'A man like Mr Savage, with his knowledge of life, ought to have been less easily taken in - but -' Mr Spragge shook his head sadly as a vision of innumerable clients who ought to have known better and who had come to him to have their cases settled out of court passed across his mind.
Frankie rose.
Then are extraordinary creatures,' she said.
She held out a hand.
'Goodbye, Mr Spragge,' she said. 'You've been wonderful simply wonderful. I feel too ashamed.' 'You Bright Young People must be more careful,' said Mr Spragge, shaking his head at her.
'You've been an angel,' said Frankie.
She squeezed his hand fervently and departed.
Mr Spragge sat down again before his table.
He was thinking.
'The young Duke of ' There were only two dukes who could be so described.
Which was it?
He picked up a Peerage.
CHAPTER 26 Nocturnal Adventure
The inexplicable absence of Moira worried Bobby more than he cared to admit. He told himself repeatedly that it was absurd to jump to conclusions - that it was fantastic to imagine that Moira had been done away with in a house full of possible witnesses - that there was probably some perfectly simple explanation and that at the worst she could only be a prisoner in the Grange.
That she had left Staverley of her own free will Bobby did not for one minute believe. He was convinced that she would never have gone off like that without sending him a word of explanation. Besides, she had stated emphatically that she had nowhere to go.
No, the sinister Dr Nicholson was at the bottom of this.
Somehow or other he must have become aware of Moira's -activities and this was his counter move. Somewhere within the sinister walls of the Grange Moira was a prisoner, unable to communicate with the outside world.
But she might not remain a prisoner long. Bobby believed implicitly every word Moira had uttered. Her fears were neither the result of a vivid imagination not yet of nerves. They were simple stark truth.
Nicholson meant to get rid of his wife. Several times his plans had miscarried. Now, by communicating her fears to others, she had forced his hand. He must act quickly or not at all. Would he have the nerve to act?
Bobby believed he would. He must know that, even if these strangers had listened to his wife's fears, they had no evidence.
Also, he would believe that he had only Frankie to deal with. It was possible that he had suspected her from the first - his pertinent questioning as to her 'accident' seemed to point to that - but as Lady Frances' chauffeur, Bobby did not believe that he himself was suspected of being anything other than he appeared to be.
Yes, Nicholson would act. Moira's body would probably be found in some district far from Staverley. It might, perhaps, be washed up by the sea. Or it might be found at the foot of a cliff.
The thing would appear to be, Bobby was almost sure, an 'accident'. Nicholson specialized in accidents.
Nevertheless, Bobby believed that the planning and carrying out of such an accident would need time - not much time, but a certain amount. Nicholson's hand was being forced - he had to act quicker than he had anticipated. It seemed reasonable to suppose that twenty-four hours at least must elapse before he could put any plan into operation.
Before that interval had elapsed, Bobby meant to have found Moira if she were in the Grange.
After he had left Frankie in Brook Street, he started to put his plans into operation. He judged it wise to give the Mews a wide berth. For all he knew, a watch might be being kept on it.
As Hawkins, he believed himself to be still unsuspected. Now Hawkins in turn was about to disappear.
That evening, a young man with a moustache, dressed in a cheap dark-blue suit, arrived at the bustling little town of Ambledever. The young man put up at an hotel near the station, registering as George Parker. Having deposited his suitcase there he strolled out and entered into negotiations for hiring a motorcycle.
At ten o'clock that evening a motor-cyclist in cap and goggles passed through the village of Staverley, and came to a halt at a deserted part of the road not far from the Grange.
Hastily shoving the bicycle behind some convenient bushes, Bobby looked up and down the road. It was quite deserted.
Then he sauntered along the wall till he came to the little door. As before, it was unlocked. With another look up and down the road to make sure he was not observed, Bobby slipped quietly inside. He put his hand into the pocket of his coat where a bulge showed the presence of his service revolver.
The feel of it was reassuring.
Inside the grounds of the Grange everything seemed quiet.
Bobby grinned to himself as he recalled bloodcurdling stories where the villain of the piece kept a cheetah or some excited beast of prey about the place to deal with intruders.
Dr Nicholson seemed content with mere bolts and bars and even there he seemed to be somewhat remiss. Bobby felt certain that that little door should not have been left open. As the villain of the piece, Dr Nicholson seemed regrettably careless.
'No tame pythons,' thought Bobby. 'No cheetahs, no electrically-charged wires - the man is shamefully behind the times.' He made these reflections more to cheer himself up than for any other reason. Every time he thought of Moira a queer constriction seemed to tighten around his heart.
Her face rose in the air before him - the trembling lips - the wide, terrified eyes. It was just about here he had first seen her in the flesh. A little thrill ran through him as he remembered how he had put his arm round her to steady her.
