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Eleven
I
“I simply can’t make you out,” said Cedric Crackenthorpe.
He eased himself down on the decaying wall of a long derelict pigsty
and stared at Lucy Eyelesbarrow.
“What can’t you make out?”
“What you’re doing here?”
“I’m earning my living.”
“As a skivvy?” he spoke disparagingly.
“You’re out of date,” said Lucy. “Skivvy, indeed! I’m a Household Help, a
Professional Domestician, or an Answer to Prayer, mainly the latter.”
“You can’t like all the things you have to do—cooking and making beds
and whirring about with a hoopla or whatever you call it, and sinking
your arms up to the elbows in greasy water.”
Lucy laughed.
“Not the details, perhaps, but cooking satisfies my creative instincts, and
there’s something in me that really revels in clearing up mess.”
“I live in a permanent mess,” said Cedric. “I like it,” he added defiantly.
“You look as though you did.”
“My cottage in Ibiza is run on simple straightforward lines. Three plates,
two cups and saucers, a bed, a table and a couple of chairs. There’s dust
everywhere and smears of paint and chips of stone—I sculpt as well as
paint—and nobody’s allowed to touch a thing. I won’t have a woman near
the place.”
“Not in any capacity?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I was assuming that a man of such artistic tastes presumably had some
kind of love life.”
“My love life, as you call it, is my own business,” said Cedric with dig-
nity. “What I won’t have is woman in her tidying-up interfering bossing ca-
pacity.”
“How I’d love to have a go at your cottage,” said Lucy. “It would be a
challenge!”
“You won’t get the opportunity.”
“I suppose not.”
Some bricks fell out of the pigsty. Cedric turned his head and looked into
its nettle-ridden depths.
“Dear old Madge,” he said. “I remember her well. A sow of most endear-
ing disposition and prolific mother. Seventeen in the last litter, I remem-
ber. We used to come here on fine afternoons and scratch Madge’s back
with a stick. She loved it.”
“Why has this whole place been allowed to get into the state it’s in? It
can’t only be the war?”
“You’d like to tidy this up, too, I suppose? What an interfering female
you are. I quite see now why you would be the person to discover a body!
You couldn’t even leave a Greco-Roman sarcophagus alone.” He paused
and then went on. “No, it’s not only the war. It’s my father. What do you
think of him, by the way?”
“I haven’t had much time for thinking.”
“Don’t evade the issue. He’s as mean as hell, and in my opinion a bit
crazy as well. Of course he hates all of us—except perhaps Emma. That’s
because of my grandfather’s will.”
Lucy looked inquiring.
“My grandfather was the man who madea- da- monitch. With the
Crunchies and the Cracker Jacks and the Cosy Crisps. All the afternoon tea
delicacies and then, being far-sighted, he switched on very early to Chees-
ies and Canapés so that now we cash in on cocktail parties in a big way.
Well, the time came when father intimated that he had a soul above
Crunchies. He travelled in Italy and the Balkans and Greece and dabbled
in art. My grandfather was peeved. He decided my father was no man of
business and a rather poor judge of art (quite right in both cases), so left
all his money in trust for his grandchildren. Father had the income for
life, but he couldn’t touch the capital. Do you know what he did? He
stopped spending money. He came here and began to save. I’d say that by
now he’s accumulated nearly as big a fortune as my grandfather left. And
in the meantime all of us, Harold, myself, Alfred and Emma haven’t got a
penny of grandfather’s money. I’m a stony-broke painter. Harold went
into business and is now a prominent man in the City—he’s the one with
the money-making touch, though I’ve heard rumours that he’s in Queer
Street lately. Alfred—well, Alfred is usually known in the privacy of the
family as Flash Alf—”
“Why?”
“What a lot of things you want to know! The answer is that Alf is the
black sheep of the family. He’s not actually been to prison yet, but he’s
been very near it. He was in the Ministry of Supply during the war, but
left it rather abruptly under questionable circumstances. And after that
there were some dubious deals in tinned fruits—and trouble over eggs.
Nothing in a big way—just a few doubtful deals on the side.”
“Isn’t it rather unwise to tell strangers all these things?”
“Why? Are you a police spy?”
“I might be.”
“I don’t think so. You were here slaving away before the police began to
take an interest in us. I should say—”
He broke off as his sister Emma came through the door of the kitchen
garden.
“Hallo, Em? You’re looking very perturbed about something?”
“I am. I want to talk to you, Cedric.”
“I must get back to the house,” said Lucy, tactfully.
“Don’t go,” said Cedric. “Murder has made you practically one of the
family.”
“I’ve got a lot to do,” said Lucy. “I only came out to get some parsley.”
She beat a rapid retreat to the kitchen garden. Cedric’s eyes followed
her.
“Good-looking girl,” he said. “Who is she really?”
“Oh, she’s quite well known,” said Emma. “She’s made a speciality of
this kind of thing. But never mind Lucy Eyelesbarrow, Cedric, I’m terribly
worried. Apparently the police think that the dead woman was a for-
eigner, perhaps French. Cedric, you don’t think that she could possibly be
— Martine?”
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