4_50 From Paddington - Agatha Christie [18]
“The kitchen garden, perhaps, but that’s very close to the gardener’s cottage. He’s old and deaf—but still it might be risky.”
“Is there a dog?”
“No.”
“Then in a shed, perhaps, or an outhouse?”
“That would be simpler and quicker… There are a lot of unused old buildings; broken down pigsties, harness rooms, workshops that nobody ever goes near. Or he might perhaps thrust it into a clump of rhododendrons or shrubs somewhere.”
Miss Marple nodded.
“Yes, I think that’s much more probable.”
There was a knock on the door and the grim Florence came in with a tray.
“Nice for you to have a visitor,” she said to Miss Marple, “I’ve made you my special scones you used to like.”
“Florence always made the most delicious tea cakes,” said Miss Marple.
Florence, gratified, creased her features into a totally unexpected smile and left the room.
“I think, my dear,” said Miss Marple, “we won’t talk anymore about murder during tea. Such an unpleasant subject!”
II
After tea, Lucy rose.
“I’ll be getting back,” she said. “As I’ve already told you, there’s no one actually living at Rutherford Hall who could be the man we’re looking for. There’s only an old man and a middle-aged woman, and an old deaf gardener.”
“I didn’t say he was actually living there,” said Miss Marple. “All I mean is, that he’s someone who knows Rutherford Hall very well. But we can go into that after you’ve found the body.”
“You seem to assume quite confidently that I shall find it,” said Lucy. “I don’t feel nearly so optimistic.”
“I’m sure you will succeed, my dear Lucy. You are such an efficient person.”
“In some ways, but I haven’t had any experience in looking for bodies.”
“I’m sure all it needs is a little common sense,” said Miss Marple encouragingly.
Lucy looked at her, then laughed. Miss Marple smiled back at her.
Lucy set to work systematically the next afternoon.
She poked round outhouses, prodded the briars which wreathed the old pigsties, and was peering into the boiler room under the greenhouse when she heard a dry cough and turned to find old Hillman, the gardener, looking at her disapprovingly.
“You be careful you don’t get a nasty fall, miss,” he warned her. “Them steps isn’t safe, and you was up in the loft just now and the floor there ain’t safe neither.”
Lucy was careful to display no embarrassment.
“I expect you think I’m very nosy,” she said cheerfully. “I was just wondering if something couldn’t be made out of this place—growing mushrooms for the market, that sort of thing. Everything seems to have been let go terribly.”
“That’s the master, that is. Won’t spend a penny. Ought to have two men and a boy here, I ought, to keep the place proper, but won’t hear of it, he won’t. Had all I could do to make him get a motor mower. Wanted me to mow all that front grass by hand, he did.”
“But if the place could be made to pay—with some repairs?”
“Won’t get a place like this to pay—too far gone. And he wouldn’t care about that, anyway. Only cares about saving. Knows well enough what’ll happen after he’s gone—the young gentlemen’ll sell up as fast as they can. Only waiting for him to pop off, they are. Going to come into a tidy lot of money when he dies, so I’ve heard.”
“I suppose he’s a very rich man?” said Lucy.
“Crackenthorpe’s Fancies, that’s what they are. The old gentleman started it, Mr. Crackenthorpe’s father. A sharp one he was, by all accounts. Made his fortune, and built this place. Hard as nails, they say, and never forgot an injury. But with all that, he was open-handed. Nothing of the miser about him. Disappointed in both his sons, so the story goes. Give ’em an education and brought ’em up to be gentlemen—Oxford and all. But they were too much of gentlemen to want to go into the business. The younger one married an actress and then smashed himself up in a car accident when he’d been drinking. The elder one, our one here, his father never fancied so much. Abroad a lot, he was, bought a lot of heathen statues and had them sent home. Wasn’t so close with his money when he was young—come on him more