I
On entering the library Mr. Wimborne blinked a
little as his shrewd old eyes went past Inspector Bacon whom he had already met, to the
fair-haired, good-looking man beyond him
Inspector Bacon performed introductions.
"This is Detective-Inspector Craddock of New
Scotland Yard," he said.
"New Scotland Yard - hm."
Mr. Wimborne's eyebrows rose.
Dermot Craddock, who had a pleasant manner, went
easily into speech.
"We have been called in on the case, Mr. Wimborne,"
he said. "As you are representing the
Crackenthorpe family, I feel it is only fair that we should give you a little confidential
information."
Nobody could make a better show of presenting a very
small portion of the truth and implying that it was the whole truth than Inspector
Craddock.
"Inspector Bacon will agree, I am sure," he added, glancing at his colleague.
Inspector Bacon agreed with all due solemnity and
not at all as though the whole matter were prearranged.
"It's like this,"
said Craddock. "We have reason to believe
from information that has come into our possession, that the dead woman is not a native of
these parts, that she travelled down here from London and that she had recently come from
abroad. Probably (though we are not sure of that) from France."
Mr. Wimborne again raised his eyebrows.
"Indeed," he said. "Indeed?"
"That being the case," explained
Inspector Bacon, "the Chief Constable felt that the Yard was
better fitted to investigate the matter."
"I can only hope," said
Mr. Wimborne, "that the case will be solved quickly. As you
can no doubt appreciate, the whole business has been a source of much distress to the
family. Although not personally concerned in any way, they are –"
He paused for a bare second, but Inspector Craddock
filled the gap quickly.
"It's not a pleasant
thing to find a murdered woman on your property? I couldn't
agree with you more. Now I should like to have a brief interview with the various members
of the family –"
"I really cannot see –"
"What they can tell me? Probably nothing of
interest - but one never knows. I dare say I can get most of
the information I want from you, sir. Information about this house and the family."
"And what can that possibly have to do with an
unknown young woman coming from abroad and getting herself killed here."
"Well, that's rather
the point," said Craddock. "Why
did she come here? Had she once had some connection with this house? Had she been, for
instance, a servant here at one time? A lady's maid, perhaps.
Or did she come here to meet a former occupant of Rutherford Hall?"
Mr. Wimborne said coldly that Rutherford Hall had
been occupied by the Crackenthorpes ever since Josiah Crackenthorpe built it in 1884.
"That's interesting in
itself," said Craddock. "If you』d just give me a brief outline of the family history –"
Mr. Wimborne shrugged his shoulders.
"There is very little to tell. Josiah
Crackenthorpe was a manufacturer of sweet and savoury biscuits, relishes, pickles, etc. he
accumulated a vast fortune. He built this house. Luther Crackenthorpe, his eldest son,
lives here now."
"Any other sons?"
"One other son, Henry, who was killed in a motor
accident in 1911."
"And the present Mr. Crackenthorpe has never
thought of selling the house?"
"He is unable to do so," said the lawyer dryly. "By the terms of his
father's will."
"Perhaps you'll tell
me about the will?"
"Why should I?"
Inspector Craddock smiled.
"Because I can look it up myself if I want to, at
Somerset House."
Against his will, Mr. Wimborne gave a crabbed little
smile.
"Quite right, Inspector. I was merely protesting
that the information you ask for is quite irrelevant. As to Josiah Crackenthorpe's will, there is no mystery about it. He left his very considerable fortune
in trust, the income from it to be paid to his son Luther for life, and after Luther's death the capital to be divided equally between Luther's children, Edmund, Cedric, Harold, Alfred, Emma and Edith. Edmund was killed
in the war, and Edith died four years ago, so that on Luther Crackenthorpe's decease the money will divided between Cedric, Harold, Alfred, Emma and
Edith's son Alexander Eastley."
"And the house?"
"That will go to Luther Crackenthorpe's eldest surviving son or his issue."
"Was Edmund Crackenthorpe married?"
"No."
"So the property will actually go –?"
"To the next son - Cedric."
"Mr. Luther Crackenthorpe himself cannot dispose
of it?"
"No."
"And he has no control of the capital."
"No."
"Isn't that rather
unusual? I suppose," said Inspector Craddock shrewdly, 「that his father didn't like him."
"You suppose correctly," said Mr. Wimborne. "Old Josiah was disappointed
that his eldest son showed no interest in the family business – or indeed in business of any kind. Luther spent his time travelling abroad
and collecting objects d'art. Old Josiah was very
unsympathetic to that kind of thing. So he left his money in trust for the next
generation."