Moira - where was she now? What had that sinister doctor done with her? If only she were still alive.
'She must be,' said Bobby grimly between set lips. 'I'm not going to think anything else.' He made a careful reconnaissance round the house. Some of the upstairs windows had lights in them and there was one lighted window on the ground floor.
Towards this window Bobby crept. The curtains were drawn across it, but there was a slight chink between them.
Bobby put a knee on the window-sill and hoisted himself noiselessly up. He peered through the slits.
He could see a man's arm and shoulder moving along as though writing. Presently the man shifted his position and his profile came into view. It was Dr Nicholson.
It was a curious position. Quite unconscious that he was being watched, the doctor wrote steadily on. A queer sort of fascination stole over Bobby. The man was so near him that, but for the intervening glass, he could have stretched out his arm and touched him.
For the first time, Bobby felt, he was really seeing the man.
It was a forceful profile, the big, bold nose, the jutting chin, the crisp, well-shaven line of the jaw. The ears, Bobby noted, were small and laid flat to the head and the lobe of the ear was actually joined to the cheek. He had an idea that ears like these were said to have some special significance.
The doctor wrote on - calm and unhurried. Now pausing for a moment or two as though to think of the right word - then setting to once more. His pen moved over the paper, precisely and evenly. Once he took off his prince-nez, polished them and put them on again.
At last with a sigh Bobby let himself slide noiselessly to the ground. From the look of it, Nicholson would be writing for some time to come. Now was the moment to gain admission to the house.
If Bobby could force an entrance by an upstairs window while the doctor was writing in his study he could explore the building at his leisure later in the night.
He made a circuit of the house again and singled out a window on the first floor. The sash was open at the top but there was no light in the room, so that it was probably unoccupied at the moment. Moreover, a very convenient tree seemed to promise an easy means of access.
In another minute, Bobby was swarming up the tree. All went well and he was just stretching out his hand to take a grip of the window ledge when an ominous crack came from the branch he was on and the next minute the bough
, a rotten one, had snapped and Bobby was pitchforked head first into a clump of hydrangea bushes below, which fortunately broke his fall.
The window of Nicholson's study was farther along on the same side of the house. Bobby heard an exclamation in the doctor's voice and the window was flung up. Bobby, recovering from the first shock of his fall, sprang up, disentangled himself from the hydrangeas and bolted across the dark patch of shadow into the pathway leading to the little door. He went a short way along it, then dived into the bushes.
He heard the sound of voices and saw lights moving near the trampled and broken hydrangeas. Bobby kept still and held his breath. They might come along the path. If so, finding the door open, they would probably conclude that anyone had escaped that way and would not prosecute the search further.
However, the minutes passed and nobody came. Presently Bobby heard Nicholson's voice raised in a question. He did not hear the words but he heard an answer given in a hoarse, rather uneducated voice.
'All present and correct, sir. I've made the rounds.' The sounds gradually died down, the lights disappeared.
Everyone seemed to have returned to the house.
Very cautiously, Bobby came out of his hiding place. He emerged on to the path, listening. All was still. He took a step or two towards the house.
And then out of the darkness something struck him on the back of the neck. He fell forward... into darkness.
CHAPTER 27 'My Brother was Murdered'
On Friday morning the green Bentley drew up outside the Station Hotel at Ambledever.
Frankie had wired Bobby under the name they had agreed upon - George Parker - that she would be required to give evidence at the inquest on Henry Bassington-ffrench and would call in at Ambledever on the way down from London.
She had expected a wire in reply appointing some rendezvous, but nothing had come, so she had come to the hotel.
'Mr Parker, miss?' said the boots. 'I don't think there's any gentleman of that name stopping here, but I'll see.' He returned a few minutes later.
'Came here Wednesday evening, miss. Left his bag and said he mightn't be in till late. His bag's still here but he hasn't been back to fetch it.' Frankie felt suddenly rather sick. She clutched at a table for support. The man was looking at her sympathetically.
'Feeling bad, miss?' he inquired.
Frankie shook her head.
'It's all right,' she managed to say. 'He didn't leave any message?' The man went away again and returned, shaking his head.
'There's a telegram come for him,' he said. 'That's all.' He looked at her curiously.
'Anything I can do, miss?' he asked.
Frankie shook her head.
At the moment she only wanted to get away. She must have time to think what to do next.
'It's all right,' she said and, getting into the Bentley, she drove away.
The man nodded his head wisely as he looked after her.
'He's done a bunk, he has,' he said to himself. 'Disappointed her. Given her the slip. A fine rakish piece of goods she is.
Wonder what he was like?' He asked the young lady in the reception office, but the young lady couldn't remember.
