Chapter 11 Section 11

"I don't understand you at all," said Cedric Crackenthorpe. He walked cautiously by the crumbling wall of the long-unattended pigsty, looking intently at Lucy Esborough. "Don't understand me?" "I don't understand what you're doing here." "I'm making money to live." "Current people?" he said contemptuously. "You're so hot-headed," said Lucy. "My servant, really! I am a person who helps with housework, a specialized houseworker, and I can also be said to be a person who responds to requests—mainly the latter task."

"You can't like everything you do—like cooking, making beds, 'hoo! hoo!' vacuuming the house, soaking elbows in greasy water." Lucy laughed. "Maybe not the frivolous things, but cooking feeds my creative nature, and I really enjoy keeping a mess clean." "I live in a place that's always messy," said Cedric. "I like that," he said disapprovingly. "Looking at you like that, it seems to be true." "My hut on Evesha was simple and straightforward. Three dishes, two cups with saucers, a bed, a table, and two chairs. There was dust, paint smears, and stones everywhere. — I paint and I sculpt — and no one is allowed to touch my things, and I don’t like women around.”

"Women of any status are not allowed?" "What exactly do you mean by that?" "I would have thought that a man with such an artistic taste probably always had a love life." "My love life—as you call it—is my own work," said Cedric solemnly. "What I don't like is having a woman around, tidying up the room, disturbing me, and dominating my affairs." .” "How I'd like to try your cottage," said Lucy. "It's a test." "You won't stand a chance." "I think so." A few bricks fell off the pigsty.Cedric turned to see how the nettleweed was growing.

"Dear old Meggie," he said, "I remember her. It was a sow, and she was a loving, very productive mother. The last time I remember, she had seventeen piglets. We Used to come here in the afternoon and scratch her back with a twig, she liked that." "How did this place get what it is? It can't just be because of the war?" "You want to clean up the place, I suppose? You're an interesting woman. Now I fully understand that you'll be the one to find the dead. You wouldn't even fit a Greco-Roman sarcophagus." He paused. , and continued, "By the way, it's not just because of the war. It's because of my father, by the way, what do you think of him?"

"I don't have much time to think about it." "Don't dodge the question. I thought he was very miserly, and a little presumptuous. Of course, he hated us all, with the possible exception of Emma, ​​because of my grandfather's will." Lucy looked puzzled. "My grandfather was a wonderful man in our family. He started with shortbread, crunchy biscuits and all the nice treats for afternoon tea, and then, with his foresight, he moved on to cheese pastries and raclette very early on. So , we could supply cocktail party snack groceries on a large scale and make a lot of money. Well, then one day my dad said he had higher aspirations than making shortbread. So he traveled to Italy, the Balkans, and Greece, dabbling in art. My grandfather was very angry. He concluded that my father was not a good man for business, and that he was not very good at judging works of art (both of which were true), so he put the whole property in custody, etc. It will be passed on to his grandchildren in the future. My father can have a fixed interest income all his life, but he can't touch the principal. He moved here and started saving. I think until now, he has saved a sum, just like his grandfather left At the same time, none of us—Halald, myself, Alfred, and Emma received a penny from my grandfather. I was a very poor painter. Harold went into business and is now a He's a respectable character in the show--he's the smartest moneymaker in our family, but I've heard rumors that he's been in financial trouble lately. Where's Alfred? Ah, Alfred's in our house , everyone privately called him 'Flicky Alfred'."

"why?" "How much you want to know! The answer is that Alfred is the black sheep of our family. He hasn't been in prison yet, but he's close. During the war he was in the quartermaster department, but due to some questionable circumstances , he left abruptly. Afterwards, he did some dubious deals in canned fruit, and got into trouble selling eggs. Not on a grand scale—just incidental to some questionable deals." "Isn't it a little unwise to tell all this to strangers?" "Why? Are you a police agent?" "Maybe." "I don't think so, you were working here before the police noticed us. I think—"

He broke off suddenly, for at that moment his sister Emma came through the door of the garden. "Hello, Emma! You look as if you were troubled by something?" "Yes, I want to talk to you, Cedric." "I've got to get back inside," said Lucy sharply. "Don't go," said Cedric, "you've become part of our family by this murder." "I've got a lot to do," said Lucy, "I just came out to pick some celery." She retreated quickly to the vegetable garden, and Cedric watched her back. "A pretty girl," he said. "Who is she?"

