Chapter 8

                                       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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