4_50 From Paddington - Agatha Christie [65]
“Thank you, Miss Crackenthorpe.”
“I suppose I mustn’t ask”—she hesitated—“what has come up new that prompts these inquiries?”
Craddock took the folder from his pocket. Using the tips of his fingers, he extracted the envelope.
“Don’t touch it, please, but do you recognize this?”
“But…” Emma stared at him, bewildered. “That’s my handwriting. That’s the letter I wrote to Martine.”
“I thought it might be.”
“But how did you get it? Did she—? Have you found her?”
“It would seem possible that we have—found her. This empty envelope was found here.”
“In the house?”
“In the grounds.”
“Then—she did come here! She… You mean—it was Martine there—in the sarcophagus?”
“It would seem very likely, Miss Crackenthorpe,” said Craddock gently.
It seemed even more likely when he got back to town. A message was awaiting him from Armand Dessin.
“One of the girl-friends has had a postcard from Anna Stravinska.
Apparently the cruise story was true! She has reached Jamaica and is having, in your phrase, a wonderful time!”
Craddock crumpled up the message and threw it into the wastepaper basket.
III
“I must say,” said Alexander, sitting up in bed, thoughtfully consuming a chocolate bar, “that this has been the most smashing day ever. Actually finding a real clue!”
His voice was awed.
“In fact the whole holidays have been smashing,” he added happily. “I don’t suppose such a thing will ever happen again.”
“I hope it won’t happen again to me,” said Lucy who was on her knees packing Alexander’s clothes into a suitcase. “Do you want all this space fiction with you?”
“Not those two top ones. I’ve read them. The football and my football boots, and the gum-boots can go separately.”
“What difficult things you boys do travel with.”
“It won’t matter. They’re sending the Rolls for us. They’ve got a smashing Rolls. They’ve got one of the new Mercedes- Benzes too.”
“They must be rich.”
“Rolling! Jolly nice, too. All the same, I rather wish we weren’t leaving here. Another body might turn up.”
“I sincerely hope not.”
“Well, it often does in books. I mean somebody who’s seen something or heard something gets done in, too. It might be you,” he added, unrolling a second chocolate bar.
“Thank you!”
“I don’t want it to be you,” Alexander assured her. “I like you very much and so does Stodders. We think you’re out of this world as a cook. Absolutely lovely grub. You’re very sensible, too.”
This last was clearly an expression of high approval. Lucy took it as such, and said: “Thank you. But I don’t intend to get killed just to please you.”
“Well, you’d better be careful, then,” Alexander told her.
He paused to consume more nourishment and then said in a slightly offhand voice:
“If Dad turns up from time to time, you’ll look after him, won’t you?”
“Yes, of course,” said Lucy, a little surprised.
“The trouble with Dad is,” Alexander informed her, “that London life doesn’t suit him. He gets in, you know, with quite the wrong type of women.” He shook his head in a worried manner.
“I’m very fond of him,” he added; “but he needs someone to look after him. He drifts about and gets in with the wrong people. It’s a great pity Mum died when she did. Bryan needs a proper home life.”
He looked solemnly at Lucy and reached out for another chocolate bar.
“Not a fourth one, Alexander,” Lucy pleaded. “You’ll be sick.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. I ate six running once and I wasn’t. I’m not the bilious type.” He paused and then said:
“Bryan likes you, you know.”
“That’s very nice of him.”
“He’s a bit of an ass in some ways,” said Bryan’s son; “but he was a jolly good fighter pilot. He’s awfully brave. And he’s awfully good-natured.”
He paused. Then, averting his eyes to the ceiling, he said rather self-consciously:
“I think, really, you know, it would be a good thing if he married again… Somebody decent… I shouldn’t, myself, mind at all having a stepmother…not,