"But in the meantime the next generation have no
income except what they make or what their father allows them, and their father has a
considerable income but no power of disposal of the capital."
"Exactly. And what all this has to do with the
murder of an unknown young woman of foreign origin I cannot imagine!"
"It doesn't seem to
have anything to do with it," Inspector Craddock agreed
promptly, "I just wanted to ascertain all the facts."
Mr. Wimborne looked at him sharply, then, seemingly
satisfied with the result of his scrutiny, rose to his feet.
"I am proposing now to return to London,"
he said. "Unless there is anything further
you wish to know?"
He looked from on man to the other.
"No, thank you, sir."
The sound of the gong rose fortissimo from the hall
outside.
"Dear me," said Mr.
Wimborne. "One of the boys, I think, must have been
performing."
Inspector Craddock raised his voice, to be heard
above the clamour, as he said:
"We'll leave the
family to have lunch in peace, but Inspector Bacon and I would like to return after it –
say at two-fifteen - and have a short
interview with every member of the family."
"You think that is necessary?"
"Well…」 Craddock
shrugged his shoulders. "It's just
an off chance. Somebody might remember something that would give us a clue to the woman's identity."
"I doubt it, Inspector. I doubt it very much. But
I wish you good luck. As I said just now, the sooner this distasteful business is cleared
up, the better for everybody."
Shaking his head, he went slowly out of the room.
II
Lucy had gone straight to the kitchen on getting
back from the inquest, and was busy with preparations for lunch when Bryan Eastley put his
head in.
"Can I give you a hand in any way?" he asked. "I'm handy
about the house."
Lucy gave him a quick, slightly preoccupied glance.
Bryan had arrived at the inquest direct in his small M.G. car, and she had not as yet had
much time to size him up.
What she saw was likeable enough. Eastley was an
amiable-looking young man of thirty-odd with brown hair, rather plaintive blue eyes and an
enormous fair moustache.
"The boys aren't back
yet," he said, coming in and sitting on the end of the kitchen
table. "It will take 'em another
twenty minutes on their bikes."
Lucy smiled.
"They were certainly determined not to miss
anything."
"Can't blame them. I
mean to say - first inquest in their young lives and right in
the family so to speak."
"Do you mind getting off the table, Mr. Eastley? I
want to put the baking dish down there."
Bryan obeyed.
"I say, that fat's
corking hot. What are you going to put in it?"
"Yorkshire pudding."
"Good old Yorkshire. Roast beef of old England, is
that the menu for to-day?"
"Yes."
"The funeral baked meats, in fact. Smells good."
He sniffed appreciatively. "Do you mind my
gassing away?"
"If you came in to help I'd rather you helped." She drew another pan from
the oven. "Here - turn all these
potatoes over so that they brown on the other side…."
Bryan obeyed with alacrity.
"Have all these things been fizzling away in here
while we've been at the inquest? Supposing they』d been all burnt up."
"Most improbable. there's a regulating number on the oven."
"Kind of electric brain, eh, what? Is that right?"
Lucy threw a swift look in his direction.
"Quite right. Now put the pan in the oven. Here,
take the cloth. On the second shelf - I want the top one for
the Yorkshire pudding."
Bryan obeyed, but not without uttering a shrill
yelp.
"Burn yourself?"
"Just a bit. It doesn't
matter. What a dangerous game cooking is!"
"I suppose you never do your own cooking?"
"As a matter of fact I do – quite often. But not this sort of thing. I can boil an egg – if I don't forget to look at the clock. And I can
do eggs and bacon. And I can put a steak under the grill or open a tin of soup. I've got one of those little electric whatnots in my flat."
"You live in London?"
"If you call it living – yes."
His tone was despondent. He watched Lucy shoot in
the dish with the Yorkshire pudding mixture.
"This is awfully jolly," he said and sighed.
Her immediate preoccupations over, Lucy looked at
him with more attention.
"What is - this
kitchen?"
"Yes. Reminds me of our kitchen at home –
when I was a boy.
It struck Lucy that there was something strangely
forlorn about Bryan Eastley. Looking closely at him, she realised that he was older than
she had at first thought. He must be close on forty. It seemed difficult to think of him
as Alexander's father. He reminded her of innumerable young
pilots she had known during the war when she had been at the impressionable age of
fourteen. She had gone on and grown up into a postwar world - but
she felt as though Bryan had not gone on, but had been passed by in the passage of years.
