III
Inspector1 Craddock looked with more attention at Emma Crackenthorpe
than he had done
previously2. He was still wondering about the expression
that he had surprised on her face before lunch.
A quiet woman. Not stupid. Not brilliant either. One of those comfort-
able pleasant women whom men were inclined to take for granted, and
who had the art of making a house into a home, giving it an atmosphere of
restfulness and quiet harmony. Such, he thought, was Emma Cracken-
thorpe.
Women such as this were often underrated. Behind their quiet
exterior3
they had force of character, they were to be reckoned with. Perhaps, Crad-
dock thought, the clue to the mystery of the dead woman in the sarco-
phagus was hidden away in the
recesses4 of Emma’s mind.
Whilst these thoughts were passing through his head, Craddock was ask-
ing various unimportant questions.
“I don’t suppose there is much that you haven’t already told Inspector
Bacon,” he said. “So I needn’t worry you with many questions.”
“Please ask me anything you like.”
“As Mr. Wimborne told you, we have reached the conclusion that the
dead woman was not a native of these parts. That may be a relief to you—
Mr. Wimborne seemed to think it would be—but it makes it really more
difficult for us. She’s less easily identified.”
“But didn’t she have anything—a handbag? Papers?”
Craddock shook his head.
“No handbag, nothing in her pockets.”
“You’ve no idea of her name—of where she came from—anything at
all?”
Craddock thought to himself: She wants to know—she’s very anxious to
know—who the woman is. Has she felt like that all along, I wonder? Bacon
didn’t give me that impression—and he’s a shrewd man….
“We know nothing about her,” he said. “That’s why we hoped one of you
could help us. Are you sure you can’t? Even if you didn’t recognize her—
can you think of anyone she might be?”
He thought, but perhaps he imagined it, that there was a very slight
pause before she answered.
“I’ve absolutely no idea,” she said.
Imperceptibly, Inspector Craddock’s manner changed. It was hardly no-
ticeable except as a slight hardness in his voice.
“When Mr. Wimborne told you that the woman was a foreigner, why
did you assume that she was French?”
Emma was not disconcerted. Her
eyebrows5 rose slightly.
“Did I? Yes, I believe I did. I don’t really know why—except that one al-
ways tends to think foreigners are French until one finds out what nation-
ality they really are. Most foreigners in this country are French, aren’t
they?”
“Oh, I really wouldn’t say that was so, Miss Crackenthorpe. Not
nowadays. We have so many nationalities over here, Italians, Germans,
Austrians, all the Scandinavian countries—”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right.”
“You don’t have some special reason for thinking that this woman was
likely to be French?”
She didn’t hurry to deny it. She just thought a moment and then shook
her head almost regretfully.
“No,” she said. “I really don’t think so.”
Inspector Bacon. The latter leaned forward and presented a small
enamel8
powder compact.
“Do you recognize this, Miss Crackenthorpe?”
She took it and examined it.
“No. It’s certainly not mine.”
“You’ve no idea to whom it belonged?”
“No.”
“Then I don’t think we need worry you anymore—for the present.”
“Thank you.”
She smiled
briefly9 at them, got up, and left the room. Again he may have
imagined it, but Craddock thought she moved rather quickly, as though a
certain relief hurried her.
“Think she knows anything?” asked Bacon.
Inspector Craddock said ruefully:
“At a certain stage one is inclined to think everyone knows a little more
than they are willing to tell you.”
“They usually do, too,” said Bacon out of the depth of his experience.
“Only,” he added, “it quite often isn’t anything to do with the business in
hand. It’s some family
peccadillo10 or some silly scrape that people are
afraid is going to be dragged into the open.”
“Yes, I know. Well, at least—”
But whatever Inspector Craddock had been about to say never got said,
for the door was flung open and old Mr. Crackenthorpe
shuffled11 in in a
high state of indignation.
“A pretty pass, when Scotland Yard comes down and doesn’t have the
courtesy to talk to the head of the family first! Who’s the master of this
house, I’d like to know? Answer me that? Who’s the master here?”
