II
Dermot Craddock sat at his desk in his room at New Scotland Yard. He was
slumped1 sideways in an easy attitude, and was talking into the telephone
receiver which he held with one elbow
propped2 up on the table. He was
speaking in French, a language in which he was tolerably
proficient3.
“It was only an idea, you understand,” he said.
“But decidedly it is an idea,” said the voice at the other end, from the
Prefecture in Paris. “Already I have set
inquiries5 in motion in those circles.
less there is some family life—or a lover, these women drop out of circula-
tion very easily and no one troubles about them. They have gone on tour,
or there is some new man—it is no one’s business to ask. It is a pity that
the photograph you sent me is so difficult for anyone to recognize. Stran-
gulation it does not improve the appearance. Still, that cannot be helped. I
go now to study the latest reports of my agents on this matter. There will
be, perhaps, something. Au revoir, mon cher.”
As Craddock
reiterated8 the farewell politely, a slip of paper was placed
before him on the desk. It read:
Miss Emma Crackenthorpe.
Rutherford Hall case.
He replaced the receiver and said to the police
constable10:
“Bring Miss Crackenthorpe up.”
As he waited, he leaned back in his chair, thinking.
So he had not been mistaken—there was something that Emma Crack-
enthorpe knew—not much, perhaps, but something. And she had
decided4
to tell him.
He rose to his feet as she was shown in, shook hands, settled her in a
chair and offered her a cigarette which she refused. Then there was a mo-
mentary pause. She was trying, he decided, to find just the words she
wanted. He leaned forward.
“You have come to tell me something, Miss Crackenthorpe? Can I help
you? You’ve been worried about something, haven’t you? Some little
thing, perhaps, that you feel probably has nothing to do with the case, but
on the other hand, just might be related to it. You’ve come here to tell me
about it, haven’t you? It’s to do, perhaps, with the identity of the dead wo-
man. You think you know who she was?”
“No, no, not quite that. I think really it’s most unlikely. But—”
“But there is some possibility that worries you. You’d better tell me
about it—because we may be able to set your mind at rest.”
Emma took a moment or two before speaking. Then she said:
“You have seen three of my brothers. I had another brother, Edmund,
who was killed in the war. Shortly before he was killed, he wrote to me
from France.”
She opened her handbag and took out a worn and faded letter. She read
from it:
“I hope this won’t be a shock to you, Emmie, but I’m getting married—to
a French girl. It’s all been very sudden—but I know you’ll be fond of Mar-
tine—and look after her if anything happens to me. Will write you all the
details in my next — by which time I shall be a married man. Break it
gently to the old man, won’t you? He’ll probably go up in smoke.”
Inspector Craddock held out a hand. Emma hesitated, then put the letter
into it. She went on, speaking rapidly.
“Two days after receiving this letter, we had a telegram saying Edmund
was Missing, believed killed. Later he was definitely reported killed. It was
just before Dunkirk—and a time of great confusion. There was no Army
record, as far as I could find out, of his having been married—but as I say,
it was a confused time. I never heard anything from the girl. I tried, after
the war, to make some inquiries, but I only knew her
Christian11 name and
that part of France had been occupied by the Germans and it was difficult
to find out anything, without knowing the girl’s surname and more about
her. In the end I assumed that the marriage had never taken place and
that the girl had probably married someone else before the end of the
war, or might possibly herself have been killed.”
Inspector Craddock nodded. Emma went on.
“Imagine my surprise to receive a letter just about a month ago, signed
Martine Crackenthorpe.”
“You have it?”
Emma took it from her bag and handed it to him. Craddock read it with
interest. It was written in a
slanting12 French hand—an educated hand.
Dear Mademoiselle,
I hope it will not be a shock to you to get this letter. I do not
even know if your brother Edmund told you that we were
married.
He said he was going to do so. He was killed only a few days
after our marriage and at the same time the Germans oc-
cupied our village. After the war ended, I decided that I
would not write to you or approach you, though Edmund
had told me to do so. But by then I had made a new life for
myself, and it was not necessary.
But now things have changed. For my son’s sake I write
this letter.
He is your brother’s son, you see, and I— I can no longer
give him the advantages he ought to have. I am coming to
England early next week. Will you let me know if I can
come and see you? My address for letters is 126 Elvers Cres-
cent, N.10. I hope again this will not be the great shock to
you.
I remain with assurance of my excellent sentiments,
Martine Crackenthorpe
Craddock was silent for a moment or two. He reread the letter carefully
before handing it back.
“What did you do on receipt of this letter, Miss Crackenthorpe?”
“My brother-in-law, Bryan Eastley, happened to be staying with me at
the time and I talked to him about it. Then I rang up my brother Harold in
London and consulted him about it. Harold was rather sceptical about the
whole thing and advised extreme caution. We must, he said, go carefully
Emma paused and then went on:
“That, of course, was only common sense and I quite agreed. But if this
girl—woman—was really the Martine about whom Edmund had written
to me, I felt that we must make her welcome. I wrote to the address she
gave in her letters,
inviting14 her to come down to Rutherford Hall and meet
us. A few days later I received a telegram from London: Very sorry forced to
return to France unexpectedly. Martine. There was no further letter or
news of any kind.”
“All this took place—when?”
Emma frowned.
“It was shortly before Christmas. I know, because I wanted to suggest
her spending Christmas with us—but my father would not hear of it—so I
suggested she could come down the weekend after Christmas while the
family would still be there. I think the wire saying she was returning to
France came actually a few days before Christmas.”
“And you believe that this woman whose body was found in the sarco-
phagus might be this Martine?”
“No, of course I don’t. But when you said she was probably a foreigner—
well, I couldn’t help wondering…if perhaps….”
