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By Root 548 0

the war ended she had either married again or was with some man who was protecting her and the child. Then perhaps, this man had died, or left her, and it then seemed right to her to apply to Edmund’s family—as he himself had wanted her to do. The letter seemed genuine and natural to me—but, of course, Harold pointed out that if it was written by an imposter, it would be written by some woman who had known Martine and who was in possession of all the facts, and so would write a thoroughly plausible letter. I had to admit the justice of that—but all the same….”

She stopped.

“You wanted it to be true?” said Craddock gently.

She looked at him gratefully.

“Yes, I wanted it to be true. I would be so glad if Edmund had left a son.”

Craddock nodded.

“As you say, the letter, on the face of it, sounds genuine enough. What is surprising is the sequel; Martine Crackenthorpe’s abrupt departure for Paris and the fact that you have never heard from her since. You had replied kindly to her, were prepared to welcome her. Why, even if she had to return to France, did she not write again? That is, presuming her to be the genuine article. If she were an imposter, of course, it’s easier to explain. I thought perhaps that you might have consulted Mr. Wimborne, and that he might have instituted inquiries which alarmed the woman. That, you tell me, is not so. But it’s still possible that one or other of your brothers may have done something of the kind. It’s possible that this Martine may have had a background that would not stand investigation. She may have assumed that she would be dealing only with Edmund’s affectionate sister, not with hard-headed suspicious business men. She may have hoped to get sums of money out of you for the child (hardly a child now—a boy presumably of fifteen or sixteen) without many questions being asked. But instead she found she was going to run up against something quite different. After all, I should imagine that serious legal aspects would arise. If Edmund Crackenthorpe left a son, born in wedlock, he would be one of the heirs to your grandfather’s estate?”

Emma nodded.

“Moreover, from what I have been told, he would in due course inherit Rutherford Hall and the land round it—very valuable building land, probably, by now.”

Emma looked slightly startled.

“Yes, I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Well, I shouldn’t worry,” said Inspector Craddock. “You did quite right to come and tell me. I shall make enquiries, but it seems to me highly probably that there is no connection between the woman who wrote the letter (and who was probably trying to cash in on a swindle) and the woman whose body was found in the sarcophagus.”

Emma rose with a sigh of relief.

“I’m so glad I’ve told you. You’ve been very kind.”

Craddock accompanied her to the door.

Then he rang for Detective-Sergeant Wetherall.

“Bob, I’ve got a job for you. Go to 126 Elvers Crescent, N.10. Take photographs of the Rutherford Hall woman with you. See what you can find out about a woman calling herself Mrs. Crackenthorpe— Mrs. Martine Crackenthorpe, who was either living there, or calling for letters there, between the dates of, say, 15th to the end of December.”

“Right, sir.”

Craddock busied himself with various other matters that were waiting attention on his desk. In the afternoon he went to see a theatrical agent who was a friend of his. His inquiries were not fruitful.

Later in the day when he returned to his office he found a wire from Paris on his desk.

Particulars given by you might apply to Anna Stravinska of Ballet

Maritski. Suggest you come over. Dessin, Prefecture.

Craddock heaved a big sigh of relief, and his brow cleared.

At last! So much, he thought, for the Martine Crackenthorpe hare… He decided to take the night ferry to Paris.

Thirteen

I

“It’s so very kind of you to have asked me to take tea with you,” said Miss Marple to Emma Crackenthorpe.

Miss Marple was looking particularly woolly and fluffy—a picture of a sweet old lady. She beamed as she looked round her—at Harold Crackenthorpe in his well-cut dark suit, at