Why Didn't They Ask Evans?

by Agatha Christie

'This is Lady Frances Derwent speaking,' said the voice coldly. 'Is that Hawkins?' 'Yes, m'lady.' 'I shall want the car at ten o'clock to take me up to London.' 'Very good, your ladyship.' Bobby replaced the receiver.

  'When does one say, "my lady", and when does one say, "your ladyship"?' he cogitated. 'I ought to know, but I don't.

  It's the sort of thing that will lead a real chauffeur or butler to catch me out.' At the other end, Frankie hung up the receiver and turned to Roger Bassingtonffrench.

  'It's a nuisance,' she observed lightly, 'to have to go up to London today. All owing to Father's fuss.' 'Still,' said Roger, 'you'll be back this evening?' 'Oh, yes!' 'I'd half thought of asking you if you'd give me a lift to town,' said Roger carelessly.

  Frankie paused for an infinitesimal second before her answer - given with an apparent readiness.

  'Why, of course,' she said.

  'But on second thoughts I don't think I will go up today,' went on Roger. 'Henry's looking even odder than usual.

  Somehow I don't very much like leaving Sylvia alone with him.' 'I know,' said Frankie.

  'Are you driving yourself?' asked Roger casually as they moved away from the telephone.

  'Yes, but I shall take Hawkins. I've got some shopping to do as well and it's a nuisance if you're driving yourself - you can't leave the car anywhere.' 'Yes, of course.' He said no more, but when the car came around, Bobby at the wheel very stiff and correct of demeanour, he came out on the doorstep to see her off.

  'Goodbye,' said Frankie.

  Under the circumstances she did not think of holding out a hand, but Roger took hers and held it a minute.

  'You are coming back?' he said with curious insistence.

  Frankie laughed.

  'Of course. I only meant goodbye till this evening.' 'Don't have any more accidents.' 'I'll let Hawkins drive if you like.' She sprang in beside Bobby, who touched his cap. The car moved off down the drive, Roger still standing on the step looking after it.

  'Bobby,' said Frankie, 'do you think it possible that Roger might fall for me?' 'Has he?' inquired Bobby.

  'Well, I just wondered.' 'I expect you know the symptoms pretty well,' said Bobby.

  But he spoke absently. Frankie shot him a quick glance.

  'Has anything - happened?' she asked.

  'Yes, it has. Frankie, I've found the original of the photograph!' 'You mean - the one - the one you talked so much about the one that was in the dead man's pocket?' 'Yes.' 'Bobby! I've got a few things to tell you, but nothing to this.

  Where did you find her?' Bobby jerked his head back over his shoulder.

  'In Dr Nicholson's nursing home.' 'Tell me.' Carefully and meticulously Bobby described the events of the previous night. Frankie listened breathlessly.

  "Then we are on the right track,' she said. 'And Dr Nicholson is mixed up in all this! I'm afraid of that man.' 'What is he like?' 'Oh! big and forceful - and he watches you. Very intently behind glasses. And you feel he knows all about you.' 'When did you meet him?' 'He came to dinner.' She described the dinner party and Dr Nicholson's insistent dwelling on the details of her 'accident'.

  'I felt he was suspicious,' she ended up.

  'It's certainly queer his going into details like that,' said Bobby. 'What do you think is at the bottom of all this business, Frankie?' 'Well, I'm beginning to think that your suggestion of a dope gang, which I was so haughty about at the time, isn't such a bad guess after all.' 'With Dr Nicholson at the head of the gang?' 'Yes. This nursing home business would be a very good cloak for that sort of thing. He'd have a certain supply of drugs on the premises quite legitimately. While pretending to cure drug cases, he might really be supplying them with the stuff.' 'That seems plausible enough,' agreed Bobby.

  'I haven't told you yet about Henry Bassingtonffrench.' Bobby listened attentively to her description of her host's idiosyncracies.

