'" Why didn 't they ask Evans? "' Bobby repeated the phrase thoughtfully. 'You know, I can't see what on earth there can be in that to put the wind up anybody.' 'Ah! that's because you don't know. It's like making crossword puzzles. You write down a clue and you think it's too idiotically simple and that everyone will guess it straight off, and you're frightfully surprised when they simply can't get it in the least. " Why didn't they ask Evans? " must have been a most frightfully significant phrase to them, and they couldn't realize that it meant nothing at all to you.' 'More fools they.' 'Oh, quite so. But it's just possible they thought that if Pritchard said that, he might have said something more which would also recur to you in due time. Anyway, they weren't going to take chances. You were safer out of the way.' 'They took a lot of risk. Why didn't they engineer another "accident"?' 'No, no. That would have been stupid. Two accidents within a week of each other? It might have suggested a connection between the two, and then people would have begun inquiring into the first one. No, I think there's a kind of bald simplicity about their method which is really rather clever.' 'And yet you said just now that morphia wasn't easy to get hold of.' 'No more it isn't. You have to sign poison books and things.
Oh! of course, that's a clue. Whoever did it had easy access to supplies of morphia.' 'A doctor, a hospital nurse, or a chemist,' suggested Bobby.
'Well, I was thinking more of illicitly imported drugs.' 'You can't mix up too many different sorts of crime,' said Bobby.
'You see, the strong point would be the absence of motive.
Your death doesn't benefit anyone. So what will the police think?' 'A lunatic,' said Bobby. 'And that's what they do think.' 'You see? It's awfully simple, really.' Bobby began to laugh suddenly.
'What's amusing you?' 'Just the thought of how sick-making it must be for them!
All that morphia - enough to kill five or six people - and here I am still alive and kicking.' 'One of Life's little ironies that one can't foresee,' agreed Frankie.
'The question is - what do we do next?' said Bobby practically.
'Oh! lots of things,' said Frankie promptly.
'Such as... ?' 'Well - finding out about the photograph - that there was only one, not two. And about Bassington-ffrench's house hunting.' 'That will probably be quite all right and above board.' 'Why do you say that?' 'Look here, Frankie, think a minute. Bassingtonffrench must be above suspicion. He must be all clear and above board.
Not only must there be nothing to connect him in any way with the dead man, but he must have a proper reason for being down here. He may have invented house hunting on the spur of the moment, but I bet he carried out something of the kind. There must be no suggestion of a "mysterious stranger seen in the neighbourhood of the accident". I fancy that Bassingtonffrench is his own name and that he's the sort of person who would be quite above suspicion.' 'Yes,' said Frankie thoughtfully. 'That's a very good deduction. There will be nothing whatever to connect Bassington-ffrench with Alex Pritchard. Now, if we knew who the dead man really was ' 'Ah, then it might be different.' 'So it was very important that the body should not be recognized - hence all the Cayman camouflage. And yet it was taking a big risk.' 'You forget that Mrs Cayman identified him as soon as was humanly possible. After that, even if there had been pictures of him in the papers (you know how blurry these things are) people would only say: "Curious, this man Pritchard, who fell over a cliff, is really extraordinarily like Mr X."' 'There must be more to it than that,' said Frankie shrewdly.
'X must have been a man who wouldn't easily be missed. I mean, he couldn't have been the sort of family man whose wife or relations would go to the police at once and report him missing.' 'Good for you, Frankie. No, he must have been just going abroad or perhaps just come back (he was marvellously tanned - like a big-game hunter - he looked that sort of person) and he can't have had any very near relations who knew all about his movements.' 'We're deducing beautifully,' said Frankie. 'I hope we're not deducing all wrong.' 'Very likely,' said Bobby. 'But I think what we've said so far is fairly sound sense - granted, that is, the wild improbability of the whole thing.' Frankie waved away the wild improbability with an airy gesture.
'The thing is - what to do next,' she said. 'It seems to me we've got three angles of attack.' 'Go on, Sherlock.' 'The first is you. They've made one attempt on your life.
