Agatha Christie - Why Didn't They Ask Evans

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.