Twenty-two
“Dreadful, the things people go about saying,” said Mrs. Kidder. “I don’t
listen, mind you, more than I can help. But you’d hardly believe it.” She
waited hopefully.
“Yes, I suppose so,” said Lucy.
“About that body that was found in the Long Barn,” went on Mrs. Kid-
the kitchen floor, “saying as how she’d been Mr. Edmund’s fancy piece
during the war, and how she come over here and a jealous husband fol-
lowed her, and did her in. It is a likely thing as a foreigner would do, but it
wouldn’t be likely after all these years, would it?”
“It sounds most unlikely to me.”
“But there’s worse things than that, they say,” said Mrs. Kidder. “Say
anything, people will. You’d be surprised. There’s those that say Mr. Har-
old married somewhere abroad and that she come over and found out
that he’s committed bigamy with that lady Alice, and that she was going to
bring ’im to court and that he met her down here and did her in, and hid
her body in the sarcoffus. Did you ever!”
“Shocking,” said Lucy
vaguely4, her mind elsewhere.
“Of course I didn’t listen,” said Mrs. Kidder
virtuously5, “I wouldn’t put
no stock in such tales myself. It beats me how people think up such things,
let alone say them. All I hope is none of it gets to Miss Emma’s ears. It
might upset her and I wouldn’t like that. She’s a very nice lady, Miss
Emma is, and I’ve not heard a word against her, not a word. And of course
Mr. Alfred being dead nobody says anything against him now. Not even
that it’s a
judgment6, which they well might do. But it’s awful, miss, isn’t it,
the wicked talk there is.”
“It must be quite painful for you to listen to it,” said Lucy.
“Oh, it is,” said Mrs. Kidder. “It is indeed. I says to my husband, I says,
however can they?”
The bell rang.
“There’s the doctor, miss. Will you let ’im in, or shall I?”
“I’ll go,” said Lucy.
But it was not the doctor. On the doorstep stood a tall, elegant woman in
“Can I see Miss Emma Crackenthorpe, please?”
It was an attractive voice, the R’s slightly
blurred13. The woman was at-
tractive too. About thirty-five, with dark hair and expensively and beauti-
“I’m sorry,” said Lucy, “Miss Crackenthorpe is ill in bed and can’t see
anyone.”
“I know she has been ill, yes; but it is very important that I should see
her.”
“I’m afraid,” Lucy began.
The visitor interrupted her. “I think you are Miss Eyelesbarrow, are you
not?” She smiled, an attractive smile. “My son has spoken of you, so I
know. I am Lady Stoddart-West and Alexander is staying with me now.”
“Oh, I see,” said Lucy.
“And it is really important that I should see Miss Crackenthorpe,” con-
tinued the other. “I know all about her illness and I assure you this is not
just a social call. It is because of something that the boys have said to me—
that my son has said to me. It is, I think, a matter of grave importance and
I would like to speak to Miss Crackenthorpe about it. Please, will you ask
her?”
“Come in.” Lucy
ushered14 her visitor into the hall and into the drawing
room. Then she said, “I’ll go up and ask Miss Crackenthorpe.”
She went upstairs, knocked on Emma’s door and entered.
“Lady Stoddart-West is here,” she said. “She wants to see you very par-
ticularly.”
“Lady Stoddart-West?” Emma looked surprised. A look of alarm came
into her face. “There’s nothing wrong, is there, with the boys—with Alex-
ander?”
“No, no,” Lucy
reassured15 her. “I’m sure the boys are all right. It seemed
to be something the boys have told her or said to her.”
“Oh. Well…” Emma hesitated. “Perhaps I ought to see her. Do I look all
right, Lucy?”
“You look very nice,” said Lucy.
Emma was sitting up in bed, a soft pink shawl was round her shoulders
and brought out the faint rose-pink of her cheeks. Her dark hair had been
neatly17 brushed and combed by Nurse. Lucy had placed a bowl of autumn
leaves on the
dressing18 table the day before. Her room looked attractive
and quite unlike a sick room.
“I’m really quite well enough to get up,” said Emma. “Dr. Quimper said I
could tomorrow.”
“You look really quite like yourself again,” said Lucy. “Shall I bring Lady
Stoddart-West up?”
“Yes, do.”
Lucy went downstairs again. “Will you come up to Miss Crackenthorpe’s
room?”
She escorted the visitor upstairs, opened the door for her to pass in and
then shut it. Lady Stoddart-West approached the bed with outstretched
hand.
“Miss Crackenthorpe? I really do apologize for breaking in on you like
this. I have seen you, I think, at the sports at the school.”
“Yes,” said Emma, “I remember you quite well. Do sit down.”
In the chair conveniently placed by the bed Lady Stoddart- West sat
down. She said in a quiet low voice:
“You must think it very strange of me coming here like this, but I have
reason. I think it is an important reason. You see, the boys have been
telling me things. You can understand that they were very excited about
the murder that happened here. I confess I did not like it at the time. I was
nervous. I wanted to bring James home at once. But my husband laughed.
