4_50 From Paddington - Agatha Christie [79]
Lady Stoddart-West shook a vigorous head. “No, no, of course I did not write to you.”
“Then…” Emma stopped.
“Then there was someone pretending to be Martine who wanted perhaps to get money out of you? That is what it must have been. But who can it be?”
Emma said slowly: “I suppose there were people at the time, who knew?”
The other shrugged her shoulders. “Probably, yes. But there was no one intimate with me, no one very close to me. I have never spoken of it since I came to England. And why wait all this time? It is curious, very curious.”
Emma said: “I don’t understand it. We will have to see what Inspector Craddock has to say.” She looked with suddenly softened eyes at her visitor. “I’m so glad to know you at last, my dear.”
“And I you… Edmund spoke of you very often. He was very fond of you. I am happy in my new life, but all the same, I don’t quite forget.”
Emma leaned back and heaved a sigh. “It’s a terrible relief,” she said. “As long as we feared that the dead woman might be Martine—it seemed to be tied up with the family. But now—oh, it’s an absolute load off my back. I don’t know who the poor soul was but she can’t have had anything to do with us!”
Twenty-three
The streamlined secretary brought Harold Crackenthorpe his usual afternoon cup of tea.
“Thanks, Miss Ellis, I shall be going home early today.”
“I’m sure you ought really not to have come at all, Mr. Crackenthorpe,” said Miss Ellis. “You look quite pulled down still.”
“I’m all right,” said Harold Crackenthorpe, but he did feel pulled down. No doubt about it, he’d had a very nasty turn. Ah, well, that was over.
Extraordinary, he thought broodingly, that Alfred should have succumbed and the old man should have come through. After all, what was he—seventy-three—seventy-four? Been an invalid for years. If there was one person you’d have thought would have been taken off, it would have been the old man. But no. It had to be Alfred. Alfred who, as far as Harold knew, was a healthy wiry sort of chap. Nothing much the matter with him.
He leaned back in his chair sighing. That girl was right. He didn’t feel up to things yet, but he had wanted to come down to the office. Wanted to get the hang of how affairs were going. Touch and go. All this—he looked round him—the richly appointed office, the pale gleaming wood, the expensive modern chairs, it all looked prosperous enough, and a good thing too! That’s where Alfred had always gone wrong. If you looked prosperous, people thought you were prosperous. There were no rumours going around as yet about his financial stability. All the same, the crash couldn’t be delayed very long. Now, if only his father had passed out instead of Alfred, as surely, surely he ought to have done. Practically seemed to thrive on arsenic! Yes, if his father had succumbed—well, there wouldn’t have been anything to worry about.
Still, the great thing was not to seem worried. A prosperous appearance. Not like poor old Alfred who always looked seedy and shiftless, who looked in fact exactly what he was. One of those small-time speculators, never going all out boldly for the big money. In with a shady crowd here, doing a doubtful deal there, never quite rendering himself liable to prosecution but going very near the edge. And where had it got him? Short periods of affluence and then back to seediness and shabbiness, once more. No broad outlook about Alfred. Taken all in all, you couldn’t say Alfred was much loss. He’d never been particularly fond of Alfred and with Alfred out of the way the money that was coming to him from that old curmudgeon, his grandfather, would be sensibly increased, divided not into five shares but into four shares. Very much better.
Harold’s face brightened a little. He rose, took his hat and coat and left the office. Better take it easy for a day or two. He wasn’t feeling too strong yet. His car was waiting below and very soon he was weaving through London