Agatha Christie - 1935 - Why Didn't They Ask Evans? Read online

  Why Didn’t They

  Ask Evans?

  Dedication

  To Christopher Mallock

  in memory of Hinds

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1 The Accident

  2 Concerning Fathers

  3 A Railway Journey

  4 The Inquest

  5 Mr. and Mrs. Cayman

  6 End of a Picnic

  7 An Escape from Death

  8 Riddle of a Photograph

  9 Concerning Mr. Bassington-ffrench

  10 Preparations for an Accident

  11 The Accident Happens

  12 In the Enemy’s Camp

  13 Alan Carstairs

  14 Dr. Nicholson

  15 A Discovery

  16 Bobby Becomes a Solicitor

  17 Mrs. Rivington Talks

  18 The Girl of the Photograph

  19 A Council of Three

  20 Council of Two

  21 Roger Answers a Question

  22 Another Victim

  23 Moira Disappears

  24 On the Track of the Caymans

  25 Mr. Spragge Talks

  26 Nocturnal Adventure

  27 “My Brother Was Murdered”

  28 At the Eleventh Hour

  29 Badger’s Story

  30 Escape

  31 Frankie Asks a Question

  32 Evans

  33 Sensation in the Orient Café

  34 Letter from South America

  35 News from the Vicarage

  About the Author

  The Agatha Christie Collection

  Related Products

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  One

  THE ACCIDENT

  Bobby Jones teed up his ball, gave a short preliminary waggle, took the club back slowly, then brought it down and through with the rapidity of lightning.

  Did the ball fly down the fairway straight and true, rising as it went and soaring over the bunker to land within an easy mashie shot of the fourteenth green?

  No, it did not. Badly topped, it scudded along the ground and embedded itself firmly in the bunker!

  There were no eager crowds to groan with dismay. The solitary witness of the shot manifested no surprise. And that is easily explained—for it was not the American-born master of the game who had played the shot, but merely the fourth son of the Vicar of Marchbolt—a small seaside town on the coast of Wales.

  Bobby uttered a decidedly profane ejaculation.

  He was an amiable-looking young man of about eight and twenty. His best friend could not have said that he was handsome, but his face was an eminently likeable one, and his eyes had the honest brown friendliness of a dog’s.

  “I get worse every day,” he muttered dejectedly.

  “You press,” said his companion.

  Dr. Thomas was a middle-aged man with grey hair and a red cheerful face. He himself never took a full swing. He played short straight shots down the middle, and usually beat more brilliant but more erratic players.

  Bobby attacked his ball fiercely with a niblick. The third time was successful. The ball lay a short distance from the green which Dr. Thomas had reached with two creditable iron shots.

  “Your hole,” said Bobby.

  They proceeded to the next tee.

  The doctor drove first—a nice straight shot, but with no great distance about it.

  Bobby sighed, teed his ball, reteed it, waggled his club a long time, took back stiffly, shut his eyes, raised his head, depressed his right shoulder, did everything he ought not to have done—and hit a screamer down the middle of the course.

  He drew a deep breath of satisfaction. The well-known golfer’s gloom passed from his eloquent face to be succeeded by the equally well-known golfer’s exultation.

  “I know now what I’ve been doing,” said Bobby—quite untruthfully.

  A perfect iron shot, a little chip with a mashie and Bobby lay dead. He achieved a birdie four and Dr. Thomas was reduced to one up.

  Full of confidence, Bobby stepped on to the sixteenth tee. He again did everything he should not have done, and this time no miracle occurred. A terrific, a magnificent, an almost superhuman slice happened! The ball went round at right angles.

  “If that had been straight—whew!” said Dr. Thomas.

  “If,” said Bobby bitterly. “Hullo, I thought I heard a shout! Hope the ball didn’t hit anyone.”

  He peered out to the right. It was a difficult light. The sun was on the point of setting, and, looking straight into it, it was hard to see anything distinctly. Also there was a slight mist rising from the sea. The edge of the cliff was a few hundred yards away.

  “The footpath runs along there,” said Bobby. “But the ball can’t possibly have travelled as far as that. All the same, I did think I heard a cry. Did you?”

  But the doctor had heard nothing.

  Bobby went after his ball. He had some difficulty in finding it, but ran it to earth at last. It was practically unplayable—embedded in a furze bush. He had a couple of hacks at it, then picked it up and called out to his companion that he gave up the hole.

  The doctor came over towards him since the next tee was right on the edge of the cliff.

  The seventeenth was Bobby’s particular bugbear. At it you had to drive over a chasm. The distance was not actually so great, but the attraction of the depths below was overpowering.

  They had crossed the footpath which now ran inland to their left, skirting the very edge of the cliff.

  The doctor took an iron and just landed on the other side.

  Bobby took a deep breath and drove. The ball scudded forward and disappeared over the lip of the abyss.

  “Every single dashed time,” said Bobby bitterly. “I do the same dashed idiotic thing.”

  He skirted the chasm, peering over. Far below the sea sparkled, but not every ball was lost in its depths. The drop was sheer at the top, but below it shelved gradually.

