Agatha Christie - Why Didn't They Ask Evans

'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.

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.