Why Didn't They Ask Evans Page 7

  'Oh, well,' thought Frankie, 'I've got to go through with it now. But I wish she hadn't been so nice about it.' She spent a dull afternoon and evening lying in her darkened room. Mrs Bassington-ffrench looked in once or twice to see how she was but did not stay.

  The next day, however, Frankie admitted the daylight and expressed a desire for company and her hostess came and sat `with her for some time. They discovered many mutual acquaintances and friends and by the end of the day, Frankie felt, with a guilty qualm, that they had become friends.

  Mrs Bassington-ffrench referred several times to her husband and to her small boy. Tommy. She seemed a simple woman, deeply attached to her home, and yet, for some reason or other, Frankie fancied that she was not quite happy. There was an `anxious expression in her eyes sometimes that did not agree with a mind at peace with itself.

  On the third day Frankie got up and was introduced to the master of the house.

  He was a big man, heavy jowled, with a kindly but rather abstracted air. He seemed to spend a good deal of his time shut up in his study. Yet Frankie judged him to be very fond of his wife, though interesting himself very little in her concerns.

  Tommy, the small boy, was seven, and a healthy, mischievous child. Sylvia Bassington-ffrench obviously adored him.

  'It's so nice down here,' said Frankie with a sigh.

  She was lying out on a long chair in the garden.

  'I don't know whether it's the bang on the head, or what it is, but I just don't feel I want to move. I'd like to lie here for days and days.' 'Well, do,' said Sylvia Bassington-ffrench in her calm, incurious tones. 'No, really, I mean it. Don't hurry back to town. You see,' she went on, 'it's a great pleasure to me to have you here. You're so bright and amusing. It quite cheers me up.' 'So she needs cheering up,' flashed across Frankie's mind.

  At the same time she felt ashamed of herself.

  'I feel we really have become friends,' continued the other woman.

  Frankie felt still more ashamed.

  It was a mean thing she was doing - mean - mean - mean.

  She would give it up! Go back to town Her hostess went on: 'It won't be too dull here. Tomorrow my brother-in-law is coming back. You'll like him, I'm sure. Everyone likes Roger.' 'He lives with you?' 'Off and on. He's a restless creature. He calls himself the ne'er-do-weel of the family, and perhaps it's true in a way. He never sticks to a job for long - in fact I don't believe he's ever done any real work in his life. But some people just are like that - especially in old families. And they're usually people with a great charm of manner. Roger is wonderfully sympathetic. I don't know what I should have done without him this spring when Tommy was ill.' 'What was the matter with Tommy?' 'He had a bad fall from the swing. It must have been tied on to a rotten branch and the branch gave way. Roger was very upset because he was swinging the child at the time - you know, giving him high ones, such as children love. We thought at first Tommy's spine was hurt, but it turned out to be a very slight injury and he's quite all right now.' 'He certainly looks it,' said Frankie, smiling, as she heard faint yells and whoops in the distance.

  'I know. He seems in perfect condition. It's such a relief.

  He's had bad luck in accidents. He was nearly drowned last winter.' 'Was he really?' said Frankie thoughtfully.

  She no longer meditated returning to town. The feeling of guilt had abated.

  Accidents!

  Did Roger Bassington-ffrench specialize in accidents, she wondered.

  She said: 'If you're sure you mean it, I'd love to stay a little longer. But won't your husband mind my butting in like this?' 'Henry?' Mrs Bassington-ffrench's lips curled in a strange expression. 'No, Henry won't mind. Henry never minds anything - nowadays.' Frankie looked at her curiously.

  'If she knew me better she'd tell me something,' she thought to herself. 'I believe there are lots of odd things going on in this household.' Henry Bassington-ffrench joined them for tea and Frankie studied him closely. There was certainly something odd about the man. His type was an obvious one - a jovial, sport-loving, simple country gentleman. But such a man ought not to sit twitching nervously, his nerves obviously on edge, now sunk in an abstraction from which it was impossible to rouse him, now giving out bitter and sarcastic replies to anything said to him.

  Not that he was always like that. Later that evening, at dinner, he showed out in quite a new light. He joked, laughed, told stories, and was, for a man of his abilities, quite brilliant. Too brilliant, Frankie felt. The brilliance was just as unnatural and out of character.

