'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.
So far, the conversation had proceeded easily, Bobby pumping the lady without any camouflage, but she now displayed a sudden curiosity.
'But what is it you want to know about Mr Carstairs?' she asked.
'I really wanted his address,' explained Bobby. 'As you know, we act for him and we've just had a rather important cable from New York - you know, there's rather a serious fluctuation in the dollar just now -' Mrs Rivington nodded with desperate intelligence.
'And so,' continued Bobby rapidly, 'we wanted to get into touch with him - to get his instructions - and he hasn't left an address - and, having heard him mention he was a friend of yours, I thought you might possibly have news of him.' 'Oh, I see,' said Mrs Rivington, completely satisfied. 'What a pity. But he's always rather a vague man, I should think.' 'Oh, distinctly so,' said Bobby. 'Well,' he rose, 'I apologize for taking up so much of your time.' 'Oh, not at all,' said Mrs Rivington. 'And it's so interesting to know that Dolly Maltravers really did - as you say she did.' 'I said nothing at all,' said Bobby.
'Yes, but then lawyers are so discreet, aren't they?' said Mrs Rivington with a little gurgle of laughter.
'So that's all right,' thought Bobby, as he walked away down Tite Street. 'I seem to have taken Dolly Whatsemame's character away for good, but I daresay she deserves it, and that charming idiot of a woman will never wonder why, if I wanted Carstairs' address, I didn't simply ring up and ask for it!' Back in Brook Street he and Frankie discussed the matter from every angle.
'It looks as though it were really pure chance that took him to the Bassington-ffrenches,' said Fra
nkie thoughtfully.
'I know. But evidently when he was down there some chance remark directed his attention to the Nicholsons.' 'So that, really, it is Nicholson who is at the heart of the mystery, not the Bassingtonffrenches?' Bobby looked at her.
'Still intent on whitewashing your hero,' he inquired coldly.
'My dear, I'm only pointing out what it looks like. It's the mention of Nicholson and his nursing home that excited Carstairs. Being taken down to the Bassington-ffrenches was a pure matter of chance. You must admit that.' 'It seems like it.' 'Why only "seems"?' 'Well, there is just one other possibility. In some way, Carstairs may have found out that the Rivingtons were going down to lunch with the Bassington-ffrenches. He may have overheard some chance remark in a restaurant - at the Savoy, perhaps. So he rings them up, very urgent to see them, and what he hopes may happen does happen. They're very booked up and they suggest his coming down with them - their friends won't mind and they do so want to see him. That is possible, Frankie.' 'It is possible, I suppose. But it seems a very roundabout method of doing things.' 'No more roundabout than your accident,' said Bobby.
'My accident was vigorous direct action,' said Frankie coldly.
Bobby removed Lord Marchington's clothes and replaced them where he had found them. Then he donned his chauffeur's uniform once more and they were soon speeding back to Staverley.
'If Roger has fallen for me,' said Frankie demurely, 'he'll be pleased I've come back so soon. He'll think I can't bear to be away from him for long.' 'I'm not sure that you can bear it, either,' said Bobby. 'I've always heard that really dangerous criminals were singularly attractive.' 'Somehow I can't believe he is a criminal.' 'So you remarked before.' 'Well, I feel like that.' 'You can't get over the photograph.' 'Damn the photograph!' said Frankie.
Bobby drove up the drive in silence. Frankie sprang out and went into the house without a backward glance. Bobby drove away.
The house seemed very silent. Frankie glanced at the clock.
It was half-past two.
'They don't expect me back for hours yet,' she thought. 'I wonder where they are?' She opened the door of the library and went in, stopping suddenly on the threshold.
Dr Nicholson was sitting on the sofa, holding both Sylvia Bassington-ffrench's hands in his.
Sylvia jumped to her feet and came across the room towards Frankie.
'He's been telling me,' she said.
Her voice was stifled. She put both hands to her face as though to hide it from view.
'It's too terrible,' she sobbed, and, brushing past Frankie, she ran out of the room.
Dr Nicholson had risen. Frankie advanced a step or two towards him. His eyes, watchful as ever, met hers.
'Poor lady,' he said suavely. 'It has been a great shock to her.' The muscles at the corner of his mouth twitched. For a moment or two Frankie fancied that he was amused. And then, quite suddenly, she realized that it was quite a different emotion.
The man was angry. He was holding himself in, hiding his anger behind a suave bland mask, but the emotion was there. It was all he could do to hold that emotion in.
There was a moment's pause.
'It was best that Mrs Bassington-ffrench should know the truth,' said the doctor. 'I want her to induce her husband to place himself in my hands.' 'I'm afraid,' said Frankie gently, 'that I interrupted you.' She paused. 'I came back sooner than I meant.'
CHAPTER 18 The Girl of the Photograph
On Bobby's return to the inn he was greeted with the information that someone was waiting to see him.
'It's a lady. You'll find her in Mr Askew's little sittingroom.' Bobby made his way there slightly puzzled. Unless she had flown there on wings he could not see how Frankie could possibly have got to the Anglers' Arms ahead of him, and that his visitor could be anyone else but Frankie never occurred to him.
He opened the door of the small room which Mr Askew kept as his private sitting-room. Sitting bolt upright in a chair was a slender figure dressed in black - the girl of the photograph.
Bobby was so astonished that for a moment or two he could not speak. Then he noticed that the girl was terribly nervous.
Her small hands were trembling and closed and unclosed themselves on the arm of the chair. She seemed too nervous even to speak, but her large eyes held a kind of terrified appeal.
