Agatha Christie - Why Didn't They Ask Evans

Frankie went to the study door and turned the handle.

'It's locked,' she said.

'The window,' said Roger.

He deposited Sylvia, who was in a half-fainting condition, on a convenient settee and raced out again through the drawingroom, Frankie on his heels. They went round the house till they came to the study window. It was closed, but they put their went into his study, locked the door, wrote a few words on a sheet of paper - and - shot himself. Bobby, it's too ghastly. It's - it's grim.' 'I know,' said Bobby quietly.

They were both silent for a little.

'I shall have to leave today, of course,' said Frankie presently.

'Yes, I suppose you will. How is she - Mrs Bassingtonffrench, I mean?' 'She's collapsed, poor soul. I haven't seen her since we - we found the body. The shock to her must have been awful.' Bobby nodded.

'You'd better bring the car round about eleven,' continued Frankie.

Bobby did not answer. Frankie looked at him impatiently.

'What's the matter with you, Bobby? You look as though you were miles away.' 'Sorry. As a matter of fact ' 'Yes?' 'Well, I was just wondering. I suppose - well, I suppose it's all right?' 'What do you mean - all right?' 'I mean it's quite certain that he did commit suicide?' 'Oh!' said Frankie. 'I see.' She thought a minute. 'Yes,' she said, 'it was suicide all right.' 'You're quite sure? You see, Frankie, we have Moira's word for it that Nicholson wanted two people out of the way. Well, here's one of them gone.' Frankie thought again, but once more she shook her head.

'It must be suicide,' she said. 'I was in the garden with Roger when we heard the shot. We both ran straight in through the drawing-room to the hall. The study door was locked on the inside. We went round to the window. That was fastened also and Roger had to smash it. It wasn't till then that Nicholson appeared upon the scene.' Bobby reflected upon this information.

'It looks all right,' he agreed. 'But Nicholson seems to have appeared on the scene very suddenly.' 'He'd left a stick behind earlier in the afternoon and had come back for it.' Bobby was frowning with the process of thought.

'Listen, Frankie. Suppose that actually Nicholson shot Bassington-ffrench ' 'Having induced him first to write a suicide's letter of farewell?' 'I should think that would be the easiest thing in the world to fake. Any alteration in handwriting would be put down to agitation.' 'Yes, that's true. Go on with your theory.' 'Nicholson shoots Bassington-ffrench, leaves the farewell letter, and nips out locking the door - to appear again a few minutes later as though he had just arrived.' Frankie shook her head regretfully.

'It's a good idea - but it won't work. To begin with, the key was in Henry Bassington-ffrench's pocket ' 'Who found it there?' 'Well, as a matter of fact, Nicholson did.' 'There you are. What's easier for him than to pretend to find it there.' 'I was watching him - remember. I'm sure the key was in the pocket.' 'That's what one says when one watches a conjurer. You see the rabbit being put into the hat! If Nicholson is a high-class criminal, a simple little bit of sleight of hand like that would be child's play to him.' 'Well, you may be right about that, but honestly, Bobby, the whole thing's impossible. Sylvia Bassington-ffrench was actually in the house when the shot was fired. The moment she heard it she ran out into the hall. If Nicholson had fired the shot and come out through the study door she would have been bound to see him. Besides, she told us that he actually came up the drive to the front door. She saw him coming as we ran round the house and went to meet him and brought him round to the study window. No, Bobby, I hate to say it, but the man has an alibi.' 'On principle, I distrust people who have alibis,' said Bobby.

