Agatha Christie - Why Didn't They Ask Evans

'So that's all right,' thought Bobby, as he walked away down Tite Street. 'I seem to have taken Dolly Whatsemame's character away for good, but I daresay she deserves it, and that charming idiot of a woman will never wonder why, if I wanted Carstairs' address, I didn't simply ring up and ask for it!' Back in Brook Street he and Frankie discussed the matter from every angle.

'It looks as though it were really pure chance that took him to the Bassington-ffrenches,' said Frankie thoughtfully.

'I know. But evidently when he was down there some chance remark directed his attention to the Nicholsons.' 'So that, really, it is Nicholson who is at the heart of the mystery, not the Bassingtonffrenches?' Bobby looked at her.

'Still intent on whitewashing your hero,' he inquired coldly.

'My dear, I'm only pointing out what it looks like. It's the mention of Nicholson and his nursing home that excited Carstairs. Being taken down to the Bassington-ffrenches was a pure matter of chance. You must admit that.' 'It seems like it.' 'Why only "seems"?' 'Well, there is just one other possibility. In some way, Carstairs may have found out that the Rivingtons were going down to lunch with the Bassington-ffrenches. He may have overheard some chance remark in a restaurant - at the Savoy, perhaps. So he rings them up, very urgent to see them, and what he hopes may happen does happen. They're very booked up and they suggest his coming down with them - their friends won't mind and they do so want to see him. That is possible, Frankie.' 'It is possible, I suppose. But it seems a very roundabout method of doing things.' 'No more roundabout than your accident,' said Bobby.

'My accident was vigorous direct action,' said Frankie coldly.

Bobby removed Lord Marchington's clothes and replaced them where he had found them. Then he donned his chauffeur's uniform once more and they were soon speeding back to Staverley.

'If Roger has fallen for me,' said Frankie demurely, 'he'll be pleased I've come back so soon. He'll think I can't bear to be away from him for long.' 'I'm not sure that you can bear it, either,' said Bobby. 'I've always heard that really dangerous criminals were singularly attractive.' 'Somehow I can't believe he is a criminal.' 'So you remarked before.' 'Well, I feel like that.' 'You can't get over the photograph.' 'Damn the photograph!' said Frankie.

Bobby drove up the drive in silence. Frankie sprang out and went into the house without a backward glance. Bobby drove away.

The house seemed very silent. Frankie glanced at the clock.

It was half-past two.

'They don't expect me back for hours yet,' she thought. 'I wonder where they are?' She opened the door of the library and went in, stopping suddenly on the threshold.

Dr Nicholson was sitting on the sofa, holding both Sylvia Bassington-ffrench's hands in his.

Sylvia jumped to her feet and came across the room towards Frankie.

'He's been telling me,' she said.

Her voice was stifled. She put both hands to her face as though to hide it from view.

'It's too terrible,' she sobbed, and, brushing past Frankie, she ran out of the room.

Dr Nicholson had risen. Frankie advanced a step or two towards him. His eyes, watchful as ever, met hers.

'Poor lady,' he said suavely. 'It has been a great shock to her.' The muscles at the corner of his mouth twitched. For a moment or two Frankie fancied that he was amused. And then, quite suddenly, she realized that it was quite a different emotion.

The man was angry. He was holding himself in, hiding his anger behind a suave bland mask, but the emotion was there. It was all he could do to hold that emotion in.

There was a moment's pause.

'It was best that Mrs Bassington-ffrench should know the truth,' said the doctor. 'I want her to induce her husband to place himself in my hands.' 'I'm afraid,' said Frankie gently, 'that I interrupted you.' She paused. 'I came back sooner than I meant.'

On Bobby's return to the inn he was greeted with the information that someone was waiting to see him.

'It's a lady. You'll find her in Mr Askew's little sittingroom.' Bobby made his way there slightly puzzled. Unless she had flown there on wings he could not see how Frankie could possibly have got to the Anglers' Arms ahead of him, and that his visitor could be anyone else but Frankie never occurred to him.

He opened the door of the small room which Mr Askew kept as his private sitting-room. Sitting bolt upright in a chair was a slender figure dressed in black - the girl of the photograph.

Bobby was so astonished that for a moment or two he could not speak. Then he noticed that the girl was terribly nervous.

Her small hands were trembling and closed and unclosed themselves on the arm of the chair. She seemed too nervous even to speak, but her large eyes held a kind of terrified appeal.

'So it's you?' said Bobby at last. He shut the door behind him and came forward to the table.

Still the girl did not speak - still those large, terrified eyes looked into his. At last words came - a mere hoarse whisper.

'You said - you said - you'd help me. Perhaps I shouldn't have come ' Here Bobby broke in, finding words and assurance at the same time.

'Shouldn't have come? Nonsense. You did quite right to come. Of course, you should have come. And I'll do anything - anything in the world - to help you. Don't be frightened.

You're quite safe now.' The colour rose a little in the girl's face. She said abruptly: 'Who are you? You're - you're - not a chauffeur. I mean, you may be a chauffeur, but you're not one really.' Bobby understood her meaning in spite of the confused form of words in which she had cloaked them.

'One does all sorts of jobs nowadays,' he said. 'I used to be in the Navy. As a matter of fact, I'm not exactly a chauffeur but that doesn't matter now. But, anyway, I assure you you can trust me and - and tell me all about it.' Her flush had deepened.

'You must think me mad,' she murmured. 'You must think me quite mad.' 'No, no.' 'Yes - coming here like this. But I was so frightened - so terribly frightened -' Her voice died away. Her eyes widened as though they saw some vision of terror.

Bobby seized her hand firmly.

'Look here,' he said, 'it's quite all right. Everything's going to be all right. You're safe now - with - with a friend. Nothing shall happen to you.' He felt the answering pressure of her fingers.

'When you stepped out into the moonlight the other night,' she said in a low, hurried voice, 'it was - it was like a dream a dream of deliverance. I didn't know who you were or where you came from, but it gave me hope and I determined to come and find you - and - tell you.' 'That's right,' said Bobby encouragingly. 'Tell me. Tell me everything.' She drew her hand away suddenly.

'If I do, you'll think I'm mad - that I've gone wrong in my head from being in that place with those others.' 'No, I shan't. I shan't, really.' 'You will. It sounds mad.' 'I shall know it isn't. Tell me. Please tell me.' She drew a little farther away from him, sitting very upright, her eyes staring Straight in front of her.

'It's just this,' she said. 'I'm afraid I'm going to be murdered.' Her voice was dry and hoarse. She was speaking with obvious self-restraint but her hands were trembling.

'Murdered?' 'Yes, that sounds mad, doesn't it? Like - what do they call it?

- persecution mania.' 'No,' said Bobby. 'You don't sound mad at all - just frightened. Tell me, who wants to murder you and why?' She was silent a minute or two, twisting and untwisting her hands. Then she said in a low voice: 'My husband.' 'Your husband?' Thoughts whirled round in Bobby's head: 'Who are you -' he said abruptly.

It was her turn to look surprised.