Read Online 4.50 From Paddington by Agatha Christie - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Agatha Christie
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suppose,” said Inspector Bacon.
“She's not really as devoted as all that - but she's got the instinct some women have to make their menfolk happy. She sees that her father likes being an invalid, so she lets him be an invalid. She's the same with her brothers. Cedric feels he's a good painter, what's-his-name - Harold - knows how much she relies on his sound judgement - she lets Alfred shock her with his stories of his clever deals. Oh, yes, she's a clever woman - no fool. Well, do you want me for anything? Want me to have a look at your corpse now Johnstone has done with it” (Johnstone was the police surgeon) “and see if it happens to be one of my medical mistakes?”
“I'd like you to have a look, yes. Doctor. We want to get her identified. I suppose it's impossible for old Mr. Crackenthorpe? Too much of a strain?”
“Strain? Fiddlesticks. He'd never forgive you or me if you didn't let him have a peep. He's all agog. Most exciting thing that's happened to him for fifteen years or so - and it won't cost him anything!”
“There's nothing really much wrong with him then?”
“He's seventy-two,” said the doctor. “That's all, really, that's the matter with him. He has odd rheumatic twinges - who doesn't? So he calls it arthritis. He has palpitations after meals - as well he may - he puts them down to 'heart'. But he can always do anything he wants to do! I've plenty of patients like that. The ones who are really ill usually insist desperately that they're perfectly well. Come on, let's go and see this body of yours. Unpleasant, I suppose?”
“Johnstone estimates she's been dead between a fortnight and three weeks.”
“Quite unpleasant, then.”
The doctor stood by the sarcophagus and looked down with frank curiosity, professionally unmoved by what he had named the “unpleasantness”.
“Never seen her before. No patient of mine. I don't remember ever seeing her about in Brackhampton. She must have been quite good-looking once - hm - somebody had it in for her all right.”
They went out again into the air. Doctor Quimper glanced up at the building.
“Found in the - what do they call it? - the Long Barn - in a sarcophagus! Fantastic! Who found her?”
“Miss Lucy Eyelesbarrow.”
“Oh, the latest lady help? What was she doing, poking about in sarcophagi?”
“That,” said Inspector Bacon grimly, “is just what I am going to ask her. Now, about Mr. Crackenthorpe. Will you -?”
“I'll bring him along.”
Mr. Crackenthorpe, muffled in scarves, came walking at a brisk pace, the doctor beside him.
“Disgraceful,” he said. “Absolutely disgraceful! I brought back that sarcophagus from Florence in - let me see - it must have been in 1908 - or was it 1909?”
“Steady now,” the doctor warned him. “This isn't going to be nice, you know.”
“No matter how ill I am, I've got to do my duty, haven't I?”
A very brief visit inside the Long Barn was, however, quite long enough. Mr. Crackenthorpe shuffled out into the air again with remarkable speed.
“Never saw her before in my life!” he said. “What's it mean? Absolutely disgraceful. It wasn't Florence - I remember now - it was Naples. A very fine specimen. And some fool of a woman has to come and get herself killed in it!”
He clutched at the folds of his overcoat on the left side.
“Too much for me... My heart... Where's Emma? Doctor...”
Doctor Quimper took his arm.
“You'll be all right,” he said. “I prescribe a little stimulant. Brandy.”
They went back together towards the house.
“Sir. Please, sir.”
Inspector Bacon turned. Two boys had arrived, breathless, on bicycles. Their faces were full of eager pleading.
“Please, sir, can we see the body?”
“No, you can't,” said Inspector Bacon.
“Oh, sir, please, sir. You never know. We might know who she was. Oh, please, sir, do be a sport. It's not fair. Here's a murder, right in our own barn. It's the sort of chance that might never happen again.
“She's not really as devoted as all that - but she's got the instinct some women have to make their menfolk happy. She sees that her father likes being an invalid, so she lets him be an invalid. She's the same with her brothers. Cedric feels he's a good painter, what's-his-name - Harold - knows how much she relies on his sound judgement - she lets Alfred shock her with his stories of his clever deals. Oh, yes, she's a clever woman - no fool. Well, do you want me for anything? Want me to have a look at your corpse now Johnstone has done with it” (Johnstone was the police surgeon) “and see if it happens to be one of my medical mistakes?”
“I'd like you to have a look, yes. Doctor. We want to get her identified. I suppose it's impossible for old Mr. Crackenthorpe? Too much of a strain?”
“Strain? Fiddlesticks. He'd never forgive you or me if you didn't let him have a peep. He's all agog. Most exciting thing that's happened to him for fifteen years or so - and it won't cost him anything!”
“There's nothing really much wrong with him then?”
“He's seventy-two,” said the doctor. “That's all, really, that's the matter with him. He has odd rheumatic twinges - who doesn't? So he calls it arthritis. He has palpitations after meals - as well he may - he puts them down to 'heart'. But he can always do anything he wants to do! I've plenty of patients like that. The ones who are really ill usually insist desperately that they're perfectly well. Come on, let's go and see this body of yours. Unpleasant, I suppose?”
“Johnstone estimates she's been dead between a fortnight and three weeks.”
“Quite unpleasant, then.”
The doctor stood by the sarcophagus and looked down with frank curiosity, professionally unmoved by what he had named the “unpleasantness”.
“Never seen her before. No patient of mine. I don't remember ever seeing her about in Brackhampton. She must have been quite good-looking once - hm - somebody had it in for her all right.”
They went out again into the air. Doctor Quimper glanced up at the building.
“Found in the - what do they call it? - the Long Barn - in a sarcophagus! Fantastic! Who found her?”
“Miss Lucy Eyelesbarrow.”
“Oh, the latest lady help? What was she doing, poking about in sarcophagi?”
“That,” said Inspector Bacon grimly, “is just what I am going to ask her. Now, about Mr. Crackenthorpe. Will you -?”
“I'll bring him along.”
Mr. Crackenthorpe, muffled in scarves, came walking at a brisk pace, the doctor beside him.
“Disgraceful,” he said. “Absolutely disgraceful! I brought back that sarcophagus from Florence in - let me see - it must have been in 1908 - or was it 1909?”
“Steady now,” the doctor warned him. “This isn't going to be nice, you know.”
“No matter how ill I am, I've got to do my duty, haven't I?”
A very brief visit inside the Long Barn was, however, quite long enough. Mr. Crackenthorpe shuffled out into the air again with remarkable speed.
“Never saw her before in my life!” he said. “What's it mean? Absolutely disgraceful. It wasn't Florence - I remember now - it was Naples. A very fine specimen. And some fool of a woman has to come and get herself killed in it!”
He clutched at the folds of his overcoat on the left side.
“Too much for me... My heart... Where's Emma? Doctor...”
Doctor Quimper took his arm.
“You'll be all right,” he said. “I prescribe a little stimulant. Brandy.”
They went back together towards the house.
“Sir. Please, sir.”
Inspector Bacon turned. Two boys had arrived, breathless, on bicycles. Their faces were full of eager pleading.
“Please, sir, can we see the body?”
“No, you can't,” said Inspector Bacon.
“Oh, sir, please, sir. You never know. We might know who she was. Oh, please, sir, do be a sport. It's not fair. Here's a murder, right in our own barn. It's the sort of chance that might never happen again.
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