4_50 From Paddington - Agatha Christie [55]
“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 nonsense.”
“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 anything. 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? Lunchtime 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 Craddock 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. Crackenthorpe.”
“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