Why Didn't They Ask Evans? Read online

  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.

  'Somehow or other,' she said, 'we seem to have started wrong. Now just listen quietly, Bobby, and try and take in what I'm going to say. I know your brains are practically negligible, but you ought to be able to understand if you really concentrate.' She paused, then resumed.

  'I am on the trail of Bassingtonffrench.' 'Hear, hear.' 'Bassington-ffrench - our particular Bassington-ffrench lives at Merroway Court at the village of Staverley in Hampshire. Merroway Court belongs to BassingtonfTrench's brother, and our Bassington-ffrench lives there with his brother and his wife.' 'Who's wife?' 'The brother's wife, of course. That isn't the point. The point is how are you or I or both of us is going to worm ourselves into the household. I've been down and reconnoitred the ground. Staverley's a mere village. Strangers arriving there to stay would stick out a mile. It would be the sort of thing that simply isn't done. So I've evolved a plan. This is what is going to happen: Lady Frances Derwent, driving her car more recklessly than well, crashes into the wall near the gates of Merroway Court. Complete wreckage of the car, less complete wreckage of Lady Frances, who is carried to the house, suffering from concussion and shock and must emphatically not be moved.' 'Who says so?' 'George. Now you see where George comes in. We can't risk a strange doctor saying there is nothing the matter with me. Or perhaps some officious person might pick up my prostrate form and take it to some local hospital. No, what happens is this: George is passing, also in a car (you'd better sell us a second one), sees the accident, leaps out and takes charge. "I am a doctor. Stand back, everybody" (That is, if there is anybody to stand back). "We must take her into that house what is it, Merroway Court? That will do. I must be able to make a thorough examination." I am carried to the best spare room, the Bassington-ffrenches either sympathetic or bitterly resisting, but in any case, George will overbear them. George makes his examination and emerges with his verdict. Happily, it is not as serious as he thought. No bones broken, but danger of concussion. I must on no account be moved for two or three days. After that, I shall be able to return to London.

  'And then George departs and it's up to me to ingratiate myself with the household.' 'And where do I come in?' 'You don't.' 'But look here ' 'My dear child, do remember that Bassingtonffrench knows you. He doesn't know me from Adam. And I'm in a frightfully strong position, because I've got a title. You see how useful that is. I'm not just a stray young woman gaining admission to the house for mysterious purposes. I am an earl's daughter and therefore highly respectable. And George is a real doctor and everything is quite above suspicion.' 'Oh! I suppose it's all right,' said Bobby unhappily.

  'It's a remarkably well-planned scheme, I think,' said Frankie with pride.

  'And I don't do anything at all?' asked Bobby.

  He still felt injured - much like a dog wh
o has been unexpectedly deprived of a bone. This, he felt, was his own particular crime, and now he was being ousted.

  'Of course you do, darling. You grow a moustache.' 'Oh! I grow a moustache, do I?' 'Yes. How long will it take?' 'Two or three weeks, I expect.' 'Heavens! I'd no idea it was such a slow process. Can't you speed it up?' 'No. Why can't I wear a false one?' 'They always look so false and they twist or come off or smell of spirit gum. Wait a minute, though, I believe there is a kind you can get stuck on hair by hair, so to speak, that absolutely defies detection. I expect a theatrical wigmaker would do it for you.' 'He'd probably think I was trying to escape from justice.' 'It doesn't matter what he thinks.' 'Once I've got the moustache, what do I do?' 'Put on a chauffeur's uniform and drive the Bentley down to Staverley.' 'Oh, I see.' Bobby brightened.

  'You see my idea is this,' said Frankie: 'Nobody looks at a chauffeur in the way they look at a person. In any case, Bassington-ffrench only saw you for a minute or two and he must have been too rattled wondering if he could change the photograph in time to look at you much. You were just a young golfing ass to him. It isn't like the Caymans who sat opposite you and talked to you and who were deliberately trying to sum you up. I'd bet anything that seeing you in chauffeur's uniform, Bassington-ffrench wouldn't recognize you even without the moustache. He might just possibly think that your face reminded him of somebody - no more than that. And with the moustache it ought to be perfectly safe. Now tell me, what do you think of the plan?' Bobby turned it over in his mind.

  'To tell you the truth, Frankie,' he said generously, 'I think it's pretty good.' 'In that case,' said Frankie briskly. 'Let's go and buy some cars. I say, I think George has broken your bed.' 'It doesn't matter,' said Bobby hospitably. 'It was never a particularly good bed.' They descended to the garage, where a nervous-looking young man with a curious lack of chin and an agreeable smile greeted them with a vague 'Haw, haw, haw!' His general appearance was slightly marred by the fact that his eyes had a distinct disinclination to look in the same direction.

  'Hullo, Badger,' said Bobby. 'You remember Frankie, don't you^' Badger clearly didn't, but he said, 'Haw, haw, haw!' again in an amiable manner.

  'Last time I saw you,' said Frankie, 'you were head downward in the mud and we had to pull you out by the legs.' 'No, not really?' said Badger. 'Why, that m-m-must have been Ww-w-wales.' 'Quite right,' said Frankie. 'It was.' 'I always was a p-p-putrid r-r-r-rider,' said Badger. 'I s-s-sstill am,' he added mournfully.

  'Frankie wants to buy a car,' said Bobby.

  'Two cars,' said Frankie. 'George has got to have one, too.

  He's crashed his at the moment.' 'We can hire him one,' said Bobby.

  'Well, come and look at what we've got in s-s-stock,' said Badger.

  'They look very smart,' said Frankie, dazzled by lurid hues of scarlet and apple-green.

  'They look all right,' said Bobby darkly.

