4_50 From Paddington - Agatha Christie [39]
“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 foreigner, perhaps French. Cedric, you don’t think that she could possibly be— Martine?”
II
For a moment or two Cedric stared at her as though uncomprehending.
“Martine? But who on earth—oh, you mean Martine?”
“Yes. Do you think—”
“Why on earth should it be Martine?”
“Well, her sending that telegram was odd when you come to think of it. It must have been roughly about the same time… Do you think that she may, after all, have come down here and—”
“Nonsense. Why should Martine come down here and find her way into the Long Barn? What for? It seems wildly unlikely to me.”
“You don’t think, perhaps, that I ought to tell Inspector Bacon—or the other one?”
“Tell him what?”
“Well—about Martine. About her letter.”
“Now don’t you go complicating things, sis, by bringing up a lot of irrelevant stuff that has nothing to do with all this. I was never very convinced about that letter from Martine, anyway.”
“I was.”
“You’ve always been good at believing impossible things before breakfast, old girl. My advice to you is, sit tight, and keep your mouth shut. It’s up to the police to identify their precious corpse. And I bet Harold would say the same.”
“Oh, I know Harold would. And Alfred, also. But I’m worried, Cedric, I really am worried. I don’t know what I ought to do.”
“Nothing,” said Cedric promptly. “You keep your mouth shut, Emma. Never go halfway to meet trouble, that’s my motto.”
Emma Crackenthorpe sighed. She went slowly back to the house uneasy in her mind.
As she came into the drive, Doctor Quimper emerged from the house and opened the door of his battered Austin car. He paused when he saw her, then leaving the car he came towards her.
“Well, Emma,” he said. “Your father’s in splendid shape. Murder suits him. It’s given him an interest in life. I must recommend it for more of my patients.”
Emma smiled mechanically. Dr. Quimper was always quick to notice reactions.
“Anything particular the matter?” he asked.
Emma looked up at him. She had come to rely a lot on the kindness and sympathy of the doctor. He had become a friend on whom to lean, not only a medical attendant. His calculated brusqueness did not deceive her—she knew the kindness that lay behind it.
“I am worried, yes,” she admitted.
“Care to tell me? Don’t if you don’t want to.”
“I’d like to tell you. Some of it you know already. The point is I don’t know what to do.”
“I should say your judgment was usually most reliable. What’s the trouble?”
“You remember—or perhaps you don’t—what I once told you about my brother—the one who was killed in the war?”
“You mean about his having married—or wanting to marry—a French girl? Something of that kind?”
“Yes. Almost immediately after I got that letter, he was killed. We never heard anything of or about the girl. All we knew, actually, was her christian name. We always expected her to write or to turn up, but she didn’t. We never heard anything—until about a month ago, just before Christmas.”
“I remember. You got a letter, didn’t you?”
“Yes. Saying she was in England and would like to come