'So do I. But I don't see how you can get round this one.' 'No. Sylvia Bassington-ffrench's word ought to be good enough.' 'Yes, indeed.' 'Well,' said Bobby with a sigh. 'I suppose we'll have to leave it at suicide. Poor devil. What's the next angle of attack, Frankie?' 'The Caymans,' said Frankie. 'I can't think how we've been so remiss as not to have looked them up before. You've kept the address Cayman wrote from, haven't you?' 'Yes. It's the same they gave at the inquest. 17 St Leonard's Gardens, Paddington.' 'Don't you agree that we've rather neglected that channel of inquiry?' 'Absolutely. All the same, you know, Frankie, I've got a very shrewd idea that you'll find the birds flown. I should imagine that the Caymans weren't exactly born yesterday.' 'Even if they have gone off, I may find out something about them.' 'Why - /?' 'Because, once again, I don't think you'd better appear in the matter. It's like coming down here when we thought Roger was the bad man of the show. You are known to them and I am not.' 'And how do your propose to make their acquaintance?' asked Bobby.

'I shall be something political,' said Frankie. 'Canvassing for the Conservative Party. I shall arrive with leaflets.' 'Good enough,' said Bobby. 'But, as I said before, I think you'll find the birds flown. Now there's another thing that requires to be thought of - Moira.' 'Goodness,' said Frankie, 'I'd forgotten all about her.' 'So I noticed,' said Bobby with a trace of coldness in his manner.

'You're right,' said Frankie thoughtfully. 'Something must be done about her.' Bobby nodded. The strange haunting face came up before his eyes. There was something tragic about it. He had always felt that from the first moment when he had taken the photograph from Alan Carstairs' pocket.

'If you'd seen her that night when I first went to the Grange!' he said. 'She was crazy with fear - and I tell you, Frankie, she's right. It's not nerves or imagination, or anything like that. If Nicholson wants to marry Sylvia Bassingtonffrench, two obstacles have got to go. One's gone. I've a feeling that Moira's life is hanging by a hair and that any delay may be fatal.' Frankie was sobered by the eamestness of his words.

'My dear, you're right,' she said. 'We must act quickly.

What shall we do?' 'We must persuade her to leave the Grange - at once.' Frankie nodded.

'I tell you what,' she said. 'She'd better go down to Wales to the Castle. Heaven knows, she ought to be safe enough there.' 'If you can fix that, Frankie, nothing could be better.' 'Well, it's simple enough. Father never notices who goes or comes. He'll like Moira - nearly any man would - she's so feminine. It's extraordinary how men like helpless women.' 'I don't think Moira is particularly helpless,' said Bobby.

'Nonsense. She's like a little bird that sits and waits to be eaten by a snake without doing anything about it.' 'What could she do?' 'Heaps of things,' said Frankie vigorously.

'Well, I don't see it. She's got no money, no friends ' 'My dear, don't drone on as though you were recommending a case to the Girls' Friendly Society.' 'Sorry,' said Bobby.

There was an offended pause.

'Well,' said Frankie, recovering her temper. 'As you were. I think we'd better get on to this business as soon as possible.' 'So do I,' said Bobby. 'Really, Frankie, it's awfully decent of you to -' 'That's all right,' said Frankie interrupting him. 'I don't mind befriending the girl so long as you don't drivel on about her as though she had no hands or feet or tongue or brains.' 'I simply don't know what you mean,' said Bobby.

'Well, we needn't talk about it,' said Frankie. 'Now, my idea is that whatever we're going to do we'd better do it quickly. Is that a quotation?' 'It's a paraphrase of one. Go on. Lady Macbeth.' 'You know, I've always thought,' said Frankie, suddenly digressing wildly from the matter in hand, 'that Lady Macbeth incited Macbeth to do all those murders simply and solely because she was so frightfully bored with life - and incidentally with Macbeth. I'm sure he was one of those meek, inoffensive men who drive their wives distracted with boredom. But, having once committed a murder for the first time in his life, he felt the hell of a fine fellow and began to develop ego mania as a compensation for his former inferiority complex.' 'You ought to write a book on the subject, Frankie.' 'I can't spell. Now, where were we? Oh, yes, rescue of Moira. You'd better bring the car round at half-past ten. I'll drive over to the Grange, ask for Moira and, if Nicholson's there when I see her, I'll remind her of her promise to come and stay with me and carry her off then and there.' 'Excellent, Frankie. I'm glad we're not going to waste any time. I've a horror of another accident happening.' 'Half-past ten, then,' said Frankie.