  'He has such queer eyes,' she thought. 'They frighten me a little.' And yet surely she did not suspect Henry Bassingtonffrench of anything? It was his brother, not he, who had been in Marchbolt on that fatal day.

  As to the brother, Frankie looked forward to seeing him with eager interest. According to her and to Bobby, the man was a murderer. She was going to meet a murderer face to face.

  She felt momentarily nervous.

  Yet, after all, how could he guess?

  How could he, in any way, connect her with a successfully accomplished crime?

  'You're making a bogey for yourself out of nothing,' she said to herself.

  Roger Bassington-ffrench arrived just before tea on the following afternoon.

  Frankie did not meet him till tea time. She was still supposed to 'rest' in the afternoon.

  When she came out on to the lawn where tea was laid, Sylvia said smiling: 'Here is our invalid. This is my brother-in-law. Lady Frances Derwent.' Frankie saw a tall, slender young man of something over thirty with very pleasant eyes. Although she could see what Bobby meant by saying he ought to have a monocle and a toothbrush moustache, she herself was more inclined to notice the intense blue of his eyes. They shook hands.

  He said: 'I've been hearing all about the way you tried to break down the park wall.' 'I'll admit,' said Frankie, 'that I'm the world's worst driver.

  But I was driving an awful old rattle-trap. My own car was laid up and I bought a cheap one secondhand.' 'She was rescued from the ruins by a very good-looking young doctor,' said Sylvia.

  'He was rather sweet,' agreed Frankie.

  Tommy arrived at this moment and flung himself upon his uncle with squeaks of joy.

  'Have you brought me a Homby train? You said you would.

  You said you would.' 'Oh, Tommy! You mustn't ask for things,' said Sylvia.

  'That's all right, Sylvia. It was a promise. I've got your train all right, old man.' He looked casually at his sister-in-law. 'Isn't Henry coming to tea?' 'I don't think so.' The constrained note was in her voice. 'He isn't feeling awfully well today, I imagine.' Then she said impulsively: 'Oh, Roger, I'm glad you're back.' He put his hand on her arm for a minute.

  'That's all right, Sylvia, old girl.' After tea, Roger played trains with his nephew.

  Frankie watched them, her mind in a turmoil.

  Surely this wasn't the sort of man to push people over cliffs!

  This charming young man couldn't be a cold-blooded murderer!

  But, then - she and Bobby must have been wrong all along.

  Wrong, that is, about this part of it.

  She felt sure now that it wasn't Bassington-ffrench who had pushed Pritchard over the cliff.

  Then who was it?

  She was still convinced he had been pushed over. Who had done it? And who had put the morphia in Bobby's beer?

  With the thought of morphia suddenly the explanation of Henry Bassington-ffrench's peculiar eyes came to her, with their pin-point pupils.

  Was Henry Bassington-ffrench a drug fiend?

  CHAPTER 13 Alan Carstairs

  Strangely enough, she received confirmation of this theory no later than the following day, and it came from Roger.

  They had been playing a single at tennis against each other and were sitting afterwards sipping iced drinks.

  They had been talking about various indifferent subjects and Frankie had become more and more sensible of the charm of someone who
had, like Roger Bassington-ffrench, travelled about all over the world. The family ne'er-do-weel, she could not help thinking, contrasted very favourably with his heavy, serious-minded brother.

  A pause had fallen while these thoughts were passing through Frankie's mind. It was broken by Roger - speaking this time in an entirely different tone of voice.

  'Lady Frances, I'm going to do a rather peculiar thing. I've known you less than twenty-four hours, but I feel instinctively that you're the one person I can ask advice from.' 'Advice?' said Frankie, surprised.

  'Yes. I can't make up my mind between two different courses of action.' He paused. He was leaning forward, swinging a racquet between his knees, a light frown on his forehead. He looked worried and upset.

  'It's about my brother. Lady Frances.' 'Yes?' 'He is taking drugs. I am sure of it.' 'What makes you think so?' asked Frankie.

  'Everything. His appearance. His extraordinary changes of mood. And have you noticed his eyes? The pupils are like pinpoints.'

  'I had noticed that,' admitted Frankie. 'What do you think it is?' 'Morphia or some form of opium.' 'Has it been going on for long?' 'I date the beginning of it from about six months ago. I remember that he complained of sleeplessness a good deal.

