4_50 From Paddington - Agatha Christie [62]
There were certain tokens of occupancy about. The decayed mattresses had been piled up to make a kind of divan, there was an old rusted table on which reposed a large tin of chocolate biscuits, there was a hoard of apples, a tin of toffees, and a jig-saw puzzle.
“It really is a clue, sir,” said Stoddart-West eagerly, his eyes gleaming behind his spectacles. “We found it this afternoon.”
“We’ve been hunting for days. In the bushes—”
“And inside hollow trees—”
“And we went through the ash bins—”
“There were some jolly interesting things there, as a matter of fact—”
“And then we went into the boiler house—”
“Old Hillman keeps a great galvanized tub there full of waste paper—”
“For when the boiler goes out and he wants to start it again—”
“Any odd paper that’s blowing about. He picks it up and shoves it in there—”
“And that’s where we found it—”
“Found WHAT?” Craddock interrupted the duet.
“The clue. Careful, Stodders, get your gloves on.”
Importantly, Stoddart-West, in the best detective story tradition, drew on a pair of rather dirty gloves and took from his pocket a Kodak photographic folder. From this he extracted in his gloved fingers with the utmost care a soiled and crumpled envelope which he handed importantly to the inspector.
Both boys held their breath in excitement.
Craddock took it with due solemnity. He liked the boys and he was ready to enter into the spirit of the thing.
The letter had been through the post, there was no enclosure inside, it was just a torn envelope—addressed to Mrs. Martine Crackenthorpe, 126 Elvers Crescent, N.10.
“You see?” said Alexander breathlessly. “It shows she was here— Uncle Edmund’s French wife, I mean—the one there’s all the fuss about. She must have actually been here and dropped out somewhere. So it looks, doesn’t it—”
Stoddart-West broke in:
“It looks as though she was the one who got murdered— I mean, don’t you think, sir, that it simply must have been her in the sarcophagus?”
They waited anxiously.
Craddock played up.
“Possible, very possible,” he said.
“This is important, isn’t it?”
“You’ll test it for fingerprints, won’t you, sir?”
“Of course,” said Craddock.
Stoddart-West gave a deep sigh.
“Smashing luck for us, wasn’t it?” he said. “On our last day, too.”
“Last day?”
“Yes,” said Alexander. “I’m going to Stodders’ place tomorrow for the last few days of the holidays. Stodders’ people have got a smashing house— Queen Anne, isn’t it?”
“William and Mary,” said Stoddart-West.
“I thought your mother said—”
“Mum’s French. She doesn’t really know about English architecture.”
“But your father said it was built—”
Craddock was examining the envelope.
Clever of Lucy Eyelesbarrow. How had she managed to fake the post mark? He peered closely, but the light was too feeble. Great fun for the boys, of course, but rather awkward for him. Lucy, drat her, hadn’t considered that angle. If this were genuine, it would enforce a course of action. There….
Beside him a learned architectural argument was being hotly pursued. He was deaf to it.
“Come on, boys,” he said, “we’ll go into the house. You’ve been very helpful.”
Eighteen
I
Craddock was escorted by the boys through the back door into the house. This was, it seemed, their common mode of entrance. The kitchen was bright and cheerful. Lucy, in a large white apron, was rolling out pastry. Leaning against the dresser, watching her with a kind of dog-like attention, was Bryan Eastley. With one hand he tugged at his large fair moustache.
“Hallo, Dad,” said Alexander kindly. “You out here again?”
“I like it out here,” said Bryan, and added: “Miss Eyelesbarrow doesn’t mind.”
“Oh, I don’t mind,” said Lucy. “Good evening, Inspector Craddock.”
“Coming to detect in the kitchen?” asked Bryan with interest.
“Not exactly. Mr. Cedric Crackenthorpe is still here, isn’t he?”
“Oh, yes, Cedric’s here. Do you want him?”
“I’d like a word with him—yes, please.”
“I’ll go and see if he’s in,” said Bryan. “He may have gone round to the local.”
He unpropped himself from the dresser.
“Thank you so