They'll probably try again. This time we might get what they call "a line" on them. Using you as a decoy, I mean.' 'No thank you, Frankie,' said Bobby with feeling. 'I've been very lucky this time, but I mightn't be so lucky again if they changed the attack to a blunt instrument. I was thinking of taking a great deal of care of myself in the future. The decoy idea can be washed out.' 'I was afraid you'd say that,' said Frankie with a sigh. 'Young men are sadly degenerate nowadays. Father says so. They don't enjoy being uncomfortable and doing dangerous and unpleasant things any longer. It's a pity.' 'A great pity,' said Bobby, but he spoke with firmness.
'What's the second plan of campaign?' 'Working from the "Why didn't they ask Evans?" clue,' said Frankie. 'Presumably the dead man came down here to see Evans, whoever he was. Now, if we could find Evans ' 'How many Evanses,' Bobby interrupted, 'do you think there are in Marchbolt?' 'Seven hundred, I should think,' admitted Frankie.
'At least! We might do something that way, but I'm rather doubtful.' 'We could list all the Evanses and visit the likely ones.' 'And ask them - what?' 'That's the difficulty,' said Frankie.
'We need to know a little more,' said Bobby. 'Then that idea of yours might come in useful. What's No. 3?' 'This man Bassington-ffrench. There we have got something tangible to go upon. It's an uncommon name. I'll ask Father. He knows all these county family names and their various branches.' 'Yes;' said Bobby. 'We might do something that way.' 'At any rate, we are going to do something?' 'Of course we are. Do you think I'm going to be given eight grains of morphia and do nothing about it?' 'That's the spirit,' said Frankie.
'And besides that,' said Bobby, 'there's the indignity of the stomach pump to be washed out.' 'That's enough,' said Frankie. 'You'll be getting morbid and indecent again if I don't stop you.' 'You have no true womanly sympathy,' said Bobby.
CHAPTER 9 Concerning Mr Bassingtonffrench
Frankie lost no time in setting to work. She attacked her father that same evening.
'Father,' she said, 'do you know any Bassingtonffrenches?' Lord Marchington, who was reading a political article, did not quite take in the question.
'It's not the French so much as the Americans,' he said severely. 'All this tomfoolery and conferences - wasting the nation's time and money -' Frankie abstracted her mind until Lord Marchington, running like a railway train along an accustomed line, came, as it were, to a halt at a station.
'The Bassington-ffrenches,' repeated Frankie.
'What about 'em?' said Lord Marchington.
Frankie didn't know what about them. She made a statement, knowing well enough that her father enjoyed contradiction.
'They're a Yorkshire family, aren't they?' 'Nonsense - Hampshire. There's the Shropshire branch, of course, and then there's the Irish lot. Which are your friends?' 'I'm not sure,' said Frankie, accepting the implication of friendship with several unknown people.
'Not sure? What do you mean? You must be sure.' 'People drift about so nowadays,' said Frankie.
'Drift - drift - that's about all they do. In my days we asked people. Then one knew where one was - fellow said he was the Hampshire branch - very well, your grandmother married my second cousin. It made a link.' 'It must have been too sweet,' said Frankie, 'But there really isn't time for genealogical and geographical research nowadays.' 'No - you've no time nowadays for anything but drinking these poisonous cocktails.' Lord Marchington gave a sudden yelp of pain as he moved his gouty leg, which some free imbibing of the family port had not improved.
'Are they well off?' asked Frankie.
'The Bassington-ffrenches? Couldn't say. The Shropshire lot have been hard hit, I believe - death duties, and o
ne thing or another. One of the Hampshire ones married an heiress. An American woman.' 'One of them was down here the other day,' said Frankie.
'Looking for a house, I believe.' 'Funny idea. What should anyone want with a house down here?' That, thought Frankie, was the question.
On the following day she walked into the office of Messrs.
Wheeler & Owen, House and Estate Agents.
Mr Owen himself sprang up to receive her. Frankie gave him a gracious smile and dropped into a chair.
'And what can we have the pleasure of doing for you. Lady Frances? You don't want to sell the Castle, I suppose. Ha! Ha!' Mr Owen laughed at his own wit.
'I wish we could,' said Frankie. 'No, as a matter of fact, I believe a friend of mine was down here the other day - a Mr Bassington-ffrench. He was looking for a house.' 'Ah! yes, indeed. I remember the name perfectly. Two small if 's.' 'That's right,' said Frankie.
