK-

ENTHORPE had a flat in West
Hampstead, in a big, modern
building of slightly jerry-built
type with a large courtyard in
which the owners of flats parked

their cars with a certain lack
of consideration for others.

The flat was a modern, built-
in type, evidently rented fur-
nished. It had a long plywood
table that let down from the

wall, a divan bed, and various
chairs of improbable propor-

tions.

Alfred Crackenthorpe met
them with engaging friendli-
ness, but was, the inspector
thought, nervous.

"I'm intrigued," he said.
"Can I offer you a drink, In-
spector Craddock?" He held
up various bottles invitingly."

"No, thank you, Mr. Crac-
kenthorpe."

"As bad as that?" He

laughed at his own little joke,
then asked what it was all
about.

Inspector Craddock said his
little piece.

"What was I doing on the
afternoon and evening of
December 20. How should I
know? Why, that's — what —
over three weeks ago."

"Your brother Harold has
been able to tell us very
exactly."

"Brother Harold, perhaps.
"Not brother Alfred." He
added with a touch of some-
thing — envious malice, pos-
sibly: "Harold is the success-
ful member of the family—
busy, useful, fully employed—
a time for everything, and
everything at that time. Even
if he were to commit a—mur-
der, shall we say?—it would
be carefully timed and exact."

"Any particular reason for
using that example?"

"Oh, no! It just came into
my mind— as a supreme ab-
surdity."

"Now about yourself."

Alfred spread out his hands.

"It's as I tell you—I've no
memory for times or places. If
you were to say Christmas Day,

now—then I should be able to

answer you—there's a peg to
hang it on. I know where I
was Christmas Day. We spend
that with my father at Brack-
hampton. I really don't know
why. He grumbles at the ex-
pense of having us—and would
grumble that we never came
near him if we didn't come.
We really do it to please my

sister."

"And you did it this year?"

"Yes."

"But, unfortunately, your
father was taken ill, was he
not?"

Craddock was pursuing a
sideline deliberately, led by the

||from page 58||

kind of instinct that often came
to him in his profession.

"He was taken ill. Living
like a sparrow in the glorious
cause of economy, sudden full
eating and drinking had its

effect."

"That was all it was, was
it?"

"Of course. What else?"

"I gathered that his doctor
was—worried."

"Oh, that old fool, Quim-
per." Alfred spoke quickly and
scornfully. "It's no use listen-
ing to him, Inspector. He's an
alarmist of the worst kind."

"Indeed? He seemed a rather
sensible kind of man to me."

"He's a complete fool.
Father's not really an invalid;
there's nothing wrong with his
heart, but he takes in Quimper
completely. Naturally, when
father felt really ill, he made
a terrific fuss and had Quimper
going and coming, asking ques-
tions, going into everything
he'd eaten and drunk. The
whole thing was ridiculous!"
Alfred spoke with unusual heat.

Craddock was silent for a
moment or two, rather effec-
tively. Alfred fidgeted, shot
him a quick glance, and then
said petulantly: "Well, what is
all this? Why do you want to
know where I was on a par-

ticular Friday, three or four
weeks ago?"

"So you do remember that it
was a Friday?"

"I thought you said so."

"Perhaps I did," said Inspec-
tor 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 non-

sense."

"This Martine did not at
any time 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

||If you are afraid of
lonely moments, do
not marry.

—Anton Chekhov||

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 Ed-
mund's favorite sister.

"All the same, Emma isn't
credulous. She was quite alive
to the possibility of this woman
being phony. 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 pleas-
antly. "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 Fri-
day, December 20?"

"Sorry—my mind's an abso-

lute blank."

"You don't keep an engage-

ment book?"

"Can't stand the things."

"The Friday before Christ-
mas—it shouldn't be too diffi-

cult."

"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 any-

one in the Long Barn."

"Why should you say that,
Mr. Crackenthorpe?"

"Come now, my dear In-
spector. 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? Lunch-
time 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 his narrowly, but In-
spector 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 sus-
picious, of course, very suspici-
ous, indeed, that I can't re-
member—but there it is! Wait
a minute now—I went to Leeds
that week—stayed in a hotel
close to the Town Hall—can't
remember its name—but you'd
find it easily enough. That
might have been on the Fri-
day."

"We'll check up," said the

Inspector unemotionally.

He rose. "I'm sorry you
couldn't have been more co-
operative, Mr. Crackenthorpe."

"Most unfortunate for me!
There's Cedric with a safe alibi
in Iviza, and Harold, no doubt,

checked with business appoint-
ments 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 un-
known 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 re-
fuse to do something. Won't

you have a drink before you go,
Inspector? Sure? Too bad I
haven't been able to help you."

||To be continued||

$