  How he first came to take the stuff, I don't know, but I think it must have begun soon after then.' 'How does he get hold of it?' inquired Frankie practically.

  'I think it comes to him by post. Have you noticed that he is particularly nervous and irritable some days at tea time?' 'Yes, I have.' 'I suspect that that is when he has finished up his supply and is waiting for more. Then, after the six o'clock post has come, he goes into his study and emerges for dinner in quite a different mood.' Frankie nodded. She remembered that unnatural brilliance of conversation sometimes at dinner.

  'But where does the supply come from?' she asked.

  'Ah, that I don't know. No reputable doctor would give it to him. There are, I suppose, various sources where one could get it in London by paying a big price.' Frankie nodded thoughtfully.

  She was remembering having said to Bobby something about a gang of drug smugglers and his replying that one could not mix up too many crimes. It was queer that so soon in their investigations they should have come upon the traces of such a thing.

  It was queerer that it should be the chief suspect who should draw her attention to the fact. It made her more inclined than ever to acquit Roger Bassington-ffrench of the charge of murder.

  And yet there was the inexplicable matter of the changed photograph. The evidence against him, she reminded herself, was still exactly what it had been. On the other side was only the personality of the man himself. And everyone always said that murderers were charming people!

  She shook off these reflections and turned to her companion.

  'Why exactly are you telling me this?' she asked frankly.

  'Because I don't know what to do about Sylvia,' he said simply.

  'You think she doesn't know?' 'Of course she doesn't know. Ought I to tell her?' 'It's very difficult ' 'It is difficult. That's why I thought you might be able to help me. Sylvia has taken a great fancy to you. She doesn't care much for any of the people round about, but she liked you at once, she tells me. What ought I to do. Lady Frances? By telling her I shall add a great burden to her life.' 'If she knew she might have some influence,' suggested Frankie.

  'I doubt it. When it's a case of drug-taking, nobody, even the nearest and dearest, has any influence.' 'That's rather a hopeless point of view, isn't it?' 'It's a fact. There are ways, of course. If Henry would only consent to go in for a cure - there's a place actually near here.

  Run by a Dr Nicholson.' 'But he'd never consent, would he?' 'He might. You can catch a morphia taker in a mood of extravagant remorse sometimes when they'd do anything to cure themselves. I'm inclined to think that Henry might be got to that frame of mind more easily if he thought Sylvia didn't know - if her knowing was held over him as a kind of threat. If the cure was successful (they'd call it "nerves", of course) she never need know.' 'Would he have to go away for the cure?' 'The place I mean is about three miles from here, the other side of the village. It's run by a Canadian - Dr Nicholson. A very clever man, I believe. And, fortunately. Henry likes him.

  Hush - here comes Sylvia.' Mrs Bassington-ffrench joined them, observing: 'Have you been very energetic?' 'Three sets,' said Frankie. 'And I was beaten every time.' 'You play a very good game,' said Roger.

  'I'm terribly lazy about tennis,' said Sylvia. 'We must ask the Nicholsons over one day. She's very fond of a game. Why what is it?' She had caught the glance the other two had exchanged.

  'Nothing - only I happened to be talking about the Nicholsons to Lady Frances.' 'You'd better call her Frankie like I do,' said Sylvia. 'Isn't it odd how whenever one talks of any person or thing, somebody else does the same immediately afterwards?' 'They are Canadians, aren't they?' inquired Frankie.

  'He is, certainly. I rather fancy she is English, but I'm not sure. She's a very pretty little thing - quite charming with the most lovely big wistful eyes. Somehow or other, I fancy she isn't terribly happy. It must be a depressing life.' 'He runs a kind of sanatorium, doesn't he?' 'Yes - nerve cases and people who take drugs. He's very successful, I believe. He's rather an impressive man.' 'You like him?' 'No,' said Sylvia abruptly, 'I don't.' And rather vehemently, after a moment or two, she added: 'Not at all.' Later on, she pointed out to Frankie a photograph of a charming large-eyed woman which stood on the piano.

  'That's Moira Nicholson. An appealing face, isn't it? A man who came down here with some friends of ours some time ago was quite struck with it. He wanted an introduction to her, I think.' She laughed.

