4.50 From Paddington by Agatha Christie

all got out.

4.50 From Paddington

Chapter 8
    On entering the library Mr. Wimborne blinked a little as his shrewd old eyes went past Inspector Bacon whom he had already met, to the fairhaired, good-looking man beyond him. Inspector Bacon performed introductions.
    “This is Detective-Inspector Craddock of New Scotland Yard,” he said.
    “New Scotland Yard - hm.” Mr. Wimborne's eyebrows rose.
    Dermot Craddock, who had a pleasant manner, went easily into speech.
    “We have been called in on the case, Mr. Wimborne,” he said. “As you are representing the Crackenthorpe family, I feel it is only fair that we should give you a little confidential information.”
    Nobody could make a better show of presenting a very small portion of the truth and implying that it was the whole truth than Inspector Craddock.
    “Inspector Bacon will agree, I am sure,” he added, glancing at his colleague.
    Inspector Bacon agreed with all due solemnity and not at all as though the whole matter were prearranged.
    “It's like this,” said Craddock. “We have reason to believe, from information that has come into our possession, that the dead woman is not a native of these parts, that she travelled down here from London and that she had recently come from abroad. Probably (though we are not sure of that) from France.”
    Mr. Wimborne again raised his eyebrows.
    “Indeed,” he said. “Indeed?”
    “That being the case,” explained Inspector Bacon, “the Chief Constable felt that the Yard were better fitted to investigate the matter.”
    “I can only hope,” said Mr. Wimborne, “that the case will be solved quickly. As you can no doubt appreciate, the whole business has been a source of much distress to the family. Although not personally concerned in any way, they are -”
    He paused for a bare second, but Inspector Craddock filled the gap quickly.
    “It's not a pleasant thing to find a murdered woman on your property? I couldn't agree with you more. Now I should like to have a brief interview with the various members of the family -”
    “I really cannot see -”
    “What they can tell me? Probably nothing of interest - but one never knows. I dare say I can get most of the information I want from you, sir. Information about this house and the family.”
    “And what can that possibly have to do with an unknown young woman coming from abroad and getting herself killed here.”
    “Well, that's rather the point,” said Craddock. “Why did she come here? Had she once had some connection with this house? Had she been, for instance, a servant here at one time? A lady's maid, perhaps. Or did she come here to meet a former occupant of Rutherford Hall?”
    Mr. Wimborne said coldly that Rutherford Hall had been occupied by the Crackenthorpes ever since Josiah Crackenthorpe built it in 1884.
    “That's interesting in itself,” said Craddock. “If you'd just give me a brief outline of the family history -”
    Mr. Wimborne shrugged his shoulders.
    “There is very little to tell. Josiah Crackenthorpe was a manufacturer of sweet and savoury biscuits, relishes, pickles, etc. He accumulated a vast fortune. He built this house. Luther Crackenthorpe, his eldest son, lives here now.”
    “Any other sons?”
    “One other son. Henry, who was killed in a motor accident in 1911.”
    “And the present Mr. Crackenthorpe has never thought of selling the house?”
    “He is unable to do so,” said the lawyer dryly. “By the terms of his father's will.”
    “Perhaps you'll tell me about the will?”
    “Why should I?”
    Inspector Craddock smiled.
    “Because I can look it up myself if I want to, at Somerset House.”
    Against his will, Mr. Wimborne gave a crabbed little smile.
    “Quite right, Inspector. I was merely protesting that the information you ask for is quite irrelevant. As to Josiah Crackenthorpe's will, there is no mystery about it. He left his very considerable fortune in trust, the income from it to be paid to his son Luther for