"Well, she's famous," said Emma, ​​"and she's developed a special skill in the trade. But don't talk of Lucy Esborough now, Cedric. I'm afraid, The police evidently thought the dead man was a foreigner, perhaps a Frenchman. It didn't occur to you, Cedric, that she might be—Martine?" Cedric stared at her intently for a minute or two, as if not understanding. "Martyn? But who is it?—oh, you mean Martine?" "Yeah, you thought—" "How could it be Martine?" "But, now that I think about it, it's odd that she sent that telegram. It wasn't about the same time you thought she might be here, and—"

"Nonsense, how did Martin come here and find that long warehouse? Why? I thought it seemed absolutely impossible." "Do you think I should perhaps tell Inspector Bacon, or the other one?" "Tell him what?" "This—about Martine. About her letter." "Don't make things too complicated now. Sister, don't mention many things that have nothing to do with this matter. Anyway, I don't believe what Martine said in her letter." "I believe." "Before breakfast, you're especially inclined to believe the impossible. Miss, I advise you to sit still and keep your mouth shut. It's the police's job to identify that precious body. I'll bet Harold would say so."

"Oh, I know Harold would say that, and Alfred too. But, Cedric, I'm worried. I'm worried, and I don't know what to do." "Do nothing," said Cedric decisively. "You must keep your mouth shut, and you will not trouble yourself. That is my golden rule." Emma sighed, and walked slowly back into the room, feeling very disturbed.As she reached the drive, Dr. Quinpo came out and opened the door of his old Austin.He stopped when he saw her, then got out of the car and walked towards her. "Ah, Emma," said he, "your father is in excellent health, and the murder tastes so good to him that it will give him an interest in life, and I shall recommend this therapy to many more patients. "

Emma smiled mechanically, and Dr. Kunpo always noticed the other party's reaction immediately. "Is there something in particular that feels wrong?" Emma looked up at him.She had much to rely on now for the comfort of the physician's kindness and sympathy; he had become a friend.She depended on him for more than just medical attention.His deliberately abrupt manner could not hide from her; she knew the meaning behind it. "I'm concerned, yes," she admits. "Want to tell me? If you don't want to tell me, don't." "I want to tell you that part of it you already know, the main thing is that I don't know what to do." "I suppose your judgment is generally sound. Any difficulty?" "Do you remember—maybe, maybe you don't—do you remember I told you about my brother once?—the one who died during the war?" "You mean he's married—or is going to marry a French lady? Something of that sort?" "Yes. He died almost as soon as I got that letter. I heard nothing about the girl, as a matter of fact, all we know is her Christian name. We always look forward to her Will write, or show up, but nothing. We haven't heard a thing—yet, a month or so ago, just before Christmas—" "I remember, you got a letter, didn't you?" "Yes. It said she was in England and wanted to see us. One was all arranged, but then, at the last moment, she sent a telegram saying that something unexpected had happened and she had to go back to France." go." "So?" "The police thought the dead woman - was French." "Really? I think she looks more like an English type. But we can't really tell where she came from, so what are you worried about? Could the dead woman be your brother?" lover?" "yes." "I don't think so," said Dr. Kunpo, and then added, "But I still understand how you feel." "I was thinking maybe I should talk to the police--the whole situation. Cedric and a few others don't think so, what do you think?" "Hmm." Dr. Kunpo pouted.For a minute or two he was silent, lost in thought.Then, almost reluctantly, he said, "Of course, it's easier if you don't say anything. I can understand how your brothers feel. Still—" "yes." Dr. Kunpo looked at her.His eyes were affectionate and sparkled. "I'll go and tell them," he said. "If you don't tell them, you'll be worried forever. I know your temper." Emma felt a little embarrassed. "Maybe I'm stupid." "You can do what you want, my dear, and don't care what other people say! I will support you against them at any time."