Agatha Christie - Why Didn't They Ask Evans

'I felt he was suspicious,' she ended up.

'It's certainly queer his going into details like that,' said Bobby. 'What do you think is at the bottom of all this business, Frankie?' 'Well, I'm beginning to think that your suggestion of a dope gang, which I was so haughty about at the time, isn't such a bad guess after all.' 'With Dr Nicholson at the head of the gang?' 'Yes. This nursing home business would be a very good cloak for that sort of thing. He'd have a certain supply of drugs on the premises quite legitimately. While pretending to cure drug cases, he might really be supplying them with the stuff.' 'That seems plausible enough,' agreed Bobby.

'I haven't told you yet about Henry Bassingtonffrench.' Bobby listened attentively to her description of her host's idiosyncracies.

'His wife doesn't suspect?' 'I'm sure she doesn't.' 'What is she like? Intelligent?' 'I never thought exactly. No, I suppose she isn't very. And yet in some ways she seems quite shrewd. A frank, pleasant woman.' 'And our Bassingtonffrench?' 'There I'm puzzled,' said Frankie slowly. 'Do you think, Bobby, that just possibly we might be all wrong about him?' 'Nonsense,' said Bobby. 'We worked it all out and decided that he must be the villain of the piece.' 'Because of the photograph?' 'Because of the photograph. No one else could have changed that photograph for the other.' 'I know,' said Frankie. 'But that one incident is all that we have against him.' 'It's quite enough.' 'I suppose so. And yet ' 'Well?' 'I don't know, but I have a queer sort of feeling that he's innocent - that he's not concerned in the matter at all.' Bobby looked at her coldly.

'Did you say that he had fallen for you or that you had fallen for him?' he inquired politely.

Frankie flushed.

'Don't be so absurd, Bobby. I just wondered if there couldn't be some innocent explanation, that's all.' 'I don't see that there can be. Especially now that we've actually found the girl in the neighbourhood. That seems to clinch matters. If we only had some inkling as to who the dead man was ' 'Oh, but I have. I told you so in my letter. I'm nearly sure that the murdered man was somebody called Alan Carstairs.' Once more she plunged into narrative.

'You know,' said Bobby, 'we really are getting on. Now we must try, more or less, to reconstruct the crime. Let's spread out our facts and see what sort of a job we can make of it.' He paused for a moment and the car slackened speed as though in sympathy. Then he pressed his foot down once more on the accelerator and at the same time spoke.

'First, we'll assume that you are right about Alan Carstairs.

He certainly fulfils the conditions. He's the right sort of man, he led a wandering life, he had very few friends and acquaintances in England, and if he disappeared he wasn't likely to be missed or sought after.

'So far, good. Alan Carstairs comes down to Staverley with these people - what did you say their name was - ?' 'Rivington. There's a possible channel of inquiry there. In fact, I think we ought to follow it up.' 'We will. Very well, Carstairs comes down to Staverley with the Rivingtons. Now, is there anything in that?' 'You mean did he get them to bring him down here deliberately?' 'That's what I mean. Or was it just a casual chance? Was he brought down here by them and did he then come across the girl by accident just as I did? I presume he knew her before or he wouldn't have had her photograph on him.' 'The alternative being,' said Frankie thoughtfully, 'that he was already on the track of Nicholson and his gang.' 'And used the Rivingtons as a means of getting to this part of the world naturally?' 'That's quite a possible theory,' said Frankie. 'He may have been on the track of this gang.' 'Or simply on the track of the girl.' 'The girl?' 'Yes. She may have been abducted. He may have come over to England to find her.' 'Well, but if he had tracked her down to Staverley, why should he go off to Wales?' 'Obviously, there's a lot we don't know yet,' said Bobby.

'Evans,' said Frankie thoughtfully. 'We don't get any clues as to Evans. The Evans part of it must have to do with Wales.' They were both silent for a moment or two. Then Frankie woke up to her surroundings.

'My dear, we're actually at Putney Hill. It seems like five minutes. Where are we going and what are we doing?' 'That's for you to say. I don't even know why we've come up to town.' 'The journey to town was only an excuse for getting a talk with you. I couldn't very well risk being seen walking the lanes at Staverley deep in conversation with my chauffeur. I used the pseudo-letter from Father as an excuse for driving up to town and talking to you on the way and even that was nearly wrecked by Bassington-ffrench coming too.' 'That would have torn it severely.' 'Not really. We'd have dropped him wherever he liked and then we'd have gone on to Brook Street and talked there. I think we'd better do that, anyway. Your garage place may be watched.' Bobby agreed and related the episode of the inquiries made about him at Marchbolt.

'We'll go to the Derwents' town residence,' said Frankie.

'There's no one there but my maid and a couple of caretakers.' They drove to Brook Street. Frankie rang the bell and was admitted, Bobby remaining outside. Presently Frankie opened the door again and beckoned him in. They went upstairs to the big drawing-room and pulled up some of the blinds and removed the swathing from one of the sofas.

'There's one other thing I forgot to tell you,' said Frankie.

'On the 16th, the day you were poisoned, Bassingtonffrench was at Staverley, but Nicholson was away - supposedly at a conference in London. And his car is a dark-blue Talbot.' 'And he has access to morphia,' said Bobby.

They exchanged significant glances.

'It's not exactly evidence, I suppose,' said Bobby, 'but it fits in nicely.' Frankie went to a side table and returned with a telephone directory.

'What are you going to do?' 'I'm looking up the name Rivington.' She turned pages rapidly.

'A. Rivington & Sons, Builders. B. A. C. Rivington, Dental Surgeon. D. Rivington, Shooters Hill, I think not. Miss Florence Rivington. Col. H. Rivington, D.S.O. - that's more like it - Tite Street, Chelsea.' She continued her search.

'There's M. R. Rivington, Onslow Square. He's possible.

And there's a William Rivington at Hampstead. I think Onslow Square and Tite Street are the most likely ones. The Rivingtons, Bobby, have got to be seen without delay.' 'I think you're right. But what are we going to say? Think up a few good lies, Frankie. I'm not much good at that sort of thing.' Frankie reflected for a minute or two.

'I think,' she said, 'that'll you have to go. Do you feel you could be the junior partner of a solicitors' firm?' That seems a most gentlemanly role,' said Bobby. t! was afraid you might think of something much worse than that. All the same, it's not quite in character, is it?' 'How do you mean?' 'Well, solicitors never do make personal visits, do they?

Surely they always write letters at six and eightpence a time, or else write and ask someone to keep an appointment at their office.' 'This particular firm of solicitors is unconventional,' said Frankie. 'Wait a minute.' She left the room and returned with a card.

'Mr Frederick Spragge,' she said, handing it to Bobby. 'You are a young member of the firm of Spragge, Spragge, Jenkinson and Spragge, of Bloomsbury Square.' 'Did you invent that firm, Frankie?' 'Certainly not. They're Father's solicitors.' 'And suppose they have me up for impersonation?' 'That's all right. There isn't any young Spragge. The only Spragge is about a hundred, and anyway he eats out of my hand. I'll fix him if things go wrong. He's a great snob - he loves lords and dukes, however little money he makes out of them.' 'What about clothes? Shall I ring up Badger to bring some along?' Frankie looked doubtful.