  'His wife doesn't suspect?' 'I'm sure she doesn't.' 'What is she like? Intelligent?' 'I never thought exactly. No, I suppose she isn't very. And yet in some ways she seems quite shrewd. A frank, pleasant woman.' 'And our Bassingtonffrench?' 'There I'm puzzled,' said Frankie slowly. 'Do you think, Bobby, that just possibly we might be all wrong about him?' 'Nonsense,' said Bobby. 'We worked it all out and decided that he must be the villain of the piece.' 'Because of the photograph?' 'Because of the photograph. No one else could have changed that photograph for the other.' 'I know,' said Frankie. 'But that one incident is all that we have against him.' 'It's quite enough.' 'I suppose so. And yet ' 'Well?' 'I don't know, but I have a queer sort of feeling that he's innocent - that he's not concerned in the matter at all.' Bobby looked at her coldly.

  'Did you say that he had fallen for you or that you had fallen for him?' he inquired politely.

  Frankie flushed.

  'Don't be so absurd, Bobby. I just wondered if there couldn't be some innocent explanation, that's all.' 'I don't see that there can be. Especially now that we've actually found the girl in the neighbourhood. That seems to clinch matters. If we only had some inkling as to who the dead man was ' 'Oh, but I have. I told you so in my letter. I'm nearly sure that the murdered man was somebody called Alan Carstairs.' Once more she plunged into narrative.

  'You know,' said Bobby, 'we really are getting on. Now we must try, more or less, to reconstruct the crime. Let's spread out our facts and see what sort of a job we can make of it.' He paused for a moment and the car slackened speed as though in sympathy. Then he pressed his foot down once more on the accelerator and at the same time spoke.

  'First, we'll assume that you are right about Alan Carstairs.

  He certainly fulfils the conditions. He's the right sort of man, he led a wandering life, he had very few friends and acquaintances in England, and if he disappeared he wasn't likely to be missed or sought after.

  'So far, good. Alan Carstairs comes down to Staverley with these people - what did you say their name was - ?' 'Rivington. There's a possible channel of inquiry there. In fact, I think we ought to follow it up.' 'We will. Very well, Carstairs comes down to Staverley with the Rivingtons. Now, is there anything in that?' 'You mean did he get them to bring him down here deliberately?' 'That's what I mean. Or was it just a casual chance? Was he brought down here by them and did he then come across the girl by accident just as I did? I presume he knew her before or he wouldn't have had her photograph on him.' 'The alternative being,' said Frankie thoughtfully, 'that he was already on the track of Nicholson and his gang.' 'And used the Rivingtons as a means of getting to this part of the world naturally?' 'That's quite a possible theory,' said Frankie. 'He may have been on the track of this gang.' 'Or simply on the track of the girl.' 'The girl?' 'Yes. She may have been abducted. He may have come over to England to find her.' 'Well, but if he had tracked her down to Staverley, why should he go off to Wales?' 'Obviously, there's a lot we don't know yet,' said Bobby.

  'Evans,' said Frankie thoughtfully. 'We don't get any clues as to Evans. The Evans part of it must have to do with Wales.' They were both silent for a moment or two. Then Frankie woke up to her surroundings.

  'My dear, we're actually at Putney Hill. It seems like five minutes. Where are we going and what are we doing?' 'That's for you to say. I don't even know why we've come up to town.' 'The journey to town was only an excuse for getting a talk with you. I couldn't very well risk being seen walking the lanes at Staverley deep in conversation with my chauffeur. I used the pseudo-letter from Father as an excuse for driving up to town and talking to you on the way and even that was nearly wrecked by Bassington-ffrench coming too.' 'That would have torn it severely.' 'Not really. We'd have dropped him wherever he liked and then we'd have gone on to Brook Street and talked there. I think we'd better do that, anyway. Your garage place may be watched.' Bobby agreed and related the episode of the inquiries made about him at Marchbolt.

  'We'll go to the Derwents' town residence,' said Frankie.

  'There's no one there but my maid and a couple of caretakers.' They drove to Brook Street. Fr
ankie rang the bell and was admitted, Bobby remaining outside. Presently Frankie opened the door again and beckoned him in. They went upstairs to the big drawing-room and pulled up some of the blinds and removed the swathing from one of the sofas.

  'There's one other thing I forgot to tell you,' said Frankie.

  'On the 16th, the day you were poisoned, Bassingtonffrench was at Staverley, but Nicholson was away - supposedly at a conference in London. And his car is a dark-blue Talbot.' 'And he has access to morphia,' said Bobby.

