4.50 From Paddington (18 page)

Cedric Crackenthorpe seemed delighted to see the inspector.

“Doing a spot more sleuthing down here?” he asked. “Got any further?”

“I think I can say we are a little further on, Mr. Crackenthorpe.”

“Found out who the corpse was?”

“We've not got a definite identification, but we have a fairly shrewd idea.”

“Good for you.”

“Arising out of our latest information, we want to get a few statements. I'm starting with you, Mr. Crackenthorpe, as you're on the spot.”

“I shan't be much longer. I'm going back to Ibiza in a day or two.”

“Then I seem to be just in time.”

“Go ahead.”

“I should like a detailed account, please, of exactly where you were and what you were doing on Friday, 20th December.”

Cedric shot a quick glance at him. Then he leaned back, yawned, assumed an air of great nonchalance, and appeared to be lost in the effort of remembrance.

“Well, as I've already told you, I was in Ibiza. Trouble is, one day there is so like another. Painting in the morning, siesta from three p.m. to five. Perhaps a spot of sketching if the light's suitable. Then an aperitif, sometimes with the Mayor, sometimes with the doctor, at the cafe in the Piazza. After that some kind of a scratch meal. Most of the evening in Scotty's Bar with some of my lower-class friends. Will that do you?”

“I'd rather have the truth, Mr. Crackenthorpe.”

Cedric sat up.

“That's a most offensive remark, Inspector.”

“Do you think so? You told me, Mr. Crackenthorpe, that you left Ibiza on 21st December and arrived in England that same day?”

“So I did. Em! Hi,Em?”

Emma Crackenthorpe came through the adjoining door from the small morningroom. She looked inquiringly from Cedric to the inspector.

“Look here, Em. I arrived here for Christmas on the Saturday before, didn't I? Came straight from the airport?”

“Yes,” said Emma wonderingly. “You got here about lunch time.”

“There you are,” said Cedric to the inspector.

“You must think us very foolish, Mr, Crackenthorpe,” said Craddock pleasantly. “We can check on these things, you know. I think, if you'll show me your passport -”

He paused expectantly.

“Can't find the damned thing,” said Cedric. “Was looking for it this morning. Wanted to send it to Cook's.”

“I think you could find it, Mr. Crackenthorpe. But it's not really necessary. The records show that you actually entered this country on the evening of 19th December. Perhaps you will now account to me for your movements between that time until lunch-time on 21st December when you arrived here.”

Cedric looked very cross indeed.

“That's the hell of life nowadays,” he said angrily. “All this red tape and form-filling. That's what comes of a bureaucratic state. Can't go where you like and do as you please any more! Somebody's always asking questions. What's all this fuss about the 20th, anyway? What's special about the 20th?”

“It happens to be the day we believe the murder was committed. You can refuse to answer, of course, but -”

“Who says I refuse to answer? Give a chap time. And you were vague enough about the date of the murder at the inquest. What's turned up new since then?”

Craddock did not reply.

Cedric said, with a sidelong glance at Emma:

“Shall we go into the other room?”

Emma said quickly: “I'll leave you.”

At the door, she paused and turned.

“This is serious, you know, Cedric. If the 20th was the day of the murder, then you must tell Inspector Craddock exactly what you were doing.”

She went through into the next room and closed the door behind her.

“Good old Em,” said Cedric. “Well, here goes. Yes, I left Ibiza on the 19th all right. Planned to break the journey in Paris, and spend a couple of days routing up some old friends on the left Bank. But, as a matter of fact, there was a very attractive woman on the plane... Quite a dish. To put it plainly, she and I got off together. She was on her way to the States, had to spend a couple of nights in London to see about some business or other. We got to London on the 19th. We stayed at the Kingsway Palace in case your spies haven't found that out yet! Called myself John Brown - never does to use your own name on these occasions.”

“And on the 20th?”

Cedric made a grimace.

“Morning pretty well occupied by a terrific hangover.”

“And the afternoon. From three o'clock onwards?”

“Let me see. Well, I mooned about, as you might say. Went into the National Gallery - that's respectable enough. Saw a film. Rowenna of the Range. I've always had a passion for Westerns. This was a corker... Then a drink or two in the bar and a bit of a sleep in my room, and out about ten o'clock with the girl-friend and a round of various hot spots - can't even remember most of their names - Jumping Frog was one, I think. She knew 'em all. Got pretty well plastered and, to tell you the truth, don't remember much more till I woke up the next morning - with an even worse hangover. Girlfriend hopped off to catch her plane and I poured cold water over my head, got a chemist to give me a devil's brew, and then started off for this place, pretending I'd just arrived at Heathrow. No need to upset Emma, I thought. You know what women are - always hurt if you don't come straight home. I had to borrow money from her to pay the taxi. I was completely cleaned out. No use asking the old man. He'd never cough up. Mean old brute. Well, Inspector, satisfied?”

“Can any of this be substantiated, Mr. Crackenthorpe? Say, between 3 p.m. and 7 p.m.”

“Most unlikely, I should think,” said Cedric cheerfully. “National Gallery where the attendants look at you with lacklustre eyes and a crowded picture house. No, not likely.”

Emma re-entered. She held a small engagement book in her hand.

“You want to know what everyone was doing on 20th December, is that right, Inspector Craddock?”

“Well - er - yes, Miss Crackenthorpe.”

“I have just been looking in my engagement book. On the 20th I went into Brackhampton to attend a meeting of the Church Restoration Fund. That finished about a quarter to one and I lunched with Lady Adington and Miss Bartlett who were also on the Committee, at the Cadena Cafe. After lunch I did some shopping, stores for Christmas, and also Christmas presents. I went to Greenford's and Lyall and Swift's, Boots', and probably several other shops. I had tea about a quarter to five in the Shamrock Tea Rooms and then went to the station to meet Bryan who was coming by train. I got home about six o'clock and found my father in a very bad temper. I had left lunch ready for him, but Mrs. Hart who was to come in in the afternoon and give him his tea had not arrived. He was so angry that he had shut himself in his room and would not let me in or speak to me. He does not like my going out in the afternoon, but I make a point of doing so now and then.”

