Chapter 8 Section 8

As soon as Mr. Wimbon entered the study, his shrewd old eyes shifted from Inspector Bacon to the figure behind him with some astonishment.He had already seen the former; the latter was a fair-haired, blue-eyed, handsome man. Inspector Bacon performs the tasks introduced. "This is Inspector Craddock, the newly formed Crime Service of the Metropolitan Police," he said. "The new criminal department—well," said Mr. Winborn, startled.Democracy Craddock was pleasant and took his time to talk. "Mr. Wimbold, we have now been called upon to investigate the case. As you represent the Crackenthorpes, we should have some confidential information for you." The boast of having revealed the truth by revealing only a very small part of it, is the kind of No one can match the young Inspector Craddock.

"I trust Inspector Bacon will agree," he added, looking at his colleague. Inspector Bacon assented very solemnly, and did not appear in the slightest as if all this had been arranged in advance. "The thing is," said Craddock, "that we have every reason to believe, from the information we have, that the woman who died was not from these parts of the country, but had in fact come here from London, And from abroad. She may well be French, though we cannot be sure." Mr. Wimbold looked surprised. "Really," he said, "Really?" "In the circumstances," explained Inspector Bacon, "the Constable thought it more appropriate to ask the Metropolitan Police Criminal Service to investigate the case."

"I only hope," said Mr. Wimbold, "that the case will be solved soon. You will understand that it upsets their family. They have nothing to do with it, but—" He hesitated for a moment, but Inspector Craddock quickly filled the gap. "It's not a pleasant thing to find a murdered woman on your estate. I sympathize. But I'd like to talk to everyone in the family—" "I really don't understand--" "Don't see what they'll have to say to me? Maybe there won't be anything worth noticing, but who's to say? I think, sir, I can get most of the information from you: about the house , and information about this family.”

"What does this have to do with the murder of an unknown young woman from a foreign country?" "On the contrary, that's the important point," said Craddock. "Why did she come here? Had she had anything to do with this family before? Did she ever work here as a maid, for instance? , a lady's personal maid? Or, did she come here to meet someone who used to live here?" Mr. Wimbone said grimly that Loserzin Lodge had been inhabited by the family since Josiah Crackenthorpe built it in 1884. "That fact is interesting in itself," Craddock said. "Can you give me a brief history of the family?"

Mr. Wimbold shrugged. "Not much to say. Josiah Crackenthorpe was a grocery maker, specializing in delicious sweet biscuits, dressings, pickles, and other groceries. He made a fortune and built this house. Luther Crackenthorpe, his eldest son, lives here now." "Where are the other sons?" "Another son, Henry, died in a car accident in 1911." "Hasn't Mr. Crackenthorpe, who lives here now, thought of selling the house?" "On the terms of his father's will," said the lawyer coldly, "he cannot sell it." "Perhaps you can tell me the contents of the will?"

"Why am I telling you that?" Inspector Craddock smiled. "Because if I need this information, I can go to the registration office of the Palace of Samsie in London to check it myself." Mr. Winborn gave a wry smile helplessly. "Yes, Inspector. I was just protesting that the information you requested had nothing to do with the matter. As for Josiah Crackenthorpe's will, there was nothing secret about it. He put his considerable fortune in Leaving it in the bank for safekeeping, with interest paid to his son Luther until his death. After Luther died, it was divided equally among Luther's children. That is: Edmund, Cedric, Harold, Alfred , Emma, ​​and Edith. Edmund was killed, and Edith died four years ago. So when Luther Crackenthorpe died, the money went to Cedric Harold, A. Alexander Easterly, son of Fleet, Emma, ​​and Edith."

"What about this house?" "To Luther Crackenthorpe's eldest son or his son." "Is Edmund Crackenthorpe married?" "No." "Then the estate is going to pass to--?" "His second son—Cedric." "Mr. Luther Crackenthorpe has no authority to deal with it himself?" "yes." "His father didn't like him," said Inspector Craddock shrewdly. "I think that's a very unusual thing, don't you think?" "You're right," said Mr. Wimbold, "that old Josiah was disappointed that his eldest son wasn't interested in the family business—or any business at all. Time was spent traveling and collecting art. Old Josiah had no sympathy for that sort of thing, so he entrusted his money to the next generation."

