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, a 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 there—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 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 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, 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 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 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 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 two 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 recognize. 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 is your brother’s son, you see, and I— I can no longer give him the advantages he ought to have. I am coming to England early next week. Will you let me know if I can come and see you? My address for letters is 126 Elvers Crescent, N.10. I hope again this will not be the great shock to you.
I remain with assurance of my excellent sentiments,
Martine Crackenthorpe
Craddock was silent for a moment or two. He reread the letter carefully before handing it back.
“What did you do on receipt of this letter, Miss Crackenthorpe?”
“My brother-in-law, Bryan Eastley, happened to be staying with me at the time and I talked to him about it. Then I rang up my brother Harold in London and consulted him about it. Harold was rather sceptical about the whole thing and advised extreme caution. We must, he said, go carefully into this woman’s credentials.”
Emma paused and then went on:
“That, of course, was only common sense and I quite agreed. But if this girl—woman—was really the Martine about whom Edmund had written to me, I felt that we must make her welcome. I wrote to the address she gave in her letters, inviting her to come down to Rutherford Hall and meet us. A few days later I received a telegram from London: Very sorry forced to return to France unexpectedly. Martine. There was no further letter or news of any kind.”
“All this took place—when?”
Emma frowned.
“It was shortly before Christmas. I know, because I wanted to suggest her spending Christmas with us—but my father would not hear of it—so I suggested she could come down the weekend after Christmas while the family would still be there. I think the wire saying she was returning to France came actually a few days before Christmas.”
“And you believe that this woman whose body was found in the sarcophagus might be this Martine?”
“No, of course I don’t. But when you said she was probably a foreigner—well, I couldn’t help wondering…if perhaps….”
Her voice died away.
Craddock spoke quickly and reassuringly.
“You did quite right to tell me about this. We’ll look into it. I should say there is probably little doubt that the woman who wrote to you actually did go back to France and is there now alive and well. On the other hand, there is a certain coincidence of dates, as you yourself have been clever enough to realize. As you heard at the inquest, the woman’s death according to the police surgeon’s evidence must have occurred about three to four weeks ago. Now don’t worry, Miss Crackenthorpe, just leave it to us.” He added casually, “You consulted Mr. Harold Crackenthorpe. What about your father and your other brothers?”
“I had to tell my father, of course. He got very worked up,” she smiled faintly. “He was convinced it was a put up thing to get money out of us. My father gets very excited about money. He believes, or pretends to believe, that he is a very poor man, and that he must save every penny he can. I believe elderly people do get obsessions of that kind sometimes. It’s not true, of course, he has a very large income and doesn’t actually spend a quarter of it—or used not to until these days of high income tax. Certainly he has a large amount of savings put by.” She paused and then went on. “I told my other two brothers also. Alfred seemed to consider it rather a joke, though he, too, thought it was almost certainly an imposture. Cedric just wasn’t interested—he’s inclined to be self-centred. Our idea was that the family would receive Martine, and that our lawyer, Mr. Wimborne, should also be asked to be present.”
“What did Mr. Wimborne think about the letter?”
“We hadn’t got as far as discussing the matter with him. We were on the point of doing so when Martine’s telegram arrived.”
“You have taken no further steps?”
“Yes. I wrote to the address in London with Please forward on the envelope, but I have had no reply of any kind.”
“Rather a curious business… Hm….”
He looked at her sharply.
“What do you yourself think about it?”
“I don’t know what to think.”
“What were your reactions at the time? Did you think the letter was genuine—or did you agree with your father and brothers? What about your brother-in-law, by the way, what did he think?”
“Oh, Bryan thought that the letter was genuine.”
“And you?”
“I—wasn’t sure.”
“And what were your feelings about it—supposing that this girl really was your brother Edmund’s widow?”
Emma’s face softened.
“I was very fond of Edmund. He was my favourite brother. The letter seemed to me exactly the sort of letter that a girl like Martine would write under the circumstances. The course of events she described was entirely natural. I assumed that by the time the war ended she had either married again or was with some man who was protecting her and the child. Then perhaps, this man had died, or left her, and it then seemed right to her to apply to Edmund’s family—as he himself had wanted her to do. The letter seemed genuine and natural to me—but, of course, Harold pointed out that if it was written by an imposter, it would be written by some woman who had known Martine and who was in possession of all the facts, and so would write a thoroughly plausible letter. I had to admit the justice of that—but all the same….”
She stopped.
“You wanted it to be 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 imposter, of course, it’s easier to explain. I thought perhaps that you might have consulted Mr. Wimborne, and that he might have instituted inquiries which alarmed the woman. That, you tell me, is not so. But it’s still possible that one or other of your brothers may have done something of the kind. It’s possible that this Martine may have had a background that would not stand investigation. She may have assumed that she would be dealing only with Edmund’s affectionate sister, not with hard-headed suspicious business men. She may have hoped to get sums of money out of you for the child (hardly a child now—a boy presumably of fifteen or sixteen) without many questions being asked. But instead she found she was going to run up against something quite different. After all, I should imagine that serious legal aspects would arise. If Edmund Crackenthorpe left a son, born in wedlock, he would be one of the heirs to your grandfather’s estate?”
Emma nodded.
“Moreover, from what I have been told, he would in due course inherit Rutherford Hall and the land round it—very valuable building land, probably, by now.”
Emma looked slightly startled.
“Yes, I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Well, I shouldn’t worry,” said Inspector Craddock. “You did quite right to come and tell me. I shall make enquiries, but it seems to me highly probably that there is no connection between the woman who wrote the letter (and who was probably trying to cash in on a swindle) and the woman whose body was found in the sarcophagus.”
Emma rose with a sigh of relief.
“I’m so glad I’ve told you. You’ve been very kind.”
Craddock accompanied her to the door.
Then he rang for Detective-Sergeant Wetherall.
“Bob, I’ve got a job for you. Go to 126 Elvers Crescent, N.10. Take photographs of the Rutherford Hall woman with you. See what you can find out about a woman calling herself Mrs. Crackenthorpe— Mrs. Martine Crackenthorpe, who was either living there, or calling for letters there, between the dates of, say, 15th to the end of December.”
“Right, sir.”
Craddock busied himself with various other matters that were waiting attention on his desk. In the afternoon he went to see a theatrical agent who was a friend of his. His inquiries were not fruitful.
Later in the day when he returned to his office he found a wire from Paris on his desk.
Particulars given by you might apply to Anna Stravinska of Ballet
Maritski. Suggest you come over. Dessin, Prefecture.
Craddock heaved a big sigh of relief, and his brow cleared.
At last! So much, he thought, for the Martine Crackenthorpe hare… He decided to take the night ferry to Paris.
Chapter Twelve