“You're probably wise. Thank you, Miss Crackenthorpe.”

He could hardly tell her that as she was a woman, height five foot seven, her movements that afternoon were of no great importance. Instead he said:

“Your other two brothers came down later, I understand?”

“Alfred came down late on Saturday evening. He tells me he tried to ring me on the telephone the afternoon I was out - but my father, if he is upset, will never answer the telephone. My brother Harold did not come down until Christmas Eve.”

“Thank you, Miss Crackenthorpe.”

“I suppose I mustn't ask -” she hesitated - “what has come up new that prompts these inquiries?”

Craddock took the folder from his pocket. Using the tips of his fingers, he extracted the envelope.

“Don't touch it, please, but do you recognise this?”

“But...” Emma stared at him, bewildered,

“That's my handwriting. That's the letter I wrote to Martine.”

“I thought it might be.”

“But how did you get it? Did she -? Have you found her?”

“It would seem possible that we have - found her. This empty envelope was found here.”

“In the house?”

“In the grounds.”

“Then - she did come here! She... You mean - it was Martine there - in the sarcophagus?”

“It would seem very likely, Miss Crackenthorpe,” said Craddock gently. It seemed even more likely when he got back to town. A message was awaiting him from Armand Dessin.

“One of the girlfriends has had a postcard from Anna Stravinska. Apparently the cruise story was true! She has reached Jamaica and is having, in your phrase, a wonderful time!”

Craddock crumpled up the message and threw it into the wastepaper basket.

“I must say,” said Alexander, sitting up in bed, thoughtfully consuming a chocolate bar, “that this has been the most smashing day ever. Actually finding a real clue!”

His voice was awed.

“In fact the whole holidays have been smashing,” he added happily. “I don't suppose such a thing will ever happen again.”

“I hope it won't happen again to me,” said Lucy who was on her knees packing Alexander's clothes into a suitcase. “Do you want all this space fiction with you?”

“Not those two top ones. I've read them. The football and my football boots, and the gum-boots can go separately.”

“What difficult things you boys do travel with.”

“It won't matter. They're sending the Rolls for us. They've got a smashing Rolls. They've got one of the new Mercedes-Benzes too.”

“They must be rich.”

“Rolling! Jolly nice, too. All the same, I rather wish we weren't leaving here. Another body might turn up.”

“I sincerely hope not.”

“Well, it often does in books. I mean somebody who's seen something or heard something gets done in, too. It might be you,” he added, unrolling a second chocolate bar.

“Thank you!”

“I don't want it to be you,” Alexander assured her. “I like you very much and so does Stodders. We think you're out of this world as a cook. Absolutely lovely grub. You're very sensible, too.”

This last was clearly an expression of high approval. Lucy took it as such, and said: “Thank you. But I don't intend to get killed just to please you.”

“Well, you'd better be careful, then,” Alexander told her.

He paused to consume more nourishment and then said in a slightly offhand voice:

“If Dad turns up from time to time, you'll look after him, won't you?”

“Yes, of course,” said Lucy, a little surprised.

“The trouble with Dad is,” Alexander informed her, “that London life doesn't suit him. He gets in, you know, with quite the wrong type of women.” He shook his head in a worried manner.

“I'm very fond of him,” he added, “but he needs someone to look after him. He drifts about and gets in with the wrong people. It's a great pity Mum died when she did. Bryan needs a proper home life.”

He looked solemnly at Lucy and reached out for another chocolate bar.

“Not a fourth one, Alexander,” Lucy pleaded. “You'll be sick.”

“Oh, I don't think so. I ate six running once and I wasn't. I'm not the bilious type.” He paused and then said:

“Bryan likes you, you know.”

“That's very nice of him.”

“He's a bit of an ass in some ways,” said Bryan's son, “but he was a jolly good fighter pilot. He's awfully brave. And he's awfully good-natured.”

He paused. Then, averting his eyes to the ceiling, he said rather self-consciously:

“I think, really, you know, it would be a good thing if he married again... Somebody decent... I shouldn't, myself, mind at all having a stepmother... not, I mean, if she was a decent sort...”

With a sense of shock Lucy realised that there was a definite point in Alexander's conversation.

“All this stepmother bosh,” went on Alexander, still addressing the ceiling, “is really quite out of date. Lots of chaps Stodders and I know have stepmothers - divorce and all that - and they get on quite well together. Depends on the stepmother, of course. And, of course, it does make a bit of confusion taking you out and on Sports Day, and all that. I mean if there are two sets of parents. Though again it helps if you want to cash in!” He paused, confronted with the problems of modern life. “It's nicest to have your own home and your own parents - but if your mother's dead - well, you see what I mean? If she's a decent sort,” said Alexander for the third time.

Lucy felt touched.

“I think you're very sensible, Alexander,” she said. “We must try and find a nice wife for your father.”

“Yes,” said Alexander noncommittally.

He added in an offhand manner:

“I thought I'd just mention it. Bryan likes you very much. He told me so...”

“Really,” thought Lucy to herself.

“There's too much match-making round here. First Miss Marple and now Alexander!”

For some reason or other, pigsties came into her mind.

She stood up.

“Good-night, Alexander. There will be only your washing things and pyjamas to put in in the morning. Goodnight.”

“Good-night,” said Alexander. He slid down in bed, laid his head on the pillow, closed his eyes, giving a perfect picture of a sleeping angel, and was immediately asleep.