'He was making inquiries about various small properties with a view to purchase. He was obliged to return to town the next day, so could not view many of the houses, but I understand he is in no great hurry. Since he left, one or two suitable properties have come into the market and I have sent him on particulars, but have had no reply.' 'Did you write to London - or to the - er - country address?' inquired Frankie.
'Let me see now.' He called to a junior clerk. 'Frank, Mr Bassington-ffrench's address.' 'Roger Bassington-ffrench, Esq., Merroway Court, Staverley, Hants,' said the junior clerk glibly.
'Ah!' said Frankie. 'Then it wasn't my Mr Bassingtonffrench.
This must be his cousin. I thought it was odd his being here and not looking me up.' 'Quite so - quite so,' said Mr Owen intelligently.
'Let me see, it must have been the Wednesday he came to see you.' 'That's right. Just before six-thirty. We close at six-thirty. I remember particularly because it was the day when that sad accident happened. Man fell over the cliff. Mr Bassingtonffrench had actually stayed by the body till the police came. He looked quite upset when he came in here. Very sad tragedy, that, and high time something was done about that bit of path.
The Town Council have been criticized very freely, I can tell you. Lady Frances. Most dangerous. Why we haven't had more accidents than we have I can't imagine.' 'Extraordinary,' said Frankie.
She left the office in a thoughtful mood. As Bobby had prophesied, all Mr Bassington-ffrench's actions seemed clear and above aboard. He was one of the Hampshire Bassingtonffrenches, he had given his proper address, he had actually mentioned his part in the tragedy to the house agent. Was it possible that, after all, Mr Bassington-ffrench was the completely innocent person he seemed?
Frankie had a qualm of doubt. Then she refused it.
'No,' she said to herself. 'A man who wants to buy a little place would either get here earlier in the day, or else stay over the next day. You wouldn't go into a house agent's at six-thirty in the evening and go up to London the following day. Why make the journey at all? Why not write?' No, she decided, Bassington-fFrench was the guilty party.
Her next call was the police station.
Inspector Williams was an old acquaintance, having succeeded in tracking down a maid with a false reference who had absconded with some of Frankie's jewellery.
'Good afternoon. Inspector.' 'Good afternoon, your Ladyship. Nothing wrong, I hope.' 'Not as yet, but I'm thinking of holding up a bank soon, because I'm getting so short of money.' The inspector gave a rumbling laugh in acknowledgement of this witticism.
'As a matter of fact, I've come to ask questions out of sheer curiosity,' said Frankie.
'Is that so. Lady Frances?' 'Now do tell me this. Inspector - the man who fell over the cliff - Pritchard, or whatever his name was -' 'Pritchard, that's right.' 'He had only one photograph on him, didn't he? Somebody told me he had three?
'One's right,' said the inspector. 'Photograph of his sister it was. She came down and identified him.' 'How absurd to say there were three!' 'Oh! That's easy, your Ladyship. These newspaper reporters don't mind how much they exaggerate and as often as not they get the whole thing wrong.' 'I know,' said Frankie. 'I've heard the wildest stories.' She paused a moment then drew freely on her imagination. 'I've heard that his pockets were stuffed with papers proving him to be a Bolshevik agent, and there's another story that his pockets were full of dope, and another again about his having pockets full of counterfeit bank notes.' The inspector laughed heartily.
'That's a good one.' 'I suppose really he had just the usual things in his pockets?' 'And very few at that. A handkerchief, not marked. Some loose change, a packet of cigarettes and a couple of treasury notes - loose, not in a case. No letters. We'd have had a job to identify him if it hadn't been for the photo. Providential, you might call it.' 'I wonder,' said Frankie.
In view other private knowledge, she considered providential a singularly inappropriate word. She changed the conversation.
'I went to see Mr Jones, the Vicar's son, yesterday. The one who's been poisoned. What an extraordinary thing that was.' 'Ah!' said the inspector. 'Now that is extraordinary, if you like. Never heard of anything like it happening before. A nice young gentleman without an enemy in the world, or so you'd say. You know. Lady Frances, there are some queer customers going about. All the same, I never heard of a homicidal maniac who acted just this way.' 'Is there any clue at all to who did it?' Frankie was all wide-eyed inquiry.
'It's so interesting to hear all this,' she added.
