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II
Alfred Crackenthorpe had a flat in West Hampstead, in a big modern
building of slightly jerry-built type with a large courtyard in which the
owners of flats parked their cars with a certain lack of consideration for
others.
The flat was the modern built-in type, evidently rented furnished. It had
a long plywood table that led down from the wall, a divan bed, and vari-
ous chairs of improbable proportions.
Alfred Crackenthorpe met them with engaging friendliness but was, the
inspector thought, nervous.
“I’m intrigued,” he said. “Can I offer you a drink, Inspector Craddock?”
He held up various bottles invitingly.
“No, thank you, Mr. Crackenthorpe.”
“As bad as that?” He laughed at his own little joke, then asked what it
was all about.
Inspector Craddock said his little piece.
“What was I doing on the afternoon and evening of 20th December.
How should I know? Why, that’s—what—over three weeks ago.”
“Your brother Harold has been able to tell us very exactly.”
“Brother Harold, perhaps. Not Brother Alfred.” He added with a touch of
something—envious malice possibly: “Harold is the successful member of
the family — busy, useful, fully employed — a time for everything, and
everything at that time. Even if he were to commit a—murder, shall we
say?—it would be carefully timed and exact.”
“Any particular reason for using that example?”
“Oh, no. It just came into my mind—as a supreme absurdity.”
“Now about yourself.”
Alfred spread out his hands.
“It’s as I tell you—I’ve no memory for times or places. If you were to say
Christmas Day now—then I should be able to answer you—there’s a peg to
hang it on. I know where I was Christmas Day. We spend that with my
father at Brackhampton. I really don’t know why. He grumbles at the ex-
pense of having us—and would grumble that we never came near him if
we didn’t come. We really do it to please my sister.”
“And you did it this year?”
“Yes.”
“But unfortunately your father was taken ill, was he not?”
Craddock was pursuing a sideline deliberately, led by the kind of in-
stinct that often came to him in his profession.
“He was taken ill. Living like a sparrow in that glorious cause of eco-
nomy, sudden full eating and drinking had its effect.”
“That was all it was, was it?”
“Of course. What else?”
“I gathered that his doctor was—worried.”
“Ah, that old fool Quimper,” Alfred spoke quickly and scornfully. “It’s no
use listening to him, Inspector. He’s an alarmist of the worst kind.”
“Indeed? He seemed a rather sensible kind of man to me.”
“He’s a complete fool. Father’s not really an invalid, there’s nothing
wrong with his heart, but he takes in Quimper completely. Naturally,
when father really felt ill, he made a terrific fuss, and had Quimper going
and coming, asking questions, going into everything he’d eaten and drunk.
The whole thing was ridiculous!” Alfred spoke with unusual heat.
Craddock was silent for a moment or two, rather effectively. Alfred fid-
geted, shot him a quick glance, and then said petulantly:
“Well, what is all this? Why do you want to know where I was on a par-
ticular Friday, three or four weeks ago?”
“So you do remember that it was a Friday?”
“I thought you said so.”
“Perhaps I did,” said Inspector Craddock. “At any rate, Friday 20th is the
day I am asking about.”
“Why?”
“A routine inquiry.”
“That’s nonsense. Have you found out something more about this wo-
man? About where she came from?”
“Our information is not yet complete.”
Alfred gave him a sharp glance.
“I hope you’re not being led aside by this wild theory of Emma’s that she
might have been my brother Edmund’s widow. That’s complete non-
sense.”
“This— Martine, did not at any rate apply to you?”
“To me? Good lord, no! That would have been a laugh.”
“She would be more likely, you think, to go to your brother Harold?”
“Much more likely. His name’s frequently in the papers. He’s well off.
Trying a touch there wouldn’t surprise me. Not that she’d have got any-
thing. Harold’s as tight-fisted as the old man himself. Emma, of course, is
the soft-hearted one of the family, and she was Edmund’s favourite sister.
All the same, Emma isn’t credulous. She was quite alive to the possibility
of this woman being phoney. She had it all laid on for the entire family to
be there—and a hard-headed solicitor as well.”
“Very wise,” said Craddock. “Was there a definite date fixed for this
meeting?”
“It was to be soon after Christmas — the weekend of the 27th…” he
stopped.
“Ah,” said Craddock pleasantly. “So I see some dates have a meaning to
you.”
“I’ve told you—no definite date was fixed.”
“But you talked about it—when?”
“I really can’t remember.”
“And you can’t tell me what you yourself were doing on Friday, 20th
December?”
“Sorry—my mind’s an absolute blank.”
“You don’t keep an engagement book?”
“Can’t stand the things.”
“The Friday before Christmas—it shouldn’t be too difficult.”
“I played golf one day with a likely prospect.” Alfred shook his head.
“No, that was the week before. I probably just mooched around. I spend a
lot of my time doing that. I find one’s business gets done in bars more than
anywhere else.”
“Perhaps the people here, or some of your friends, may be able to help?”
“Maybe. I’ll ask them. Do what I can.”
Alfred seemed more sure of himself now.
“I can’t tell you what I was doing that day,” he said; “but I can tell you
what I wasn’t doing. I wasn’t murdering anyone in the Long Barn.”
“Why should you say that, Mr. Crackenthorpe?”
“Come now, my dear Inspector. You’re investigating this murder, aren’t
you? And when you begin to ask ‘Where were you on such and such a day
at such and such a time?’ you’re narrowing down things. I’d very much
like to know why you’ve hit on Friday the 20th between—what? Lunch-
time and midnight? It couldn’t be medical evidence, not after all this time.
Did somebody see the deceased sneaking into the barn that afternoon?
She went in and she never came out, etc.? Is that it?”
The sharp black eyes were watching him narrowly, but Inspector Crad-
dock was far too old a hand to react to that sort of thing.
“I’m afraid we’ll have to let you guess about that,” he said pleasantly.
“The police are so secretive.”
“Not only the police. I think, Mr. Crackenthorpe, you could remember
what you were doing on that Friday if you tried. Of course you may have
reasons for not wishing to remember—”
“You won’t catch me that way, Inspector. It’s very suspicious, of course,
very suspicious, indeed, that I can’t remember—but there it is! Wait a
minute now—I went to Leeds that week—stayed at a hotel close to the
Town Hall—can’t remember its name—but you’d find it easy enough. That
might have been on the Friday.”
“We’ll check up,” said the inspector unemotionally.
He rose. “I’m sorry you couldn’t have been more cooperative, Mr. Crack-
enthorpe.”
“Most unfortunate for me! There’s Cedric with a safe alibi in Ibiza, and
Harold, no doubt, checked with business appointments and public dinners
every hour—and here am I with no alibi at all. Very sad. And all so silly.
I’ve already told you I don’t murder people. And why should I murder an
unknown woman, anyway? What for? Even if the corpse is the corpse of
Edmund’s widow, why should any of us wish to do away with her? Now if
she’d been married to Harold in the war, and had suddenly reappeared—
then it might have been awkward for the respectable Harold—bigamy and
all that. But Edmund! Why we’d all have enjoyed making Father stump up
a bit to give her an allowance and send the boy to a decent school. Father
would have been wild, but he couldn’t in decency refuse to do something.
Won’t you have a drink before you go, Inspector? Sure? Too bad I haven’t
been able to help you.”
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