  Bobby walked slowly along. There was, he knew, one place where one could scramble down fairly easily. Caddies did so, hurling themselves over the edge and reappearing triumphant and panting with the missing ball.

  Suddenly Bobby stiffened and called to his companion.

  “I say, doctor, come here. What do you make of that?”

  Some forty feet below was a dark heap of something that looked like old clothes.

  The doctor caught his breath.

  “By Jove,” he said. “Somebody’s fallen over the cliff. We must get down to him.”

  Side by side the two men scrambled down the rock, the more athletic Bobby helping the other. At last they reached the ominous dark bundle. It was a man of about forty, and he was still breathing, though unconscious.

  The doctor examined him, touching his limbs, feeling his pulse, drawing down the lids of his eyes. He knelt down beside him and completed his examination. Then he looked up at Bobby, who was standing there feeling rather sick, and slowly shook his head.

  “Nothing to be done,” he said. “His number’s up, poor fellow. His back’s broken. Well, well. I suppose he wasn’t familiar with the path, and when the mist came up he walked over the edge. I’ve told the council more than once there ought to be a railing just here.”

  He stood up again.

  “I’ll go off and get help,” he said. “Make arrangements to have the body got up. It’ll be dark before we know where we are. Will you stay here?”

  Bobby nodded.

  “There’s nothing to be done for him, I suppose?” he asked.

  The doctor shook his head.

&
nbsp; “Nothing. It won’t be long—the pulse is weakening fast. He’ll last another twenty minutes at most. Just possible he may recover consciousness before the end; but very likely he won’t. Still—”

  “Rather,” said Bobby quickly. “I’ll stay. You get along. If he does come to, there’s no drug or anything—” he hesitated.

  The doctor shook his head.

  “There’ll be no pain,” he said. “No pain at all.”

  Turning away, he began rapidly to climb up the cliff again. Bobby watched him till he disappeared over the top with a wave of his hand.

  Bobby moved a step or two along the narrow ledge, sat down on a projection in the rock and lit a cigarette. The business had shaken him. Up to now he had never come in contact with illness or death.

  What rotten luck there was in the world! A swirl of mist on a fine evening, a false step—and life came to an end. Fine healthy-looking fellow too—probably never known a day’s illness in his life. The pallor of approaching death couldn’t disguise the deep tan of the skin. A man who had lived an out-of-door life—abroad, perhaps. Bobby studied him more closely—the crisp curling chestnut hair just touched with grey at the temples, the big nose, the strong jaw, the white teeth just showing through the parted lips. Then the broad shoulders and the fine sinewy hands. The legs were twisted at a curious angle. Bobby shuddered and brought his eyes up again to the face. An attractive face, humorous, determined, resourceful. The eyes, he thought, were probably blue—

  And just as he reached that point in his thoughts, the eyes suddenly opened.

  They were blue—a clear deep blue. They looked straight at Bobby. There was nothing uncertain or hazy about them. They seemed completely conscious. They were watchful and at the same time they seemed to be asking a question.

  Bobby got up quickly and came towards the man. Before he got there, the other spoke. His voice was not weak—it came out clear and resonant.

  “Why didn’t they ask Evans?” he said.

  And then a queer little shudder passed over him, the eyelids dropped, the jaw fell . . .

  The man was dead.

  Two

  CONCERNING FATHERS

  Bobby knelt down beside him, but there was no doubt. The man was dead. A last moment of consciousness, that sudden question, and then—the end.

  Rather apologetically, Bobby put his hand into the dead man’s pocket and, drawing out a silk handkerchief, he spread it reverently over the dead face. There was nothing more he could do.

  Then he noticed that in his action he had jerked something else out of the pocket. It was a photograph and in the act of replacing it he glanced at the pictured face.

  It was a woman’s face, strangely haunting in quality. A fair woman with wide-apart eyes. She seemed little more than a girl, certainly under thirty, but it was the arresting quality of her beauty rather than the beauty itself that seized upon the boy’s imagination. It was the kind of face, he thought, not easy to forget.

  Gently and reverently, he replaced the photograph in the pocket from which it had come, then he sat down again to wait for the doctor’s return.

  The time passed very slowly—or at least so it seemed to the waiting boy. Also, he had just remembered something. He had promised his father to play the organ at the evening service at six o’clock and it was now ten minutes to six. Naturally, his father would understand the circumstances, but all the same he wished that he had remembered to send a message by the doctor. The Rev. Thomas Jones was a man of extremely nervous temperament. He was, par excellence, a fusser, and when he fussed, his digestive apparatus collapsed and he suffered agonizing pain. Bobby, though he considered his father a pitiful old ass, was nevertheless extremely fond of him. The Rev. Thomas, on the other hand, considered his fourth son a pitiful young ass, and with less tolerance than Bobby sought to effect improvement in the young man.

  “The poor old gov’nor,” thought Bobby. “He’ll be ramping up and down. He won’t know whether to start the service or not. He’ll work himself up till he gets that pain in the tummy, and then he won’t be able to eat his supper. He won’t have the sense to realize that I wouldn’t let him down unless it were quite unavoidable—and, anyway, what does it matter? But he’ll never see it that way. Nobody over fifty has got any sense—they worry themselves to death about tuppeny-ha’peny things that don’t matter. They’ve been brought up all wrong, I suppose, and now they can’t help themselves. Poor old Dad, he’s got less sense than a chicken!”

