Did you see his picture in the papers?' 'I think I did,' said Sylvia vaguely. 'But I don't remember.' 'I've got a cutting upstairs from our local paper.' Frankie was all eagerness. She ran upstairs and came down with the cutting in her hand. She gave it to Sylvia. Roger came and looked over Sylvia's shoulder.
'Don't you think he's good-looking?' she demanded in a rather school-girl manner.
'He is, rather,' said Sylvia. 'He looks very like that man, Alan Carstairs, don't you think so, Roger? I believe I remembered saying so at the time.' 'He's got quite a look of him here,' agreed Roger. 'But there wasn't much real resemblance, you know.' 'You can't tell from newspaper pictures, can you?' said Sylvia, as she handed the cutting back.
Frankie agreed that you couldn't.
The conversation passed to other matters.
Frankie went to bed undecided. Everyone seemed to have reacted with perfect naturalness. Roger's house-hunting stunt had been no secret.
The only thing she had succeeded in getting was a name.
The name of Alan Carstairs.
CHAPTER 14 Dr Nicholson
Frankie attacked Sylvia the following morning.
She started by saying carelessly: 'What was that man's name you mentioned last night? Alan Carstairs, was it? I feel sure I've heard that name before.'
'Oh, he was. Distinctly attractive.' 'Funny - his being so like the man who fell over the cliff at Marchbolt,' said Frankie.
'I wonder if everyone has a double.' They compared instances, citing Adolf Beck and referring lightly to the Lyons Mail. Frankie was careful to make no further references to Alan Carstairs. To show too much interest in him would be fatal.
In her own mind, however, she felt she was getting on now.
She was quite convinced that Alan Carstairs had been the victim of the cliff tragedy at Marchbolt. He fulfilled all the conditions. He had no intimate friends or relations in this country and his disappearance was unlikely to be noticed for some time. A man who frequently ran off to East Africa and South America was not likely to be missed at once. Moreover, Frankie noted, although Sylvia Bassington-ffrench had commented on the resemblance in the newspaper reproduction, it had not occurred to her for a moment that it actually was the man.
That, Frankie thought, was rather an interesting bit of psychology.
We seldom suspect people who are 'news' of being people we have usually seen or met.
Very good, then. Alan Carstairs was the dead man. The next step was to learn more about Alan Carstairs. His connection with the Bassington-ffrenches seemed to have been of the slightest. He had been brought down there quite by chance by friends. What was the name? Rivington. Frankie stored it in her memory for future use.
That certainly was a possible avenue of inquiry. But it would be well to go slowly. Inquiries about Alan Carstairs must be very discreetly made.
'I don't want to be poisoned or knocked on the head,' thought Frankie with a grimace. 'They were ready enough to bump off Bobby for practically nothing at all ' Her thoughts flew off at a tangent to that tantalizing phrase that had started the whole business.
Evans! Who was Evans? Where did Evans fit in?
'A dope gang,' decided Frankie. Perhaps some relation of Carstairs was victimized, and he was determined to bust it up.
Perhaps he came to England for that purpose. Evans may have been one of the gang who had retired and gone to Wales to live.
Carstairs had bribed Evans to give the others away and Evans had consented and Carstairs went there to see him, and someone followed him and killed him.
Was that somebody Roger Bassington-ffrench? It seemed very unlikely. The Caymans, now, were far more what Frankie imagined a gang of dope smugglers would be likely to be.
And yet - that photograph. If only there was some explanation of that photograph.
That evening, Dr Nicholson and his wife were expected to dinner. Frankie was finishing dressing when she heard their car drive up to the front door. Her window faced that way and she looked out.
A tall man was just alighting from the driver's seat of a darkblue Talbot.
Frankie withdrew her head thoughtfully.
Carstairs had been a Canadian. Dr Nicholson was a Canadian. And Dr Nicholson had a dark-blue Talbot.
Absurd to build anything upon that, of course, but wasn't it just faintly suggestive?
Dr Nicholson was a big man with a manner that suggested great reserves of power. His speech was slow, on the whole he said very little, but contrived somehow to make every word sound significant. He wore strong glasses and behind them his very pale-blue eyes glittered reflectively.