"However, at the same time, several people in the bottom generation have no income other than what they earn themselves and the money their father gives them on time. Moreover, their father has a considerable amount of capital, but has no right to dispose of it." "That's right, but I really can't imagine how this has anything to do with the murder of an unknown foreign woman!" "It doesn't seem to have anything to do with the murder," Inspector Craddock agreed promptly. "I just want to confirm all the facts." Mr. Wimbold looked at him warily, and then, as if satisfied with the results of his careful observation, rose to his feet.

"I should like to go back to London now," he said, "unless you have something else for me to tell you." He looked from Craddock to Bacon. "No, sir, thank you." Suddenly there was a loud gong sound outside the hall, which was the signal for dinner. "Well," said Mr. Wimbold, "I think it must be one of the two boys showing off his gong-beating skills." When Inspector Craddock spoke, he raised his voice so high that he drowned out the sound of the gongs. "Let's go and let the family have a quiet lunch. But after lunch, Inspector Bacon and I will come again - about twenty-five past two - to talk briefly with everyone in the family. "

"Do you think this is necessary?" "This—" said Craddock, shrugging his shoulders, "it's just a matter of chance. Maybe someone will remember something and give us a clue. Maybe we will recognize who the dead body is. But the probability is very small." "I don't think so, Inspector, I don't think so. But I wish you good luck. As I have said, I hope this disgusting matter will be cleared up sooner. It will be better for everyone." He shook his head and walked out slowly. After Lucy returned from the inquest, she went straight to the kitchen to prepare lunch when Brian Easterly poked his head in.