Her voice died away.
“You did quite right to tell me about this. We’ll look into it. I should say
there is probably little doubt that the woman who wrote to you actually
did go back to France and is there now alive and well. On the other hand,
there is a certain coincidence of dates, as you yourself have been clever
enough to realize. As you heard at the inquest, the woman’s death accord-
ing to the police surgeon’s evidence must have occurred about three to
four weeks ago. Now don’t worry, Miss Crackenthorpe, just leave it to us.”
He added
casually17, “You consulted Mr. Harold Crackenthorpe. What about
your father and your other brothers?”
“I had to tell my father, of course. He got very worked up,” she smiled
faintly. “He was convinced it was a put up thing to get money out of us. My
father gets very excited about money. He believes, or pretends to believe,
that he is a very poor man, and that he must save every penny he can. I
believe elderly people do get
obsessions18 of that kind sometimes. It’s not
true, of course, he has a very large income and doesn’t actually spend a
quarter of it—or used not to until these days of high income tax. Certainly
he has a large amount of
savings19 put by.” She paused and then went on. “I
told my other two brothers also. Alfred seemed to consider it rather a joke,
though he, too, thought it was almost certainly an
imposture20. Cedric just
wasn’t interested—he’s inclined to be self-centred. Our idea was that the
family would receive Martine, and that our lawyer, Mr. Wimborne, should
also be asked to be present.”
“What did Mr. Wimborne think about the letter?”
“We hadn’t got as far as discussing the matter with him. We were on the
point of doing so when Martine’s telegram arrived.”
“You have taken no further steps?”
“Yes. I wrote to the address in London with Please forward on the envel-
ope, but I have had no reply of any kind.”
“Rather a curious business… Hm….”
He looked at her sharply.
“What do you yourself think about it?”
“I don’t know what to think.”
“What were your reactions at the time? Did you think the letter was
genuine—or did you agree with your father and brothers? What about
your brother-in-law, by the way, what did he think?”
“Oh, Bryan thought that the letter was genuine.”
“And you?”
“I—wasn’t sure.”
“And what were your feelings about it—supposing that this girl really
was your brother Edmund’s widow?”
“I was very fond of Edmund. He was my favourite brother. The letter
seemed to me exactly the sort of letter that a girl like Martine would write
under the circumstances. The course of events she described was
entirely22
natural. I assumed that by the time the war ended she had either married
again or was with some man who was protecting her and the child. Then
perhaps, this man had died, or left her, and it then seemed right to her to
apply to Edmund’s family—as he himself had wanted her to do. The letter
seemed genuine and natural to me—but, of course, Harold
pointed23 out
that if it was written by an imposter, it would be written by some woman
who had known Martine and who was in possession of all the facts, and so
—but all the same….”
She stopped.
“You wanted it to be true?” said Craddock gently.
She looked at him gratefully.
“Yes, I wanted it to be true. I would be so glad if Edmund had left a son.”
Craddock nodded.
“As you say, the letter, on the face of it, sounds genuine enough. What is
surprising is the sequel; Martine Crackenthorpe’s
abrupt26 departure for
Paris and the fact that you have never heard from her since. You had
replied
kindly27 to her, were prepared to welcome her. Why, even if she had
to return to France, did she not write again? That is, presuming her to be
the genuine article. If she were an imposter, of course, it’s easier to ex-
plain. I thought perhaps that you might have consulted Mr. Wimborne,
and that he might have instituted inquiries which alarmed the woman.
That, you tell me, is not so. But it’s still possible that one or other of your
brothers may have done something of the kind. It’s possible that this Mar-
may have assumed that she would be
dealing29 only with Edmund’s affec-
tionate sister, not with hard-headed suspicious business men. She may
have hoped to get sums of money out of you for the child (hardly a child
now—a boy presumably of fifteen or sixteen) without many questions be-
ing asked. But instead she found she was going to run up against some-
thing quite different. After all, I should imagine that serious legal aspects
would arise. If Edmund Crackenthorpe left a son, born in
wedlock30, he
would be one of the heirs to your grandfather’s estate?”
Emma nodded.
“Moreover, from what I have been told, he would in due course inherit
Rutherford Hall and the land round it—very valuable building land, prob-
ably, by now.”
Emma looked slightly startled.
“Yes, I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Well, I shouldn’t worry,” said Inspector Craddock. “You did quite right
to come and tell me. I shall make enquiries, but it seems to me highly
probable that there is no connection between the woman who wrote the
letter (and who was probably trying to cash in on a swindle) and the wo-
man whose body was found in the sarcophagus.”
Emma rose with a sigh of relief.
“I’m so glad I’ve told you. You’ve been very kind.”
Craddock accompanied her to the door.
Then he rang for Detective-Sergeant Wetherall.
“Bob, I’ve got a job for you. Go to 126 Elvers Crescent, N.10. Take photo-
graphs of the Rutherford Hall woman with you. See what you can find out
about a woman calling herself Mrs. Crackenthorpe— Mrs. Martine Crack-
enthorpe, who was either living there, or calling for letters there, between
the dates of, say, 15th to the end of December.”
“Right, sir.”
Craddock busied himself with various other matters that were waiting
attention on his desk. In the afternoon he went to see a
theatrical31 agent
who was a friend of his. His inquiries were not fruitful.
Later in the day when he returned to his office he found a wire from
Paris on his desk.
Particulars given by you might apply to Anna Stravinska
of Ballet Maritski. Suggest you come over. Dessin, Prefec-
ture.
Craddock heaved a big sigh of relief, and his brow cleared.
At last! So much, he thought, for the Martine Crackenthorpe hare… He
decided to take the night ferry to Paris.
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