  He sat there thinking of his father with mingled affection and exasperation. His life at home seemed to him to be one long sacrifice to his father’s peculiar ideas. To Mr. Jones, the same time seemed to be one long sacrifice on his part, ill-understood or appreciated by the younger generation. So many ideas on the same subject differ.

  What an age the doctor was! Surely he might have been back by this time?

  Bobby got up and stamped his feet moodily. At that moment he heard something above him and looked up, thankful that help was at hand and his own services no longer needed.

  But it was not the doctor. It was a man in plus fours whom Bobby did not know.

  “I say,” said the newcomer. “Is anything the matter? Has there been an accident? Can I help in any way?”

  He was a tall man with a pleasant tenor voice. Bobby could not see him very clearly for it was now fast growing dusk.

  He explained what had happened whilst the stranger made shocked comments.

  “There’s nothing I can do?” he asked. “Get help or anything?”

  Bobby explained that help was on the way and asked if the other could see any signs of its arriving.

  “There’s nothing at present.”

  “You see,” went on Bobby, “I’ve got an appointment at six.”

  “And you don’t like to leave—”

  “No, I don’t quite,” said Bobby. “I mean, the poor chap’s dead and all that, and of course one can’t do anything, but all the same—”

  He paused, finding it, as usual, difficult to put confused emotions into words.

  The other, however, seemed to understand.

  “I know,” he said. “Look here, I’ll come down—that is, if I can see my way—and I’ll stay till these fellows arrive.”

  “Oh, would you?” said Bobby gratefully. “You see, it’s my father. He’s not a bad sort really, and things upset him. Can you see your way? A bit more to the left—now to the right—that’s it. It’s not really difficult.”

  He encouraged the other with directions until the two men were face to face on the narrow plateau. The newcomer was a man of about thirty-five. He had a rather indecisive face which seemed to be calling for a monocle and a little moustache.

  “I’m a stranger down here,” he explained. “My name’s Bassington-ffrench, by the way. Come down to see about a house. I say, what a beastly thing to happen! Did he walk over the edge?”

  Bobby nodded.

  “Bit of mist got up,” he explained. “It’s a dangerous bit of path. Well, so long. Thanks very much. I’ve got to hurry. It’s awfully good of you.”

  “Not at all,” the other protested. “Anybody would do the same. Can’t leave the poor chap lying—well, I mean, it wouldn’t be decent somehow.”

  Bobby was scrambling up the precipitous path. At the top he waved his hand to the other then set off at a brisk run across country. To save time, he vaulted the churchyard wall instead of going round to the gate on the road—a proceeding observed by the Vicar from the vestry window and deeply disapproved of by him.

  It was five minutes past six, but the bell was still tolling.

  Explanations and recriminations were postponed until after the service. Breathless, Bobby sank into his seat and manipulated the stops of the ancient organ. Association of ideas led his fingers into Chopin’s funeral march.

  Afterwards, more in sorrow than in anger (as he expressly pointed out), the Vicar took his son to task.

  “If you cannot do a thing properly, my dear
Bobby,” he said, “it is better not to do it at all. I know that you and all your young friends seem to have no idea of time, but there is One whom we should not keep waiting. You offered to play the organ of your own accord. I did not coerce you. Instead, faint-hearted, you preferred playing a game—”

  Bobby thought he had better interrupt before his father got too well away.

  “Sorry, Dad,” he said, speaking cheerfully and breezily as was his habit no matter what the subject. “Not my fault this time. I was keeping guard over a corpse.”

  “You were what?”

  “Keeping guard over a blighter who stepped over the cliff. You know—the place where the chasm is—by the seventeenth tee. There was a bit of mist just then, and he must have gone straight on and over.”

  “Good heavens,” cried the Vicar. “What a tragedy! Was the man killed outright?”

  “No. He was unconscious. He died just after Dr. Thomas had gone off. But of course I felt I had to squat there—couldn’t just push off and leave him. And then another fellow came along so I passed the job of chief mourner on to him and legged it here as fast as I could.”

  The Vicar sighed.

  “Oh, my dear Bobby,” he said. “Will nothing shake your deplorable callousness? It grieves me more than I can say. Here you have been brought face to face with death—with sudden death. And you can joke about it! It leaves you unmoved. Everything—everything, however solemn, however sacred, is merely a joke to your generation.”

  Bobby shuffled his feet.

  If his father couldn’t see that, of course, you joked about a thing because you had felt badly about it—well, he couldn’t see it! It wasn’t the sort of thing you could explain. With death and tragedy about you had to keep a stiff upper lip.

  But what could you expect? Nobody over fifty understood anything at all. They had the most extraordinary ideas.

  “I expect it was the War,” thought Bobby loyally. “It upset them and they never got straight again.”

  He felt ashamed of his father and sorry for him.

  “Sorry, Dad,” he said with a clear-eyed realization that explanation was impossible.