Seven
I
“We’d better have the Yard in on it, is that what you think, Bacon?”
The Chief Constable looked inquiringly at Inspector Bacon. The in-
spector was a big stolid man—his expression was that of one utterly dis-
gusted with humanity.
“The woman wasn’t a local, sir,” he said. “There’s some reason to believe
— from her underclothing — that she might have been a foreigner. Of
course,” added Inspector Bacon hastily, “I’m not letting on about that yet
awhile. We’re keeping it up our sleeves until after the inquest.”
The Chief Constable nodded.
“The inquest will be purely formal, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve seen the Coroner.”
“And it’s fixed for—when?”
“Tomorrow. I understand the other members of the Crackenthorpe fam-
ily will be here for it. There’s just a chance one of them might be able to
identify her. They’ll all be here.”
He consulted a list he held in his hand.
“Harold Crackenthorpe, he’s something in the City—quite an important
figure, I understand. Alfred—don’t quite know what he does. Cedric—
that’s the one who lives abroad. Paints!” The inspector invested the word
with its full quota of sinister significance. The Chief Constable smiled into
his moustache.
“No reason, is there, to believe the Crackenthorpe family are connected
with the crime in any way?” he asked.
“Not apart from the fact that the body was found on the premises,” said
Inspector Bacon. “And of course it’s just possible that this artist member of
the family might be able to identify her. What beats me is this extraordin-
ary rigmarole about the train.”
“Ah, yes. You’ve been to see this old lady, this—er—” (he glanced at the
memorandum lying on his desk) “Miss Marple?”
“Yes, sir. And she’s quite set and definite about the whole thing.
Whether she’s barmy or not, I don’t know, but she sticks to her story—
about what her friend saw and all the rest of it. As far as all that goes, I
dare say it’s just make-believe—sort of thing old ladies do make up, like
seeing flying saucers at the bottom of the garden, and Russian agents in
the lending library. But it seems quite clear that she did engage this young
woman, the lady help, and told her to look for a body—which the girl did.”
“And found one,” observed the Chief Constable. “Well, it’s all a very re-
markable story. Marple, Miss Jane Marple — the name seems familiar
somehow… Anyway, I’ll get on to the Yard. I think you’re right about its
not being a local case—though we won’t advertise the fact just yet. For the
moment we’ll tell the Press as little as possible.”
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