His wife was a slender creature of perhaps twenty-seven, pretty, indeed beautiful. She seemed, Frankie, thought, slightly nervous and chattered rather feverishly as though to conceal the fact.
'You had an accident, I hear. Lady Frances,' said Dr Nicholson as he took his seat beside her at the dinner table.
Frankie explained the catastrophe. She wondered why she should feel so nervous doing so. The doctor's manner was simple and interested. Why should she feel as though she were rehearsing a defence to a charge that had never been made. Was there any earthly reason why the doctor should disbelieve in her accident?
'That was too bad,' he said, as she finished, having, perhaps, made a more detailed story of it than seemed strictly necessary.
'But you seem to have made a very good recovery.' 'We won't admit she's cured yet. We're keeping her with us,' said Sylvia.
The doctor's gaze went to Sylvia. Something like a very faint smile came to his lips but passed almost immediately.
'I should keep her with you as long as possible,' he said gravely.
Frankie was sitting between her host and Dr Nicholson.
Henry Bassington-ffrench was decidedly moody tonight. His hands twitched, he ate next to nothing and he took no part in the conversation.
Mrs Nicholson, opposite, had a difficult time with him, and turned to Roger with obvious relief. She talked to him in a desultory fashion, but Frankie noticed that her eyes were never long absent from her husband's face.
Dr Nicholson was talking about life in the country.
'Do you know what a culture is. Lady Frances?' 'Do you mean book learning?' asked Frankie, rather puzzled.
'No, no. I was referring to germs. They develop, you know, in specially prepared serum. The country. Lady Frances, is a little like that. There is time and space and infinite leisure suitable conditions, you see, for development.' 'Do you mean bad things?' asked Frankie puzzled.
'That depends. Lady Frances, on the kind of germ cultivated.' Idiotic conversation, thought Frankie, and why should it make me feel creepy, but it does!
She said flippantly: 'I expect I'm developing all sorts of dark qualities.' He looked at her and said calmly: 'Oh, no, I don't think so. Lady Frances. I think you would always be on the side of law and order.' Was there a faint emphasis on the word law?
Suddenly, across the table, Mrs Nicholson said: 'My husband prides himself on summing up character.' Dr Nicholson nodded his head gently.
'Quite right, Moira. Little things interest me.' He turned to Frankie again. 'I had heard of your accident, you know. One thing about it intrigued me very much.' 'Yes?' said Frankie, her heart beating suddenly.
'The doctor who was passing - the one who brought you in here.' Yes?' 'He must have had a curious character - to turn his car before going to the rescue.' 'I don't understand.' 'Of course not. You were unconscious. But young Reeves, the message boy, came from Staverley on his bicycle and no car passed him, yet he comes round the corner, finds the smash, and the doctor's car pointing the same way he was going towards London. You see the point? The doctor did not come from the direction of Staveley so he must have come the other way, down the hill. But in that case his car should have been pointing towards Staverley. But it wasn't. Therefore he must have turned it.' 'Unless he had come from Staverley some time before,' said Frankie.
'Then his car would have been standi
ng there as you came down the hill. Was it?' The pale-blue eyes were looking at her very intently through the thick glasses.
'I don't remember,' said Frankie. 'I don't think so.' 'You sound like a detective, Jasper,' said Mrs Nicholson.
'And all about nothing at all.' 'Little things interest me,' said Nicholson.
He turned to his hostess, and Frankie drew a breath of relief.
Why had he catechized her like that? How had he found out all about the accident? 'Little things interest me,' he had said.
Was that all there was to it?
Frankie remembered the dark-blue Talbot saloon, and the fact that Carstairs had been a Canadian. It seemed to her that Dr Nicholson was a sinister man.
She kept out of his way after dinner, attaching herself to the gentle, fragile Mrs Nicholson. She noticed that all the time Mrs Nicholson's eyes still watched her husband. Was it love, Frankie wondered, or fear?
Nicholson devoted himself to Sylvia and at half-past ten he caught his wife's eye and they rose to go.