His next words confirmed this. He had subsided on to the kitchen table again.
It's a difficult sort of
world, he said, isn't it? To get your bearings in, I mean. You
see, one hasn't been trained for it.
Lucy recalled what she had heard from Emma."
"You were a fighter pilot, weren't you?" she said. "You've got a D.F.C."
"That's the sort of
thing that puts you wrong. You've got a gong and so people try
to make it easy for you. Give you a job and all that. Very decent of them. But they're all admin jobs, and one simply isn't any good
at that sort of thing. Sitting at a desk getting tangled up in figures. I've had ideas of my own, you know, tried out a wheeze or two. But you can't get the backing. Can't get the chaps to come in
and put down the money. If I had a bit of capital –"
He brooded.
"You didn't know Edie,
did you? My wife. No, of course you didn't. She was quite
different from all this lot. Younger, for one thing. She was in the W.A.A.F. She always
said her old man was crackers. He is, you know. Mean as hell over money. And it's not as though he could take it with him. It's
got to be divided up when he dies. Edie's share will go to
Alexander, of course. He won't be able to touch the capital
until he's twenty-one, though."
"I'm sorry, but will
you get off the table again? I want to dish up and make gravy."
At that moment Alexander and Stoddart-West arrived
with rosy faces and very much out of breath.
"Hallo, Bryan," said
Alexander kindly to his father. "So this is where you've got to. I say, what a smashing piece of beef. Is there Yorkshire pudding?"
"Yes, there is."
"We have awful Yorkshire pudding at school –
all damp and limp."
"Get out of my way," said
Lucy. "I want to make the gravy."
"Make lots of gravy. Can we have two sauce-boats
full?"
"Yes."
"Good-oh!" said
Stoddart-West, pronouncing the word carefully.
"I don't like it pale,"
said Alexander anxiously.
"It won't be pale."
"She's a smashing
cook," said Alexander to his father.
Lucy had a momentary impression that their roles
were reversed. Alexander spoke like a kindly father to his son.
"Can we help you, Miss Eyelesbarrow?" asked Stoddart-West politely.
"Yes, you can. Alexander, go and sound the gong.
James, will you carry this tray into the dining-room? And will you take the joint in, Mr.
Eastley? I'll bring the potatoes and the Yorkshire pudding."
"There's a Scotland
Yard man here," said Alexander. "Do
you think he will have lunch with us?"
"That depends on what your aunt arranges."
"I don't suppose Aunt
Emma would mind…. She's very
hospitable. But I suppose Uncle Harold wouldn't like it. He's being very sticky over this murder." Alexander
went out through the door with the tray adding a little additional information over his
shoulder. "Mr. Wimborne's in the
library with the Scotland Yard man now. But he isn't staying
to lunch. He said he had to get back to London. Come on, Stodders. Oh, he's gone to do the gong."
At that moment the gong took charge. Stoddart-West
was an artist. He gave it everything he had, and all further conversation was inhibited.
Bryan carried in the joint, Lucy followed with the
vegetables - returned to the kitchen to get the two brimming
sauce-boats of gravy.
Mr. Wimborne was standing in the hall putting on his
gloves - as Emma came quickly down the stairs.
"Are you really sure you won't stop for lunch, Mr. Wimborne? It's all ready."
"No.I've an important
appointment in London. There is a restaurant car on the train."
"It was very good of you to come down," said Emma gratefully.
The two police officers emerged from the library.
Mr. Wimborne took Emma's
hand in his.
"There's nothing to
worry about, my dear," he said. "This
is Detective-Inspector Craddock from New Scotland Yard who has come down to take charge of
the case. He is coming back at two-fifteen to ask you for any facts that may assist him in
his inquiry. But, as I say, you have nothing to worry about." He
looked towards Craddock. "I may repeat to Miss Crackenthorpe
what you have told me?"
"Certainly, sir."
"Inspector Craddock has just told me that this
almost certainly was not a local crime. The murdered woman is thought to have come from
London and was probably a foreigner."
Emma Crackenthorpe said sharply:
"A foreigner. Was she French?"
Mr. Wimborne had clearly meant his statement to be
consoling. He looked slightly taken aback. Dermot Craddock's
glance went quickly from him to Emma's face.
He wondered why she had leaped to the conclusion
that the murdered woman was French, and why that thought disturbed her so much?
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