'So it's you?' said Bobby at last. He shut the door behind him and came forward to the table.
Still the girl did not speak - still those large, terrified eyes looked into his. At last words came - a mere hoarse whisper.
'You said - you said - you'd help me. Perhaps I shouldn't have come ' Here Bobby broke in, finding words and assurance at the same time.
'Shouldn't have come? Nonsense. You did quite right to come. Of course, you should have come. And I'll do anything - anything in the world - to help you. Don't be frightened.
You're quite safe now.' The colour rose a little in the girl's face. She said abruptly: 'Who are you? You're - you're - not a chauffeur. I mean, you may be a chauffeur, but you're not one really.' Bobby understood her meaning in spite of the confused form of words in which she had cloaked them.
'One does all sorts of jobs nowadays,' he said. 'I used to be in the Navy. As a matter of fact, I'm not exactly a chauffeur but that doesn't matter now. But, anyway, I assure you you can trust me and - and tell me all about it.' Her flush had deepened.
'You must think me mad,' she murmured. 'You must think me quite mad.' 'No, no.' 'Yes - coming here like this. But I was so frightened - so terribly frightened -' Her voice died away. Her eyes widened as though they saw some vision of terror.
Bobby seized her hand firmly.
'Look here,' he said, 'it's quite all right. Everything's going to be all right. You're safe now - with - with a friend. Nothing shall happen to you.' He felt the answering pressure of her fingers.
'When you stepped out into the moonlight the other night,' she said in a low, hurried voice, 'it was - it was like a dream a dream of deliverance. I didn't know who you were or where you came from, but it gave me hope and I determined to come and find you - and - tell you.' 'That's right,' said Bobby encouragingly. 'Tell me. Tell me everything.' She drew her hand away suddenly.
'If I do, you'll think I'm mad - that I've gone wrong in my head from being in that place with those others.' 'No, I shan't. I shan't, really.' 'You will. It sounds mad.' 'I shall know it isn't. Tell me. Please tell me.' She drew a little farther away from him, sitting very upright, her eyes staring Straight in front of her.
'It's just this,' she said. 'I'm afraid I'm going to be murdered.' Her voice was dry and hoarse. She was speaking with obvious self-restraint but her hands were trembling.
'Murdered?' 'Yes, that sounds mad, doesn't it? Like - what do they call it?
- persecution mania.' 'No,' said Bobby. 'You don't sound mad at all - just frightened. Tell me, who wants to murder you and why?' She was silent a minute or two, twisting and untwisting her hands. Then she said in a low voice: 'My husband.' 'Your husband?' Thoughts whirled round in Bobby's head: 'Who are you -' he said abruptly.
It was her turn to look surprised.
'Don't you know?' 'I haven't the least idea.' She said: 'I'm Moira Nicholson. My husband is Dr Nicholson.' • 'Then you're not a patient there?' 'A patient? Oh, no!' Her face darkened suddenly. 'I suppose you think I speak like one.' 'No, no, I didn't mean that at all.' He was at pains to reassure her. 'Honestly, I didn't mean it that way. I was only surprised at finding you married - and - all that. Now, go on with what you're telling me - about your husband wanting to murder you.' 'It sounds mad, I know. But it isn't - it isn't! I see it in his eyes when he looks at me. And queer things have happened accidents.'
'Accidents?' said Bobby sharply.
'Yes. Oh! I know it sounds hysterical and as though I was making it all up ' 'Not a bit,' said Bobby. 'It sounds perfectly reasonable. Go on. About these accidents.' 'They were just accidents. He backed the car not seeing I was there - I just jumped aside in
time - and some stuff that was in the wrong bottle - oh, stupid things - and things that people would think quite all right, but they weren't - they were meant. I know it. And it's wearing me out - watching for them - being on my guard - trying to save my life.' She swallowed convulsively.
'Why does your husband want to do away with you?' asked Bobby.
Perhaps he hardly expected a definite answer - but the answer came promptly: 'Because he wants to marry Sylvia Bassingtonffrench.' 'What? But she's married already.' 'I know. But he's arranging for that.' 'How do you mean?' 'I don't know exactly. But I know that he's trying to get Mr Bassington-ffrench brought to the Grange as a patient.' And then?' 'I don't know, but I think something would happen.' She shuddered.
'He's got some hold over Mr Bassington-ffrench. I don't know what it is.' 'Bassington-ffrench takes morphia,' said Bobby.
'Is that it? Jasper gives it to him, I suppose.' 'It comes by post.' 'Perhaps Jasper doesn't do it directly - he's very cunning, Mr Bassington-ffrench mayn't know it comes from Jasper but I'm sure it does. And then Jasper would have him at the Grange and pretend to cure him - and once he was there ' She paused and shivered.
'All sorts of things happen at the Grange,' she said. 'Queer things. People come there to get better - and they don't get better - they get worse.' As she spoke, Bobby was aware of a glimpse into a strange, evil atmosphere. He felt something of the terror that had enveloped Moira Nicholson's life so long.
He said abruptly: 'You say your husband wants to marry Mrs Bassingtonffrench?'
Moira nodded.
'He's crazy about her.' 'And she?' «»'I don't know,' said Moira slowly. 'I can't make up my mind.
On the surface she seems fond of her husband and little boy and content and peaceful. She seems a very simple woman. But sometimes I fancy that she isn't so simple as she seems. I've even wondered sometimes whether she is an entirely different woman from what we all think she is... whether, perhaps, she isn't playing a part and playing it very well... But, really, I think, that's nonsense - foolish imagination on my part.
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