'A couple of nobs,' said the boots wisely. 'Going to get married on the quiet - and he's hooked it.' Meanwhile, Frankie was driving in the direction of Staverley, her mind a maze of conflicting emotions.
Why had Bobby not returned to the Station Hotel? There could only be two reasons: either he was on the trail - and that trail had taken him away somewhere, or else - or else something had gone wrong. The Bentley swerved dangerously.
Frankie recovered control just in time.
She was being an idiot - imagining things. Of course, Bobby was all right. He was on the trail - that was all-on the trail.
But why, asked another voice, hadn't he sent her a word of reassurance?
That was more difficult to explain, but there were explanations.
Difficult circumstances - no time or opportunity Bobby would know that she, Frankie, wouldn't get the wind up about him. Everything was all right - bound to be.
The inquest passed like a dream. Roger was there and Sylvia - looking quite beautiful in her widow's weeds. She made an impressive figure and a moving one. Frankie found herself admiring her as though she were admiring a performance at a theatre.
The proceedings were very tactfully conducted. The Bassington-ffrenches were popular locally and everything was done to spare the feelings of the widow and the brother of the dead man.
Frankie and Roger gave their evidence - Dr Nicholson gave his - the dead man's farewell letter was produced. The thing seemed over in no time and the verdict given - 'Suicide while of Unsound Mind'.
The 'sympathetic' verdict, as Mr Spragge had called it.
The two events connected themselves in Frankie's mind.
Two suicides while of Unsound Mind. Was there - could there be a connection between them?
That this suicide was genuine enough she knew, for she had been on the scene. Bobby's theory of murder had had to be dismissed as untenable. Dr Nicholson's alibi was cast iron vouched for by the widow herself.
Frankie and Dr Nicholson remained behind after the other people departed, the coroner having shaken hands with Sylvia and uttered a few words of sympathy.
'I think there are some letters for you, Frankie, dear,' said Sylvia. 'You won't mind if I leave you now and go and lie down.
It's all been so awful.' She shivered and left the room. Nicholson went with her, murmuring something about a sedative.
Frankie turned to Roger.
'Roger, Bobby's disappeared.' 'Disappeared?' 'Yes!' 'Where and how?' Frankie explained in a few rapid words.
'And he's not been seen since?' said Roger.
'No. What do you think?' 'I don't like the sound of it,' said Roger slowly.
Frankie's heart sank.
'You don't think - ?' 'Oh! it may be all right, but - sh, here comes Nicholson.' The doctor entered the room with his noiseless tread. He was rubbing his hands together and smiling.
'That went off very well,' he said. 'Very well, indeed. Dr Davidson was most tactful and considerate. We may consider ourselves very lucky to have had him as our local coroner.' 'I suppose so,' said Frankie mechanically.
'It makes a lot of difference. Lady Frances. The conduct of an inquest is entirely in the hands of the coroner. He has wide powers. He can make things easy or difficult as he pleases. In this case everything went off perfectly.' 'A good stage performance, in fact,' said Frankie in a hard voice.
Nicholson looked at her in surprise.
'I know what Lady Frances is feeling,' said Roger. 'I feel the same. My brother was murdered, Dr Nicholson.' He was standing behind the other and did not see, as Frankie did, the startled expression that sprang into the doctor's eyes.
'I mean what I say,' said Roger, interrupting Nicholson as he was about to reply. 'The law may not regard it as such, but murder it was. The criminal brutes who induced my brother to become a slave to that drug murdered him just as truly as if they had struck him down.' He had moved a little and his angry eyes now looked straight into the doctor's.
'I mean to get even with them,' he said; and the words sounded like a threat.
Dr Nicholson's pale-blue eyes fell before his. He shook his head sadly.
'I cannot say I disagree with you,' he said. 'I know more about drug-taking than you do, Mr Bassington-ffrench. To induce a man to take drugs is indeed a most terrible crime.' Ideas were whirling through Frankie's head - one idea in particular.
'It can't be,' she was saying to herself. 'That would be too monstrous. And yet^ his whole alibi depends on her word. But in that case -' j She roused herself to find Nicholson speaking to her.
'You came down by car. Lady Frances? No accident this time?' Frankie felt she simply hated that smile.
'No,' she said. 'I think it's a pity to go in too much for accidents - don't you?' She wondered if she had imagined it, or whether his eyelids really fl
ickered for a moment.
'Perhaps your chauffeur drove you this time?' 'My chauffeur,' said Frankie, 'has disappeared.' She looked straight at Nicholson.
Indeed?' 'He was last seen heading for the Grange,' went on Frankie.
Nicholson raised his eyebrows.
'Really? Have I - some attraction in the kitchen?' His voice sounded amused. 'I can hardly believe it.' 'At any rate that is where he was last seen,' said Frankie.
Agatha Christie - Why Didn't They Ask Evans Page 16