4_50 From Paddington - Agatha Christie [40]
“Well?”
“The police think that this woman who was killed—was French.”
“They do, do they? She looked more of an English type to me, but one can’t really judge. What’s worrying you then, is that just possibly the dead woman might be your brother’s girl?”
“Yes.”
“I think it’s most unlikely,” said Dr. Quimper, adding: “But all the same, I understand what you feel.”
“I’m wondering if I ought not to tell the police about—about it all. Cedric and the others say it’s quite unnecessary. What do you think?”
“Hm.” Dr. Quimper pursed his lips. He was silent for a moment or two, deep in thought. Then he said, almost unwillingly, “It’s much simpler, of course, if you say nothing. I can understand what your brothers feel about it. All the same—”
“Yes?”
Quimper looked at her. His eyes had an affectionate twinkle in them.
“I’d go ahead and tell ’em,” he said. “You’ll go on worrying if you don’t. I know you.”
Emma flushed a little.
“Perhaps I’m foolish.”
“You do what you want to do, my dear—and let the rest of the family go hang! I’d back your judgment against the lot of them any day.”
Twelve
I
“Girl! You, girl! Come in here.”
Lucy turned her head, surprised. Old Mr. Crackenthorpe was beckoning to her fiercely from just inside a door.
“You want me, Mr. Crackenthorpe?”
“Don’t talk so much. Come in here.”
Lucy obeyed the imperative finger. Old Mr. Crackenthorpe took hold of her arm and pulled her inside the door and shut it.
“Want to show you something,” he said.
Lucy looked round her. They were in a small room evidently designed to be used as a study, but equally evidently not used as such for a very long time. There were piles of dusty papers on the desk and cobwebs festooned from the corners of the ceiling. The air smelt damp and musty.
“Do you want me to clean this room?” she asked.
Old Mr. Crackenthorpe shook his head fiercely.
“No, you don’t! I keep this room locked up. Emma would like to fiddle about in here, but I don’t let her. It’s my room. See these stones? They’re geological specimens.”
Lucy looked at a collection of twelve or fourteen lumps of rock, some polished and some rough.
“Lovely,” she said kindly. “Most interesting.”
“You’re quite right. They are interesting. You’re an intelligent girl. I don’t show them to everybody. I’ll show you some more things.”
“It’s very kind of you, but I ought really to get on with what I was doing. With six people in the house—”
“Eating me out of house and home… That’s all they do when they come down here! Eat. They don’t offer to pay for what they eat, either. Leeches! All waiting for me to die. Well, I’m not going to die just yet—I’m not going to die to please them. I’m a lot stronger than even Emma knows.”
“I’m sure you are.”
“I’m not so old, either. She makes out I’m an old man, treats me as an old man. You don’t think I’m old, do you?”
“Of course not,” said Lucy.
“Sensible girl. Take a look at this.”
He indicated a large faded chart which hung on the wall. It was, Lucy saw, a genealogical tree; some of it done so finely that one would have to have a magnifying glass to read the names. The remote forebears, however, were written in large proud capitals with crowns over the names.
“Descended from Kings,” said Mr. Crackenthorpe. “My mother’s family tree, that is—not my father’s. He was a vulgarian! Common old man! Didn’t like me. I was a cut above him always. Took after my mother’s side. Had a natural feeling for art and classical sculpture—he couldn’t see anything in it—silly old fool. Don’t remember my mother—died when I was two. Last of her family. They were sold up and she married my father. But you look there—Edward the Confessor—Ethelred the Unready—whole lot of them. And that was before the Normans came. Before the Normans—that’s something isn’t it?”
“It is indeed.”
“Now I’ll show you something else.” He guided her across the room to an enormous piece of dark oak furniture. Lucy was rather uneasily conscious of the