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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
today?”
“Yes.”
“The funeral baked meats, in fact. Smells good.” He sniffed appreciat-
ively. “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 for the Yorkshire pudding.”
Bryan obeyed, but not without uttering a shrill yelp.
“Burnt 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 at-
tention.
“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 realized 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 pi-
lots she had known during the war when she had been at the impression-
able age of fourteen. She had gone on and grown up into a post-war 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 pud-
ding?”
“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. Alex-
ander 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 arranged.”
“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 lib-
rary 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 vegetables—returning 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-In-
spector Craddock from New Scotland Yard who has come 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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