Agatha Christie - Why Didn't They Ask Evans

'That's all right,' said Bobby. 'You go first. I'll follow on.' They adhered to this programme, Bobby lingering to have a word with Mr Askew.

'Odd thing,' he said casually, 'that lady, Mrs Nicholson, I used to work for an uncle of hers. Canadian gentleman.' Moira's visit to him might, he felt, give rise to gossip, and the last thing he wanted was for gossip of that kind to get about and possibly find its way to Dr Nicholson's ears.

'So that's it, is it?' said Mr Askew. 'I rather wondered.' 'Yes,' said Bobby. 'She recognized me, and came along to hear what I was doing now. A nice, pleasant-spoken lady.' 'Very pleasant, indeed. She can't have much of a life living at the Grange.' 'It wouldn't be my fancy,' agreed Bobby.

Feeling that he had achieved his object, he strolled out into the village and with an aimless air betook himself in the direction indicated by Moira.

He reached the rendezvous successfully and found her there waiting for him. Frankie had not yet put in an appearance.

Moira's glance was frankly inquiring, and Bobby felt he must attempt the somewhat difficult task of explanation.

'There's an awful lot I've got to tell you,' he said, and stopped awkwardly.

'Yes?' 'To begin with,' said Bobby plunging, 'I'm not really a chauffeur, although I do work in a garage in London. And my name isn't Hawkins - it's Jones - Bobby Jones. I come from Marchbolt in Wales.' Moira was listening attentively, but clearly the mention of Marchbolt meant nothing to her. Bobby set his teeth and went bravely to the heart of the matter.

'Look here, I'm afraid I'm going to give you rather a shock.

This friend of yours - Alan Carstairs - he's, well - you've got to know - he's dead.' He felt the start she gave and tactfully he averted his eyes from her face. Did she mind very much? Had she been - dash it all - keen on the fellow?

She was silent a moment or two, then she said in a low, thoughtful voice: 'So that's why he never came back? I wondered.' Bobby ventured to steal a look at her. His spirits rose. She looked sad and thoughtful - but that was all.

'Tell me about it,' she said.

Bobby complied.

'He fell over the cliff at Marchbolt - the place where I live.

I and the doctor there happened to be the ones to find him.' He paused and then added: 'He had your photograph in his pocket.' 'Did he?' She gave a sweet, rather sad smile. 'Dear Alan, he was - very faithful.' There was silence for a moment or two and then she asked: 'When did this happen?' 'About a month ago. October 3rd to be exact.' 'That must have been just after he came down here.' 'Yes. Did he mention that he was going to Wales?' She shook her head.

'You don't know anyone called Evans, do you?' said Bobby.

'Evans?' Moira frowned, trying to think. 'No, I don't think so. It's a very common name, of course, but I can't remember anybody. What is he?' 'That's just what we don't know. Oh! hullo, here's Frankie.' Frankie came hurrying along the path. Her face, at the sight of Bobby and Mrs Nicholson sitting chatting together, was a study in conflicting expressions.

'Hullo, Frankie,' said Bobby. 'I'm glad you've come. We've got to have a great pow-wow. To begin with it's Mrs Nicholson who is the original of the photograph.' 'Oh!' said Frankie blankly.

She looked at Moira and suddenly laughed.

'My dear,' she said to Bobby, 'now I see why the sight of Mrs Cayman at the inquest was such a shock to you!' 'Exactly,' said Bobby.

What a fool he had been. However could he have imagined for one moment that any space of time could have turned a Moira Nicholson into an Amelia Cayman.

'Lord, what a fool I've been!' he exclaimed.

Moira was looking bewildered.

'There's such an awful lot to tell,' said Bobby, 'and I don't quite know how to put it all.' He described the Caymans and their identification of the body.

'But I don't understand,' said Moira, bewildered. 'Whose body was it really, her brother's or Alan Carstairs?' 'That's where the dirty work comes in,' explained Bobby.

'And then,' continued Frankie, 'Bobby was poisoned.' 'Eight grains of morphia,' said Bobby reminiscently.

'Don't start on that,' said Frankie. 'You're capable of going on for hours on the subject and it's really very boring to other people. Let me explain.' She took a long breath.

'You see,' she said, 'those Cayman people came to see Bobby after the inquest to ask him if the brother (supposed) had said anything before he died, and Bobby said, "No." But afterwards he remembered that he had said something about a man called Evans, so he wrote and told them so, and a few days afterwards he got a letter offering him a job in Peru or somewhere and when he wouldn't take it, the next thing was that someone put a lot of morphia ' 'Eight grains,' said Bobby.

'- in his beer. Only, having a most extraordinary inside or something, it didn't kill him. And so then we saw at once that Pritchard - or Carstairs, you know - must have been pushed over the cliff.' 'But why?' asked Moira.

'Don't you see? Why, it seems perfectly clear to us. I expect I haven't told it very well. Anyway, we decided that he had been and that Roger Bassington-ffrench had probably done it.' 'Roger Bassington-ffrench?' Moira spoke in tones of the liveliest amusement.

'We worked it out that way. You see, he was there at the time, and your photograph disappeared, and he seemed to be the only man who could have taken it.' 'I see,' said Moira thoughtfully.

'And then,' continued Frankie, 'I happened to have an accident just here. An amazing coincidence, wasn't it?' She looked hard at Bobby with an admonishing eye. 'So I telephoned to Bobby and suggested that he should come down here pretending to be my chauffeur and we'd look into the matter.' 'So now you see how it was,' said Bobby, accepting Frankie's one discreet departure from the truth. 'And the final climax was when last night I strolled into the grounds of the Grange and ran right into you - the original of the mysterious photograph.' 'You recognized me very quickly,' said Moira, with a faint smile.

'Yes,' said Bobby. 'I would have recognized the original of that photograph anywhere.' For no particular reason, Moir;a blushed.

Then an idea seemed to strike her and she looked sharply from one to the other.

'Are you telling me the truth?' she asked. 'Is it really true that you came down here - by accident? Or did you come because - because' - her voice quavered in spite of herself 'you suspected my husband?' Bobby and Frankie looked at each other. Then Bobby said: 'I give you my word of honour that we'd never even heard of your husband till we came down here.' 'Oh, I see.' She turned to Frankie. 'I'm sorry. Lady Frances, but, you see, I remembered that evening when we came to dinner. Jasper went on and on at you - asking you things about your accident. I couldn't think why. But I think now that perhaps he suspected it wasn't genuine.' 'Well, if you really want to know, it wasn't,' said Frankie.

'Whoof - now I feel better! It was all camouflaged very carefully. But it was nothing to do with your husband. The whole thing was staged because we wanted to - to - what does one call it? - get a line on Roger Bassingtonffrench.' 'Roger?' Moira frowned and smiled perplexedly.

'It seems absurd,' she said frankly.

'All the same facts are facts,' said Bobby.

'Roger - oh, no.' She shook her head. 'He might be weak or wild. He might get into debt, or get mixed up in a scandal but pushing someone over a cliff - no, I simply can't imagine it.' 'Do you know,' said Frankie, 'I can't very well imagine it either.' 'But he must have taken that photograph,' said Bobby stubbornly. 'Listen, Mrs Nicholson, while I go over the facts.' He did so slowly and carefully. When he had finished, she nodded her head comprehendingly.

'I see what you mean. It seems very queer.' She paused a minute and then said unexpectedly: 'Why don't you ask him?'