  'I'll ask them to dinner tomorrow night. I'd like to know what you think of him.' 'Him?' 'Yes. As I told you, I dislike him, and yet he's quite an attractive-looking man.' Something in her tone made Frankie look at her quickly, but Sylvia Bassington-ffrench had turned away and was taking some dead flowers out of a vase.

  'I must collect my ideas,' thought Frankie, as she drew a comb through her thick dark hair when dressing for dinner that night. 'And,' she added resolutely, 'it's time I made a few experiments.' Was, or was not, Roger Bassington-ffrench the villain she and Bobby assumed him to be?

  She and Bobby had agreed that whoever had tried to put the latter out of the way must have easy access to morphia. Now in a way this held good for Roger Bassington-ffrench. If his brother received supplies of morphia by post, it would be easy enough for Roger to abstract a packet and use it for his own purposes.

  'Mem.,' wrote Frankie on a sheet of paper:

  '(1) Find out where Roger was on the 16th - day when Bobby was poisoned.' She thought she saw her way to doing that fairly clearly.

  '(2),' she wrote. 'Produce picture of dead man and observe reactions if any. Also noteifR.B.F. admits being in Marchbolt then.' She felt slightly nervous over the second resolution. It meant coming out into the open. On the other hand, the tragedy had happened in her own part of the world, and to mention it casually would be the most natural thing in the world.

  She crumpled up the sheet of paper and burnt it.

  She managed to introduce the first point fairly naturally at dinner.

  'You know,' she said frankly to Roger. 'I can't help feeling that we've met before. And it wasn't very long ago, either. It wasn't, by any chance, at that party of Lady Shane's at Claridges. On the 16th it was.' 'It couldn't have been on the 16th,' said Sylvia quickly.

  'Roger was here then. I remember, because we had a children's party that day and what I should have done without Roger I simply don't know.' She gave a grateful glance at her brother-in-law and he smiled back at her.

  'I don't feel I've ever met you before,' he said thoughtfully to Frankie, and added: 'I'm sure if I had I'd remember it.' He said it rather nicely.

  'One point settled,' thought Frankie. 'Roger Bassingtonffrench was not in Wales on the day that Bobby was poisoned.' The second point came up fairly easily late
r. Frankie led the talk to country places, the dullness thereof, and the interest aroused by any local excitement.

  'We had a man fall over the cliff last month,' she remarked.

  'We were all thrilled to the core. I went to the inquest full of excitement, but it was all rather dull, really.' 'Was that a place called Marchbolt?' asked Sylvia suddenly.

  Frankie nodded.

  'Derwent Castle is only about seven miles from Marchbolt,' she explained.

  'Roger, that must have been your man,' cried Sylvia.

  Frankie looked inquiringly at him.

  'I was actually in at the death,' said Roger. 'I stayed with the body till the police came.' 'I thought one of the Vicar's sons did that,' said Frankie.

  'He had to go off to play the organ or something - so I took over.' 'How perfectly extraordinary,' said Frankie. 'I did hear somebody else had been there, too, but I never heard the name.

  So it was you?' There was a general atmosphere of 'How curious. Isn't the world small?' Frankie felt she was doing this rather well.

  'Perhaps that's where you saw me before - in Marchbolt?' suggested Roger.

  'I wasn't there actually at the time of the accident,' said Frankie. 'I came back from London a couple of days afterwards.

  Were you at the inquest?' 'No. I went back to London the morning after the tragedy.' 'He had some absurd idea of buying a house down there,' said Sylvia.

  'Utter nonsense,' said Henry Bassingtonf&ench.

  'Not at all,' said Roger good-humouredly.

  'You know perfectly well, Roger, that as soon as you'd bought it, you'd get a fit of wanderlust and go off abroad again.' 'Oh, I shall settle down some day, Sylvia.' 'When you do you'd better settle down near us,' said Sylvia.

  'Not go off to Wales.' Roger laughed. Then he turned to Frankie.

  'Any points of interest about the accident? It didn't turn out to be suicide or anything?' 'Oh, no, it was all painfully above board and some appalling relations came and identified the man. He was on a walking tour, it seems. Very sad, really, because he was awfully goodlooking.