"Can I help?" he asked. "I'm pretty smart about housework." Lucy looked at him quickly, with a little attention.Brian had gone straight to the inquest in his little car, so she hadn't had much time to assess what kind of man he was. What she saw was a very likable figure.Easterly was an affable-looking young man in his early thirties, with blond hair, slightly melancholy blue eyes, and a large blond beard on his lips. "The kids haven't come back yet," he said, walking in and sitting at the end of the kitchen table. "They ride bicycles, and it will take another twenty minutes to get home." Lucy smiled. "They must not miss anything." "It's not their fault. I mean--they're young, and it's the first time they've had an inquest, and that's what happened in this house." "Mr. Easterly, please come down and don't sit on the table? I'm going to put the baking tray there." Brian listened to her and jumped down. "Ah, the fat is boiling hot, what are you going to put in it?" "Yorkshire style beef pudding." "Fantastic Yorkshire pudding. Old-fashioned English roast beef. Is that on the menu today?" "right." "Actually, it's the barbecue at the funeral. It smells delicious." He smelled it appreciatively. "You don't mind if I break my mouth like this?" "If you're here to help, then I think you'd better help." She pulled another baking tray out of the oven. "Here - turn over all the potatoes inside, making sure the other side is golden brown." Brian complied right away. "Were all these things baked in the oven when we participated in the interrogation? What if they were burnt?" "Improbable. There are temperance numbers on the oven." "It's a kind of computer, isn't it?" Lucy gave him a quick look. "That's right. Now put the baking tray in the oven. Here, take this cloth on the second shelf--I'm going to save the Yorkshire puddings on the top shelf." Brian complied, but without a scream. "Is it hot?" "A little bit, it's okay. How dangerous is cooking!" "I suppose you never cook your own food?" "Actually, I do--and often do. But it's not that kind of thing. If I don't forget to look at my watch, I can boil eggs. I can make bacon omelettes. I can put steaks in Under the grill, or opening a can of soup. I also have an electric thing like that in my apartment." "Do you live in London?" "If you call it living, that's right." His tone was dejected.He watched Lucy put the Yorkshire pudding mix into the pan. "This is fun," he said, then sighed. After her present urgent business was done, she looked at him more attentively. "What—this kitchen?" "Yeah - seeing this kitchen reminds me of our kitchen - the one I had when I was little." Lucy suddenly felt that Brian Easterly was very strange and looked pitiful.Taking a closer look at him, she saw that he was older than she first thought.He must be near forty.It seemed hard to imagine that he would be Alexander's father.Seeing him reminded her of the countless young drivers she had seen in wartime.She was fourteen then, the most impressionable age.After that, she gradually grew up until after the war.But she felt as if Brian hadn't grown up, as if, with time, he had been surpassed by others.What he says next confirms this.Now, he sat down at the kitchen table again. "It's a hard world to navigate," he said. "Don't you? I mean, it's hard for a person to orient themselves. You know, we're not trained for that." Lucy thought back to what she had heard from Emma. "You were a fighter pilot, weren't you?" she said. "You got the Distinguished Flying Cross." "That's the kind of thing that puts you in the wrong place. You get medals, so people try to make you comfortable. They give you a job, etc. They're really generous. But the job they give you It's all white-collar jobs, sitting in an office all day and messing with numbers. We are often not up to the joy of this kind of thing. You know, I have my own ideas. I have a plan or two. But, can't find I can't find anyone to support me, but I can't find anyone to join in and pay for me. If I had capital--" He meditated for a moment. "You didn't know Edith before, did you? I mean my wife. Yes, of course you didn't. She wasn't like everyone here when she was alive. She was younger, for example. She was in the Air Force, and she always It means that her father is a kind of person. Do you know? He is indeed that kind of person. He is very stingy with money. In fact, he can't take his property with him. He will distribute it to him after his death. children. Edith's share goes to Alexander, of course. But he must be twenty-one to touch the money." "I'm sorry, please come down. I'm going to plate the oven and make the gravy." At this moment Alexander and Stoddar West, red-faced and out of breath, returned. "Hello, Brian," said Alexander, kindly to his father, "so you're here. Oh, what a beef! Any Yorkshire pudding?" "Yes, there are." "The Yorkshire puddings at our school were terrible - soggy and limp." "Get out of the way," said Lucy, "I'm going to make gravy." "Make more gravy. Can we have two full plates?" "Can." "Wow!" said Stoddar West.At the same time, he carefully pronounced the pronunciation accurately. "I don't like gravy for nothing," said Alexander eagerly. "It won't be for nothing." "She's a wonderful cook!" Alexander said to his father. Lucy had at this moment the impression that they were playing opposite parts.Alexander spoke with the air of a kind father. "Can we help, Miss Esborough?" asked Stoddard West politely. "Yes, you can help. Alexander, you go and strike the gong to announce dinner. James, will you take this tray to the dining room? And, Mr. Easterly, will you take the big cutlet? I Come get the potatoes and Yorkshire puddings." "A man from Scotland Yard's Criminal Service is here," said Alexander. "Do you think he's going to lunch with us?" "That depends on how your aunt arranges." "I don't think Aunt Emma cares. She's very hospitable. But I don't think Uncle Harald would like it. He's very unhappy about the murder." Alexander carried the tray through the doorway, and at the same time added A little news. "Mr Wimbold is talking in the study with the Scotland Yard man now. But he won't stay for lunch. He says he has to go back to London. Come on, Stodler. Ah, he's gone to play the gong." Just then, the gong sounded.Stoddar West was an artist.He knocked with all his might.As a result, the conversation below was drowned out. Brian brought in the big slice.Lucy followed with the vegetables—she went back to the kitchen to fetch two full gravy plates. Mr Wimbon was standing in the hall putting on his gloves when Emma hurried down the stairs. "You really mustn't stay for lunch, Mr. Wimbold? All ready." "No, I have an important appointment in London. There is a dining car on the train." "Thank you for coming to help," Emma said gratefully. The two police officers came out of the study. Mr. Wimbold took Emma's hand. "There's nothing to worry about, my dear," he said. "This is Inspector Craddock of the Metropolitan Police Department's Criminal Service. He's come down specially to conduct the investigation. He's coming back at 2:15. He To get some facts that will help him in his investigation. But, as I have said, there is nothing to worry about." Then he glanced at Craddock. "May I repeat to Miss Crackenthorpe what you told me?" "Of course, sir." "Inspector Craddock told me just now that this is almost certainly not a local murder. The woman killed probably came from London, perhaps a foreigner." Emma Crackenthorpe said suddenly: "A foreigner. Is she French?" Mr. Wimbold's words were clearly intended to comfort her.Now, he was slightly taken aback.Democracy Craddock's eyes flicked from him to Emma's face. He didn't understand why she had assumed, without a second thought, that the murdered woman was French, and why she had been disturbed by it?

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