  'That's r-r-r-remarkably good value in a ss-second-hand Chrysler,' said Badger.

  'No, not that one,' said Bobby. 'Whatever she buys has got to go at least forty miles.' Badger cast his partner a look of reproach.

  'The Standard is pretty much on its last legs,' mused Bobby.

  'But I think it would just get you there. The Essex is a bit too good for the job. She'll go at least two hundred before breaking down.' 'All right,' said Frankie. 'I'll have the Standard.' Badger drew his colleague a little aside.

  'W-w-what do you think about p-p-price?' he murmured.

  'Don't want to s-s-stick a friend of yours too much. Tt-t-ten pounds?' 'Ten pounds is all right,' said Frankie, entering the discussion.

  'I'll pay for it now.' 'Who is she really?' asked Badger in a loud whisper.

  Bobby whispered back.

  'F-f-f-first time I ever knew anyone with a t-t-t-title who c-c-could pay cash,' said Badger with respect.

  Bobby followed the other two out to the Bentley.

  'When is this business going to take place?' he demanded.

  'The sooner the better,' said Frankie. 'We thought tomorrow afternoon.' 'Look here, can't I be there? I'll put on a beard if you like.' 'Certainly not,' said Frankie. 'A beard would probably ruin everything by falling off at the wrong moment. But I don't see why you shouldn't be a motor-cyclist - with a lot of cap and goggles. What do you think, George?' George Arbuthnot spoke for the second time: 'All right,' he said, 'the more the merrier.' His voice was even more melancholy than before.

  CHAPTER 11 The Accident Happens

  The rendezvous for the great accident party was fixed at a spot about a mile from Staverley village where the road to Staverley branched off from the main road to Andover.

  All three arrived there safely, though Frankie's Standard had shown unmistakable signs of decrepitude at every hill.

  The time fixed had been one o'clock.

  'We don't want to be interrupted when we're staging the thing,' Frankie had said. 'Hardly anything ever goes down this road, I should imagine, but at lunch time we ought to be perfectly safe.' They proceeded for half a mile on the side road and then Frankie pointed out the place she had selected for the accident to take place.

  'It couldn't be better in my opinion,' she said. 'Straight down this hill and then, as you see, the road gives a sudden very sharp turn round that bulging bit of wall. The wall is actually the wall of Merroway Court. If we start the car and let it run down the hill it will crash straight into the wall and something pretty drastic ought to happen to it.' 'I should say so,' Bobby agreed. 'But someone ought to be on the lookout at the corner to be sure someone isn't coming round it in the opposite direction.' 'Quite right,' said Frankie. 'We don't want to involve anybody else in a mess and perhaps maim them for life. George can take his car down there and turn it as though he were coming from the other direction. Then when he waves a handkerchief it will show that all is clear.' 'You're looking very pale, Frankie,' said Bobby anxiously.

  'Are you sure you're all right?' 'I'm made up pale,' explained Frankie. 'Ready for the concussion. You don't want me to be carried into the house blooming with health.' 'How wonderful women are,' said Bobby appreciatively.

  'You look exactly like a sick monkey.' 'I think you're very rude,' said Frankie. 'Now, then, I shall go and prospect at the gate into Merroway Court. It's just this side of the bulge. There's no lodge, fortunately. When George waves his handkerchief and I wave mine, you start her off.' 'Right,' said Bobby. 'I'll stay on the running board to guide her until the pace gets too hot and then I'll jump off.' 'Don't hurt yourself,' said Frankie.

  'I shall be extremely careful not to. It would complicate matters to have a real accident on the spot of the faked one.' 'Well, start off, George,' said Frankie.

  George nodded, jumped into the second car and ran slowly down the hill. Bobby and Frankie stood looking after him.

  'You'll - look after yourself, won't you, Frankie?' said Bobby with a sudden gruffness. 'I mean - don't go doing anything foolish.' 'I shall be all right. Most circumspect. By the way, I don't think I'd better write to you direct. I'll write to George or my maid or someone or other to pass on to you.' 'I wonder if George is going to be a success in his profession.' 'Why shouldn't he?' 'Well, he doesn't seem to have acquired a chatty bedside manner yet.' 'I expect that will come,' said Frankie. 'I'd better be going now. I'll let you know when I want you to come down with the Bentley.' 'I'll get busy with the moustache. So long, Frankie.' 'They looked at each other for a moment, and then Frankie nodded and began to walk down the hill.

  George had turned the car and then backed it round the bulge.

  Frankie disappeared for a moment then reappeared in the road, waving a handkerchief. A second handkerchief waved from the bottom of the road at the turn.

  Bobby put the car into third gear, then, standing on the footboard, he released the brake. The car moved grudgingly forward, impeded by being in gear. The slope, however, was sufficiently steep. The engine started. The car gathered way.

  Bobby steadied the steering wheel. At the last
possible moment he jumped off.

  The car went on down the hill and crashed into the wall with considerable force. All was well - the accident had taken place successfully.

  Bobby saw Frankie run quickly to the scene of the crime and plop down amid the wreckage. George in his car came round the corner and pulled up.

  With a sigh Bobby mounted his motor cycle and rode away in the direction of London.

  At the scene of the accident things were busy.

  'Shall I roll about in the road a bit,' asked Frankie, 'to get myself dusty?' 'You might as well,' said George. 'Here, give me your hat.' He took it and inflicted a terrific dent on it. Frankie gave a faint anguished cry.

  'That's the concussion,' explained George. 'Now, then, lie doggo just where you are. I think I heard a bicycle bell.' Sure enough, at that moment, a boy of about seventeen came whistling round the corner. He stopped at once, delighted with the pleasurable spectacle that met his eyes.