  They exchanged significant glances.

  'It's not exactly evidence, I suppose,' said Bobby, 'but it fits in nicely.' Frankie went to a side table and returned with a telephone directory.

  'What are you going to do?' 'I'm looking up the name Rivington.' She turned pages rapidly.

  'A. Rivington & Sons, Builders. B. A. C. Rivington, Dental Surgeon. D. Rivington, Shooters Hill, I think not. Miss Florence Rivington. Col. H. Rivington, D.S.O. - that's more like it - Tite Street, Chelsea.' She continued her search.

  'There's M. R. Rivington, Onslow Square. He's possible.

  And there's a William Rivington at Hampstead. I think Onslow Square and Tite Street are the most likely ones. The Rivingtons, Bobby, have got to be seen without delay.' 'I think you're right. But what are we going to say? Think up a few good lies, Frankie. I'm not much good at that sort of thing.' Frankie reflected for a minute or two.

  'I think,' she said, 'that'll you have to go. Do you feel you could be the junior partner of a solicitors' firm?' That seems a most gentlemanly role,' said Bobby. t! was afraid you might think of something much worse than that. All the same, it's not quite in character, is it?' 'How do you mean?' 'Well, solicitors never do make personal visits, do they?

  Surely they always write letters at six and eightpence a time, or else write and ask someone to keep an appointment at their office.' 'This particular firm of solicitors is unconventional,' said Frankie. 'Wait a minute.' She left the room and returned with a card.

  'Mr Frederick Spragge,' she said, handing it to Bobby. 'You are a young member of the firm of Spragge, Spragge, Jenkinson and Spragge, of Bloomsbury Square.' 'Did you invent that firm, Frankie?' 'Certainly not. They're Father's solicitors.' 'And suppose they have me up for impersonation?' 'That's all right. There isn't any young Spragge. The only Spragge is about a hundred, and anyway he eats out of my hand. I'll fix him if things go wrong. He's a great snob - he loves lords and dukes, however little money he makes out of them.' 'What about clothes? Shall I ring up Badger to bring some along?' Frankie looked doubtful.

  'I don't want to insult your clothes, Bobby,' she said. 'Or throw your poverty in your teeth, or anything like that. But will they carry conviction? I think, myself, that we'd better raid Father's wardrobe. His clothes won't fit you too badly.' A quarter of an hour later, Bobby, attired in a morning coat and striped trousers of exquisitely correct cut and passable fit, stood surveying himself in Lord Marchington's pier glass.

  'Your father does himself well in clothes,' he remarked graciously. 'With the might of Savile Row behind me, I feel a great increase of confidence.' 'I suppose you'll have to stick to your moustache,' said Frankie.

  'It's sticking to me,' said Bobby. 'It's a work of art that couldn't be repeated in a hurry.' 'You'd better keep it, then. Though it's more legal-looking to be clean-shaven.' 'It's better than a beard,' said Bobby. 'Now, then, Frankie, do you think your father could lend me a hat?'

  CHAPTER 17 Mrs Rivington Talks

  'Supposing,' said Bobby, pausing on the doorstep, 'that Mr M.

  R. Rivington of Onslow Square is himself a solicitor? That would be a blow.' 'You'd better try the Tite Street colonel first,' said Frankie.

  'He won't know anything about solicitors.' Accordingly, Bobby took a taxi to Tite Street. Colonel Rivington was out. Mrs Rivington, however, was at home.

  Bobby delivered over to the smart parlourmaid his card on which he had written: 'From Messrs Spragge, Spragge, Jenkinson Spragge. Very Urgent.

  The card and Lord Marchington's clothes produced their effect upon the parlourmaid. She did not for an instant suspect that Bobby had come to sell miniatures or tout for insurances.

  He was shown into a beautifully and expensively furnished drawing-room and presently Mrs Rivington, beautifully and expensively dressed and made up, came into the room.

  'I must apologize for troubling you, Mrs Rivington,' said Bobby. 'But the matter was rather urgent and we wished to avoid the delay of letters.' That any solicitor could ever wish to avoid delay seemed so transparently impossible that Bobby for a moment wondered anxiously whether Mrs Rivington would see through the pretence.

