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III
On Craddock’s return Sergeant Wetherall was waiting to report with
gloomy relish:
“Accommodation address, sir—that’s what 126 Elvers Crescent is. Quite
respectable and all that.”
“Any identifications?”
“No, nobody could recognize the photograph as that of a woman who
had called for letters, but I don’t think they would anyway—it’s a month
ago, very near, and a good many people use the place. It’s actually a
boarding-house for students.”
“She might have stayed there under another name.”
“If so, they didn’t recognize her as the original of the photograph.”
He added:
“We circularized the hotels—nobody registering as Martine Cracken-
thorpe anywhere. On receipt of your call from Paris, we checked up on
Anna Stravinska. She was registered with other members of the company
in a cheap hotel off Brook Green. Mostly theatricals there. She cleared out
on the night of Thursday 19th after the show. No further record.”
Craddock nodded. He suggested a line of further inquiries—though he
had little hope of success from them.
After some thought, he rang up Wimborne, Henderson and Carstairs
and asked for an appointment with Mr. Wimborne.
In due course, he was ushered into a particularly airless room where
Mr. Wimborne was sitting behind a large old-fashioned desk covered with
bundles of dusty- looking papers. Various deed boxes labelled Sir John
ffouldes, dec., Lady Derrin, George Rowbottom, Esq., ornamented the walls;
whether as relics of a bygone era or as part of present-day legal affairs,
the inspector did not know.
Mr. Wimborne eyed his visitor with the polite wariness characteristic of
a family lawyer towards the police.
“What can I do for you, Inspector?”
“This letter…” Craddock pushed Martine’s letter across the table. Mr.
Wimborne touched it with a distasteful finger but did not pick it up. His
colour rose very slightly and his lips tightened.
“Quite so,” he said; “quite so! I received a letter from Miss Emma Crack-
enthorpe yesterday morning, informing me of her visit to Scotland Yard
and of—ah—all the circumstances. I may say that I am at a loss to under-
stand—quite at a loss—why I was not consulted about this letter at the
time of its arrival! Most extraordinary! I should have been informed imme-
diately….”
Inspector Craddock repeated soothingly such platitudes as seemed best
calculated to reduce Mr. Wimborne to an amenable frame of mind.
“I’d no idea that there was ever any question of Edmund’s having mar-
ried,” said Mr. Wimborne in an injured voice.
Inspector Craddock said that he supposed—in war time—and left it to
trail away vaguely.
“War time!” snapped Mr. Wimborne with waspish acerbity. “Yes, in-
deed, we were in Lincoln’s Inn Fields at the outbreak of war and there was
a direct hit on the house next door, and a great number of our records
were destroyed. Not the really important documents, of course; they had
been removed to the country for safety. But it caused a great deal of confu-
sion. Of course, the Crackenthorpe business was in my father’s hands at
that time. He died six years ago. I dare say he may have been told about
this so- called marriage of Edmund’s — but on the face of it, it looks as
though that marriage, even if contemplated, never took place, and so, no
doubt, my father did not consider the story of any importance. I must say,
all this sounds very fishy to me. This coming forward, after all these years,
and claiming a marriage and a legitimate son. Very fishy indeed. What
proofs had she got, I’d like to know?”
“Just so,” said Craddock. “What would her position, or her son’s position
be?”
“The idea was, I suppose, that she would get the Crackenthorpes to
provide for her and for the boy.”
“Yes, but I meant, what would she and the son be entitled to, legally
speaking—if she could prove her claim?”
“Oh, I see.” Mr. Wimborne picked up his spectacles which he had laid
aside in his irritation, and put them on, staring through them at Inspector
Craddock with shrewd attention. “Well, at the moment, nothing. But if she
could prove that the boy was the son of Edmund Crackenthorpe, born in
lawful wedlock, then the boy would be entitled to his share of Josiah
Crackenthorpe’s trust on the death of Luther Crackenthorpe. More than
that, he’d inherit Rutherford Hall, since he’s the son of the eldest son.”
“Would anyone want to inherit the house?”
“To live in? I should say, certainly not. But that estate, my dear In-
spector, is worth a considerable amount of money. Very considerable.
Land for industrial and building purposes. Land which is now in the heart
of Brackhampton. Oh, yes, a very considerable inheritance.”
“If Luther Crackenthorpe dies, I believe you told me that Cedric gets it?”
“He inherits the real estate—yes, as the eldest living son.”
“Cedric Crackenthorpe, I have been given to understand, is not interes-
ted in money?”
Mr. Wimborne gave Craddock a cold stare.
“Indeed? I am inclined, myself, to take statements of such a nature with
what I might term a grain of salt. There are doubtless certain unworldly
people who are indifferent to money. I myself have never met one.”
Mr. Wimborne obviously derived a certain satisfaction from this re-
mark.
Inspector Craddock hastened to take advantage of this ray of sunshine.
“Harold and Alfred Crackenthorpe,” he ventured, “seem to have been a
good deal upset by the arrival of this letter?”
“Well they might be,” said Mr. Wimborne. “Well they might be.”
“It would reduce their eventual inheritance?”
“Certainly. Edmund Crackenthorpe’s son—always presuming there is a
son—would be entitled to a fifth share of the trust money.”
“That doesn’t really seem a very serious loss?”
Mr. Wimborne gave him a shrewd glance.
“It is a totally inadequate motive for murder, if that is what you mean.”
“But I suppose they’re both pretty hard up,” Craddock murmured.
He sustained Mr. Wimborne’s sharp glance with perfect impassivity.
“Oh! So the police have been making inquiries? Yes, Alfred is almost in-
cessantly in low water. Occasionally he is very flush of money for a short
time — but it soon goes. Harold, as you seem to have discovered, is at
present somewhat precariously situated.”
“In spite of his appearance of financial prosperity?”
“Façade. All façade! Half these city concerns don’t even know if they’re
solvent or not. Balance sheets can be made to look all right to the inexpert
eye. But when the assets that are listed aren’t really assets—when those
assets are trembling on the brink of a crash—where are you?”
“Where, presumably, Harold Crackenthorpe is, in bad need of money.”
“Well, he wouldn’t have got it by strangling his late brother’s widow,”
said Mr. Wimborne. “And nobody’s murdered Luther Crackenthorpe
which is the only murder that would do the family any good. So, really, In-
spector, I don’t quite see where your ideas are leading you?”
The worst of it was, Inspector Craddock thought, that he wasn’t very
sure himself.
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