He said that obviously it was a murder that had nothing to do with the
house and the family, and he said that from what he remembered from
his boyhood, and from James’s letters, both he and Alexander were enjoy-
ing themselves so wildly that it would be sheer cruelty to bring them back.
So I gave in and agreed that they should stay on until the time arranged
for James to bring Alexander back with him.”
Emma said: “You think we ought to have sent your son home earlier?”
“No, no, that is not what I mean at all. Oh, it is difficult for me, this! But
what I have to say must be said. You see, they have picked up a good deal,
the boys. They told me that this woman—the murdered woman—that the
police have an idea that she may be a French girl whom your
eldest19
brother—who was killed in the war—knew in France. That is so?”
“It is a possibility,” said Emma, her voice breaking slightly, “that we are
forced to consider. It may have been so.”
“There is some reason for believing that the body is that of this girl, this
Martine?”
“I have told you, it is a possibility.”
“But why—why should they think that she was Martine? Did she have
letters on her—papers?”
“No. Nothing of that kind. But you see, I had had a letter, from this Mar-
tine.”
“You had had a letter—from Martine?”
“Yes. A letter telling me she was in England and would like to come and
see me. I invited her down here, but got a telegram saying she was going
back to France. Perhaps she did go back to France. We do not know. But
since then an envelope was found here addressed to her. That seems to
show that she had come down here. But I really don’t see…” She broke off.
Lady Stoddart-West broke in quickly:
“You really do not see what concern it is of mine? That is very true. I
should not in your place. But when I heard this—or rather, a
garbled20 ac-
count of this—I had to come to make sure it was really so because, if it is
—”
“Yes?” said Emma.
“Then I must tell you something that I had never intended to tell you.
You see, I am Martine Dubois.”
Emma stared at her guest as though she could hardly take in the sense
of her words.
“You!” she said. “You are Martine?”
The other nodded vigorously. “But, yes. It surprises you, I am sure, but it
is true. I met your brother Edmund in the first days of the war. He was in-
deed billeted at our house. Well, you know the rest. We fell in love. We in-
tended to be married, and then there was the retreat to Dunkirk, Edmund
was reported missing. Later he was reported killed. I will not speak to you
of that time. It was long ago and it is over. But I will say to you that I loved
your brother very much….
“Then came the grim realities of war. The Germans occupied France. I
became a worker for the Resistance. I was one of those who was assigned
to pass Englishmen through France to England. It was in that way that I
met my present husband. He was an Air Force officer, parachuted into
France to do special work. When the war ended we were married. I con-
sidered once or twice whether I should write to you or come and see you,
but I
decided21 against it. It could do no good, I thought, to take up old
memories. I had a new life and I had no wish to recall the old.” She paused
and then said: “But it gave me, I will tell you, a strange pleasure when I
found that my son James’s greatest friend at his school was a boy whom I
found to be Edmund’s nephew. Alexander, I may say, is very like Edmund,
as I dare say you yourself appreciate. It seemed to me a very happy state
of affairs that James and Alexander should be such friends.”
She leaned forward and placed her hand on Emma’s arm. “But you see,
dear Emma, do you not, that when I heard this story about the murder,
about this dead woman being suspected to be the Martine that Edmund
had known, that I had to come and tell you the truth. Either you or I must
inform the police of the fact. Whoever the dead woman is, she is not Mar-
tine.”
“I can hardly take it in,” said Emma, “that you, you should be the Mar-
tine that dear Edmund wrote to me about.” She sighed, shaking her head,
then she frowned perplexedly. “But I don’t understand. Was it you, then,
who wrote to me?”
Lady Stoddart-West shook a vigorous head. “No, no, of course I did not
write to you.”
“Then…” Emma stopped.
“Then there was someone pretending to be Martine who wanted per-
haps16 to get money out of you? That is what it must have been. But who can
it be?”
Emma said slowly: “I suppose there were people at the time, who
knew?”
The other
shrugged22 her shoulders. “Probably, yes. But there was no one
intimate with me, no one very close to me. I have never spoken of it since I
came to England. And why wait all this time? It is curious, very curious.”
Emma said: “I don’t understand it. We will have to see what
Inspector23
Craddock has to say.” She looked with suddenly
softened24 eyes at her vis-
itor. “I’m so glad to know you at last, my dear.”
“And I you… Edmund spoke of you very often. He was very fond of you.
I am happy in my new life, but all the same, I don’t quite forget.”
Emma leaned back and heaved a sigh. “It’s a terrible relief,” she said.
“As long as we feared that the dead woman might be Martine—it seemed
to be tied up with the family. But now—oh, it’s an absolute load off my
back. I don’t know who the poor soul was but she can’t have had anything
to do with us!”
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