  Mrs Rivington, however, was clearly a woman of more looks than brains who accepted things as they were presented to her.

  'Oh, do sit down!' she said. 'I got the telephone message just now from your office saying that you were on your way here.' Bobby mentally applauded Frankie for this last-minute flash of brilliance.

  He sat down and endeavoured to look legal.

  'It is about our client, Mr Alan Carstairs,' he said.

  Oh, yes?' 'He may have mentioned that we were acting for him.' 'Did he now? I believe he did,' said Mrs Rivington, opening very large blue eyes. She was clearly of a suggestible type. 'But of course, I know about you. You acted for Dolly Maltravers, didn't you, when she shot that dreadful dressmaker man? I suppose you know all the details?' She looked at him with frank curiosity. It seemed to Bobby that Mrs Rivington was going to be easy meat.

  'We know a lot that never comes into court,' he said, smiling.

  'Oh, I suppose you must.' Mrs Rivington looked at him enviously. 'Tell me, did she really - I mean, was she dressed as that woman said?' 'The story was contradicted in court,' said Bobby solemnly.

  He slightly dropped the corner of his eyelid.

  'Oh, I see,' breathed Mrs Rivington, enraptured.

  'About Mr Carstairs,' said Bobby, feeling that he had now established friendly relations and could get on with his job. 'He left England very suddenly, as perhaps you know?' Mrs Rivington shook her head.

  'Has he left England? I didn't know. We haven't seen him for some time.' 'Did he tell you how long he expected to be over here?' 'He said he might be here for a week or two or it might be six months or a year.' 'Where was he staying?' 'At the Savoy.' 'And you saw him last - when?' 'Oh, about three weeks or a month ago. I can't remember.' 'You took him down to Staverley one day?' 'Of course! I believe that's the last time we saw him. He rang up to know when he could see us. He'd just arrived in London and Hubert was very put out because we were going up to Scotland the next day, and we were going down to Staverley to lunch and dining out with some dreadful people that we couldn't get rid of, and he wanted to see Carstairs because he liked him so much, and so I said: "My dear, let's take him down to the Bassington-ffrenches with us. They won't mind.' And we did. And, of course, they didn't.' She came breathlessly to a pause.

  'Did he tell you his reasons for being in England?' asked Bobby.

  'No. Did he have any? Oh yes, I know. We thought it was something to do with that millionaire man, that friend of his, who had such a tragic death. Some doctor told him he had cancer and he killed himself. A very wicked thing for a doctor to do, don't you think so? And they're often quite wrong. Our doctor said the other day that my little girl had measles and it turned out to be a sort of heat rash. I told Hubert I should change him.' Ignoring Mrs Rivington's treatment of doctors as though they were library books, Bobby returned to the point.

  'Did Mr Carstairs know the Bassingtonffrenches?' 'Oh, no! But I think he liked them. Though he was very queer and moody on the way back. I suppose something that had been said must have upset him. He's a Canadian, you know, and I often think Canadians are so touchy.' 'You don't know what it was that upset him?' 'I haven't the least idea. The silliest things do it sometimes, don't they?' 'Did he take any walks in the neighbourhood?' asked Bobby.

  'Oh, no! What a very odd idea!' She stared at him.


  Bobby tried again.

  'Was there a party? Did he meet any of the neighbours?' 'No, it was just ourselves and them. But it's odd your saying that ' 'Yes,' said Bobby eagerly, as she paused.

  'Because he asked a most frightful lot of questions about some people who lived near there.' 'Do you remember the name?' 'No, I don't. It wasn't anyone very interesting - some doctor or other.' 'Dr Nicholson?' 'I believe that was the name. He wanted to know all about him and his wife and when they came there - all sorts of things.

  It seemed so odd when he didn't know them, and he wasn't a bit a curious man as a rule. But, of course, perhaps he was only making conversation, and couldn't think of anything to say.

  One does do things like that sometimes.' Bobby agreed that one did and asked how the subject of the Nicholsons had come up, but that Mrs Rivington was unable to tell him. She had been out with Henry Bassington-ffrench in the garden and had come in to find the others discussing the Nicholsons.