The inspector swelled with gratification. He enjoyed this friendly conversation with an Earl's daughter. Nothing stuck up or snobbish about Lady Frances.
'There was a car seen in the vicinity,' said the inspector.
'Dark-blue Talbot saloon. A man on Lock's Corner reported dark-blue Talbot, No. GG 8282, passed going direction St Botolph's.' 'And you think?' 'GG 8282 is the number of the Bishop of Botolph's car.' Frankie toyed for a minute or two with the idea of a homicidal bishop who offered sacrifices of clergymen's sons, but rejected it with a sigh.
'You don't suspect the Bishop, I suppose?' she said.
'We've found out that the Bishop's car never left the Palace garage that afternoon.' 'So it was a false number.' 'Yes. We've got that to go on all right.' With expressions of admiration, Frankie took her leave. She made no damping remark, but she thought to herself: 'There must be a large number of dark-blue Talbots in England.' On her return home she took a directory of Marchbolt from its place on the writing-table in the library and removed it to her own room. She worked over it for some hours.
The result was not satisfactory.
There were four hundred and eighty-two Evanses in Marchbolt.
'Damn!' said Frankie.
She began to make plans for the future.
CHAPTER 10 Preparations for an Accident
A week later Bobby had joined Badger in London. He had received several enigmatical communications from Frankie, most in such an illegible scrawl that he was quite unable to do more than guess at their meaning. However, their general purport seemed to be that Frankie had a plan and that he (Bobby) was to do nothing until he heard from her. This was as well, for Bobby would certainly have had no leisure to do anything, since the unlucky Badger had already succeeded in embroiling himself and his business in every way ingenuity could suggest, and Bobby was kept busy disentangling the extraordinary mess his friend seemed to have got into.
Meanwhile, the young man remained very strictly on his guard. The effect of eight grains of morphia was to render their taker extremely suspicious of food and drink and had also induced him to bring to London a Service revolver, the possession of which was extremely irksome to him.
He was just beginning to feel that the whole thing had been an extravagant nightmare when Frankie's Bentley roared down the Mews and drew up outside the garage. Bobby, in greasestained overalls, came out to receive it. Frankie was at the wheel and beside her sat a rather gloomy-looking young man.
'Hullo, Bobby,' said Frankie. 'This is George Arbuthnot.
He'
s a doctor, and we shall need him.' Bobby winced slightly as he and George Arbuthnot made faint recognitions of each other's presence.
'Are you sure we're going to need a doctor?' he asked.
'Aren't you being a bit pessimistic?' 'I didn't mean we should need him in that way,' said Frankie. 'I need him for a scheme that I've got on. Look here, is there anywhere we can go and talk?' Bobby looked round him.
'Well, there's my bedroom,' he said doubtfully.
'Excellent,' said Frankie.
She got out of the car and she and George Arbuthnot followed Bobby up some outside steps and into a microscopic bedroom.
'I don't know,' said Bobby, looking round dubiously, 'if there's anywhere to sit.' There was not. The only chair was loaded with, apparently, the whole of Bobby's wardrobe.
'The bed will do,' said Frankie.
She plumped down on it. George Arbuthnot did the same and the bed groaned protestingly.
'I've got everything planned out,' said Frankie. 'To begin with, we want a car. One of yours will do.' 'Do you mean you want to buy one of our cars?' Yes.' 'That's really very nice of you, Frankie,' said Bobby, with warm appreciation. 'But you needn't. I really do draw the line at sticking my friends.' 'You've got it all wrong,' said Frankie. 'It isn't like that at all.
I know what you mean - it's like buying perfectly appalling clothes and hats from one's friends who are just starting in business. A nuisance, but it's got to be done. But this isn't like that at all. I really need a car.' 'What about the Bentley?' 'The Bentley's no good.' 'You're mad,' said Bobby.
'No, I'm not. The Bentley's no good for what I want it for.' 'What's that?' 'Smashing it up.' Bobby groaned and put a hand to his head.
'I don't seem very well this morning.' George Arbuthnot spoke for the first time. His voice was deep and melancholy.
'She means,' he said, 'that's she going to have an accident.' 'How does she know?' said Bobby wildly.
Frankie gave an exasperated sigh.
Why Didn't They Ask Evans Page 5