“You are, of course, Mr. Crackenthorpe,” said Craddock
soothingly12 and
rising as he
spoke13. “But we understood that you had already told Inspector
Bacon all you know, and that, your health not being good, we must not
make too many demands upon it. Dr. Quimper said—”
“I dare say—I dare say. I’m not a strong man… As for Dr. Quimper, he’s
a regular old woman—perfectly good doctor, understands my case—but
inclined to wrap me up in cotton-wool. Got a bee in his
bonnet14 about food.
Went on at me Christmas-time when I had a bit of a turn—what did I eat?
When? Who cooked it? Who served it? Fuss, fuss, fuss! But though I may
have indifferent health, I’m well enough to give you all the help that’s in
my power. Murder in my own house—or at any rate in my own barn! In-
teresting building, that. Elizabethan. Local architect says not—but fellow
doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Not a day later than 1580 — but
that’s not what we’re talking about. What do you want to know? What’s
your present theory?”
“It’s a little too early for theories, Mr. Crackenthorpe. We are still trying
to find out who the woman was.”
“Foreigner, you say?”
“We think so.”
“Enemy agent?”
“Unlikely, I should say.”
“You’d say—you’d say! They’re everywhere, these people.
Infiltrating15!
Why the Home Office lets them in beats me. Spying on industrial secrets,
I’d bet. That’s what she was doing.”
“In Brackhampton?”
“Factories everywhere. One outside my own back gate.”
Craddock shot an inquiring glance at Bacon who responded.
“Metal Boxes.”
“How do you know that’s what they’re really making? Can’t swallow all
these fellows tell you. All right, if she wasn’t a spy, who do you think she
was? Think she was mixed up with one of my precious sons? It would be
Alfred, if so. Not Harold, he’s too careful. And Cedric doesn’t
condescend16
to live in this country. All right, then, she was Alfred’s bit of skirt. And
some violent fellow followed her down here, thinking she was coming to
meet him and did her in. How’s that?”
Inspector Craddock said diplomatically that it was certainly a theory.
But Mr. Alfred Crackenthorpe, he said, had not recognized her.
“Pah! Afraid, that’s all! Alfred always was a coward. But he’s a
liar17, re-
member, always was! Lie himself black in the face. None of my sons are
any good. Crowd of vultures, waiting for me to die, that’s their real occu-
pation in life,” he
chuckled18. “And they can wait. I won’t die to oblige them!
Well, if that’s all I can do for you… I’m tired. Got to rest.”
He shuffled out again.
“Alfred’s bit of skirt?” said Bacon questioningly. “In my opinion the old
man just made that up,” he paused, hesitated. “I think, personally, Alfred’s
quite all right—perhaps a shifty customer in some ways—but not our
present cup of tea. Mind you — I did just wonder about that Air Force
chap.”
“Bryan Eastley?”
“Yes. I’ve run into one or two of his type. They’re what you might call
adrift in the world—had danger and death and excitement too early in
life. Now they find life tame. Tame and unsatisfactory. In a way, we’ve
given them a raw deal. Though I don’t really know what we could do
about it. But there they are, all past and no future, so to speak. And they’re
the kind that don’t mind taking chances—the ordinary fellow plays safe by
instinct, it’s not so much morality as
prudence19. But these fellows aren’t
afraid—playing safe isn’t really in their vocabulary. If Eastley were mixed
up with a woman and wanted to kill her…” He stopped, threw out a hand
hopelessly. “But why should he want to kill her? And if you do kill a wo-
man, why plant her in your father-in-law’s sarcophagus? No, if you ask
me, none of this lot had anything to do with the murder. If they had, they
wouldn’t have gone to all the trouble of planting the body on their own
back door step, so to speak.”
Craddock agreed that that hardly made sense.
“Anything more you want to do here?”
Craddock said there wasn’t.
Bacon suggested coming back to Brackhampton and having a cup of tea
—but Inspector Craddock said that he was going to call on an old acquaint-
ance.
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