II
For a moment or two Cedric stared at her as though uncomprehending.
“Martine? But who on earth—oh, you mean Martine?”
“Yes. Do you think—”
“Why on earth should it be Martine?”
“Well, her sending that telegram was odd when you come to think of it.
It must have been roughly about the same time… Do you think that she
may, after all, have come down here and—”
“Nonsense. Why should Martine come down here and find her way into
the Long Barn? What for? It seems wildly unlikely to me.”
“You don’t think, perhaps, that I ought to tell
Inspector1 Bacon—or the
other one?”
“Tell him what?”
“Well—about Martine. About her letter.”
“Now don’t you go
complicating2 things, sis, by bringing up a lot of irrel-
evant stuff that has nothing to do with all this. I was never very convinced
about that letter from Martine, anyway.”
“I was.”
“You’ve always been good at believing impossible things before break-
fast, old girl. My advice to you is, sit tight, and keep your mouth shut. It’s
up to the police to identify their precious
corpse3. And I bet Harold would
say the same.”
“Oh, I know Harold would. And Alfred, also. But I’m worried, Cedric, I
really am worried. I don’t know what I ought to do.”
“Nothing,” said Cedric
promptly4. “You keep your mouth shut, Emma.
Never go
halfway5 to meet trouble, that’s my motto.”
Emma Crackenthorpe sighed. She went slowly back to the house uneasy
in her mind.
As she came into the drive, Doctor Quimper emerged from the house
and opened the door of his
battered6 Austin car. He paused when he saw
her, then leaving the car he came towards her.
“Well, Emma,” he said. “Your father’s in splendid shape. Murder suits
him. It’s given him an interest in life. I must recommend it for more of my
patients.”
Emma smiled mechanically. Dr. Quimper was always quick to notice re-
actions.
“Anything particular the matter?” he asked.
Emma looked up at him. She had come to rely a lot on the kindness and
sympathy of the doctor. He had become a friend on whom to lean, not
only a medical attendant. His calculated brusqueness did not deceive her
—she knew the kindness that lay behind it.
“I am worried, yes,” she admitted.
“Care to tell me? Don’t if you don’t want to.”
“I’d like to tell you. Some of it you know already. The point is I don’t
know what to do.”
“I should say your
judgment7 was usually most reliable. What’s the
trouble?”
“You remember—or perhaps you don’t—what I once told you about my
brother—the one who was killed in the war?”
“You mean about his having married—or wanting to marry—a French
girl? Something of that kind?”
“Yes. Almost immediately after I got that letter, he was killed. We never
heard anything of or about the girl. All we knew, actually, was her chris-
tian name. We always expected her to write or to turn up, but she didn’t.
We never heard anything—until about a month ago, just before Christ-
mas.”
“I remember. You got a letter, didn’t you?”
“Yes. Saying she was in England and would like to come and see us. It
was all arranged and then, at the last minute, she sent a wire that she had
to return unexpectedly to France.”
“Well?”
“The police think that this woman who was killed—was French.”
“They do, do they? She looked more of an English type to me, but one
can’t really judge. What’s worrying you then, is that just possibly the dead
woman might be your brother’s girl?”
“Yes.”
“I think it’s most unlikely,” said Dr. Quimper, adding: “But all the same, I
understand what you feel.”
“I’m wondering if I ought not to tell the police about—about it all. Cedric
and the others say it’s quite unnecessary. What do you think?”
“Hm.” Dr. Quimper pursed his lips. He was silent for a moment or two,
deep in thought. Then he said, almost
unwillingly8, “It’s much simpler, of
course, if you say nothing. I can understand what your brothers feel about
it. All the same—”
“Yes?”
Quimper looked at her. His eyes had an affectionate twinkle in them.
“I’d go ahead and tell ’em,” he said. “You’ll go on worrying if you don’t. I
know you.”
Emma flushed a little.
“Perhaps I’m foolish.”
“You do what you want to do, my dear—and let the rest of the family go
hang! I’d back your judgment against the lot of them any day.”
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