'Well,' said Roger after they had gone, 'what do you think of our Dr Nicholson? A very forceful personality, hasn't he?' I'm like Sylvia,' said Frankie. 'I don't think I like him very much. I like her better.' 'Good-looking, but rather a little idiot,' said Roger. 'She either worships him or is scared to death of him -I don't know which.' 'That's just what I wondered,' agreed Frankie.
'I don't like him,' said Sylvia, 'but I must admit that he's got a lot of - of. force. I believe he's cured drug takers in the most marvellous way. People whose relations despaired utterly.
They've gone there as a last hope and come out absolutely cured.' 'Yes,' cried Henry Bassington-ffrench suddenly. 'And do you know what goes on there? Do you know the awful suffering and mental torment? A man's used to a drug and they cut him off it - cut him off it - till he goes raving mad for the lack of it and beats his head against the wall. That's what he does - your "forceful" doctor tortures people - tortures them - sends them to Hell - drives them mad...' He was shaking violently. Suddenly he turned and left the room.
Sylvia Bassington-ffrench looked startled.
'What is the matter with Henry?' she said wonderingly. 'He seems very upset.' Frankie and Roger dared not look at each other.
'He's not looked well all evening,' ventured Frankie.
'No. I noticed that. He's very moody lately. I wish he hadn't given up riding. Oh, by the way, Dr Nicholson invited Tommy over tomorrow, but I don't like him going there very much not with all those queer nerve cases and dope-takers.' 'I don't suppose the doctor would allow him to come into contact with them,' said Roger. 'He seems very fond of children.' 'Yes, I think it's a disappointment he hasn't got any of his own. Probably to her, too. She looks very sad - and terribly delicate.' 'She's like a sad Madonna,' said Frankie.
'Yes, that describes her very well.' 'If Dr Nicholson is so fond of children I suppose he came to your children's party?' said Frankie carelessly.
'Unfortunately he was away for a day or two just then. I think he had to go to London for some conference.' 'I see.' They went up to bed. Before she went to sleep, Frankie wrote to Bobby.
CHAPTER 15 A Discovery
Bobby had had an irksome time. His forced inaction was exceedingly trying. He hated staying quietly in London and doing nothing.
He had been rung up on the telephone by George Arbuthnot who, in a few laconic words, told him that all had gone well. A couple of days later, he had a letter from Frankie, delivered to him by her maid, the letter having gone under cover to her at Lord Marchington's town house.
Since then he had heard nothing.
'Letter for you,' called out Badger.
Bobby came forward excitedly but the letter was one addressed in his father's handwriting, and postmarked Marchbolt.
At that moment, however, he caught sight of the neat blackgowned figure of Frankie's maid approaching down the Mews.
Five minutes later he was tearing open Frankie's second letter.
Dear Bobby (wrote Frankie,), / think it's about time you came down. I've given them instructions at home that you're to have the Bentley whenever you ask for it. Get a chauffeur's livery - darkgreen ours always are. Put it down to father at Harrods. It's best to be correct in details. Concentrate on making a good job of the moustache. It makes a frightful difference to anyone's face.
Come down here and ask for me. You might bring me an ostensible note from Father. Report that the car is now in working order again. The garage here only holds two cars and as it's got the family Daimler and Roger Bassington-ffrench 's two-seater in it, it is fortunately full up, so you will go to Staverley and put up there.
Get what local information you can when there - particularly about a Dr Nicholson who runs a place for dope patients. Several suspicious circumstances about him - he has a dark-blue Talbot saloon, he was away from home on the 16th when your beer was doctored, and he takes altogether too detailed an interest in the circumstances of my accident.
I think I've identified the corpse!
Au revoir, my fellow sleuth.
Love from your successfully concussed, Frankie.
P.S. I shall post this myself.
Bobby's spirits rose with a bound.
Discarding his overalls and breaking the news of his immediate departure to Badger, he was about to hurry off when he remembered that he had not yet opened his father's letter. He did so with a rather qualified enthusiasm since the Vicar's letters were actuated by a spirit of duty rather than pleasure and breathed an atmosphere of Christian forbearance which was highly depressing.
The Vicar gave conscientious news of doings in Marchbolt, describing his own troubles with the organist and commenting on the unchristian spirit of one of his churchwardens. The rebinding of the hymn books was also touched upon. And the Vicar hoped that Bobby was sticking manfully to his job and trying to make good, and remained his ever affectionate father.
There was a postscript: By the way, someone called who asked for your address in London.
I was out at the time and he did not leave his name. Mrs Roberts describes him as a tall, stooping gentleman with pince-nez. He seemed very sorry to miss you and very anxious to see you again.
A tall, stooping man with pince-nez. Bobby ran over in his mind anyone of his acquaintance likely to fit that description but could think of nobody.
Suddenly a quick suspicion darted into his mind. Was this the forerunner of a new attempt upon his life? Were these mysterious enemies, or enemy, trying to track him down?
He sat still and did some serious thinking. They, whoever they were, had only just discovered that he had left the neighbourhood. All unsuspecting, Mrs Roberts had given his new address.
So that already they, whoever they were, might be keeping a watch upon the place. If he went out he would be followed and just as things were at the moment that would never do.
'Badger,' said Bobby.
'Yes, old lad.' 'Come here.' The next five minutes were spent in genuine hard work. At the end often minutes Badger could repeat his instructions by heart.
When he was word perfect, Bobby got into a two-seater Flat dating from 1902 and drove dashingly down the Mews. He parked the Flat in St James's Square and walked straight from there to his club. There he did some telephoning and a couple of hours later certain parcels were delivered to him. Finally, about half-past three, a chauffeur in dark green livery walked to St James's Square and went rapidly up to a large Bentley which had been parked there about half an hour previously.
The parking attendant nodded to him - the gentleman who had left the car had remarked, stammering slightly as he did so, that his chauffeur would be fetching it shortly.
Bobby let in the clutch and drew neatly out. The abandoned Flat still stood demurely awaiting its owner. Bobby, despite the intense discomfort of his upper lip, began to enjoy himself. He headed north, not south, and, before long, the powerful engine was forging ahead on the Great North Road.
It was only an extra precaution
that he was taking. He was pretty sure that he was not being followed. Presently he turned off to the left and made his way by circuitous roads to Hampshire.
It was just after tea that the Bentley purred up the drive of Merroway Court, a stiff and correct chauffeur at the wheel.
'Hullo,' said Frankie lightly. There's the car.' She went out to the front door. Sylvia and Roger came with her.
'Is everything all right, Hawkins?' The chauffeur touched his cap.
'Yes, m'lady. She's been thoroughly overhauled.' 'That's all right, then.' The chauffeur produced a note.
'From his lordship, m'lady.' Frankie took it.
'You'll put up at the - what is it - Anglers' Arms in Staverley, Hawkins. I'll telephone in the morning if I want the car.' 'Very good, your ladyship.' Bobby backed, turned and sped down the drive.
'I'm so sorry we haven't room here,' said Sylvia. 'It's a lovely car.' 'You get some pace out of that,' said Roger.
'I do,' admitted Frankie.
She was satisfied that no faintest quiver of recognition had shown on Roger's face. She would have been surprised if it had. She would not have recognized Bobby herself had she met him casually. The small moustache had a perfectly natural appearance, and that, with the stiff demeanour so uncharacteristic of the natural Bobby, completed the disguise enhanced by the chauffeur's livery.
The voice, too, had been excellent, and quite unlike Bobby's own. Frankie began to think that Bobby was far more talented than she had given him credit for being.
Meanwhile Bobby had successfully taken up his quarters at the Anglers' Arms.
It was up to him to create the part of Edward Hawkins, chauffeur to Lady Frances Derwent.
As to the behaviour of chauffeurs in private life, Bobby was singularly ill-informed, but he imagined that a certain haughtiness would not come amiss. He tried to feel himself a superior being and to act accordingly. The admiring attitude of various young women employed in the Anglers' Arms had a distinctly encouraging effect and he soon found that Frankie and her accident had provided the principal topic of conversation in Staverley ever since it had happened. Bobby unbent towards the landlord, a stout, genial person of the name of Thomas Askew, and permitted information to leak from him.
Why Didn't They Ask Evans Page 8