'Looking for a house, I believe.' 'Funny idea. What should anyone want with a house down here?' That, thought Frankie, was the question.
On the following day she walked into the office of Messrs.
Wheeler & Owen, House and Estate Agents.
Mr Owen himself sprang up to receive her. Frankie gave him a gracious smile and dropped into a chair.
'And what can we have the pleasure of doing for you. Lady Frances? You don't want to sell the Castle, I suppose. Ha! Ha!' Mr Owen laughed at his own wit.
'I wish we could,' said Frankie. 'No, as a matter of fact, I believe a friend of mine was down here the other day - a Mr Bassington-ffrench. He was looking for a house.' 'Ah! yes, indeed. I remember the name perfectly. Two small if 's.' 'That's right,' said Frankie.
'He was making inquiries about various small properties with a view to purchase. He was obliged to return to town the next day, so could not view many of the houses, but I understand he is in no great hurry. Since he left, one or two suitable properties have come into the market and I have sent him on particulars, but have had no reply.' 'Did you write to London - or to the - er - country address?' inquired Frankie.
'Let me see now.' He called to a junior clerk. 'Frank, Mr Bassington-ffrench's address.' 'Roger Bassington-ffrench, Esq., Merroway Court, Staverley, Hants,' said the junior clerk glibly.
'Ah!' said Frankie. 'Then it wasn't my Mr Bassingtonffrench.
This must be his cousin. I thought it was odd his being here and not looking me up.' 'Quite so - quite so,' said Mr Owen intelligently.
'Let me see, it must have been the Wednesday he came to see you.' 'That's right. Just before six-thirty. We close at six-thirty. I remember particularly because it was the day when that sad accident happened. Man fell over the cliff. Mr Bassingtonffrench had actually stayed by the body till the police came. He looked quite upset when he came in here. Very sad tragedy, that, and high time something was done about that bit of path.
The Town Council have been criticized very freely, I can tell you. Lady Frances. Most dangerous. Why we haven't had more accidents than we have I can't imagine.' 'Extraordinary,' said Frankie.
She left the office in a thoughtful mood. As Bobby had prophesied, all Mr Bassington-ffrench's actions seemed clear and above aboard. He was one of the Hampshire Bassingtonffrenches, he had given his proper address, he had actually mentioned his part in the tragedy to the house agent. Was it possible that, after all, Mr Bassington-ffrench was the completely innocent person he seemed?
Frankie had a qualm of doubt. Then she refused it.
'No,' she said to herself. 'A man who wants to buy a little place would either get here earlier in the day, or else stay over the next day. You wouldn't go into a house agent's at six-thirty in the evening and go up to London the following day. Why make the journey at all? Why not write?' No, she decided, Bassington-fFrench was the guilty party.
Her next call was the police station.
Inspector Williams was an old acquaintance, having succeeded in tracking down a maid with a false reference who had absconded with some of Frankie's jewellery.
'Good afternoon. Inspector.' 'Good afternoon, your Ladyship. Nothing wrong, I hope.' 'Not as yet, but I'm thinking of holding up a bank soon, because I'm getting so short of money.' The inspector gave a rumbling laugh in acknowledgement of this witticism.
'As a matter of fact, I've come to ask questions out of sheer curiosity,' said Frankie.
'Is that so. Lady Frances?' 'Now do tell me this. Inspector - the man who fell over the cliff - Pritchard, or whatever his name was -' 'Pritchard, that's right.' 'He had only one photograph on him, didn't he? Somebody told me he had three?
'One's right,' said the inspector. 'Photograph of his sister it was. She came down and identified him.' 'How absurd to say there were three!' 'Oh! That's easy, your Ladyship. These newspaper reporters don't mind how much they exaggerate and as often as not they get the whole thing wrong.' 'I know,' said Frankie. 'I've heard the wildest stories.' She paused a moment then drew freely on her imagination. 'I've heard that his pockets were stuffed with papers proving him to be a Bolshevik agent, and there's another story that his pockets were full of dope, and another again about his having pockets full of counterfeit bank notes.' The inspector laughed heartily.
'That's a good one.' 'I suppose really he had just the usual things in his pockets?' 'And very few at that. A handkerchief, not marked. Some loose change, a packet of cigarettes and a couple of treasury notes - loose, not in a case. No letters. We'd have had a job to identify him if it hadn't been for the photo. Providential, you might call it.' 'I wonder,' said Frankie.
In view other private knowledge, she considered providential a singularly inappropriate word. She changed the conversation.
'I went to see Mr Jones, the Vicar's son, yesterday. The one who's been poisoned. What an extraordinary thing that was.' 'Ah!' said the inspector. 'Now that is extraordinary, if you like. Never heard of anything like it happening before. A nice young gentleman without an enemy in the world, or so you'd say. You know. Lady Frances, there are some queer customers going about. All the same, I never heard of a homicidal maniac who acted just this way.' 'Is there any clue at all to who did it?' Frankie was all wide-eyed inquiry.
'It's so interesting to hear all this,' she added.
The inspector swelled with gratification. He enjoyed this friendly conversation with an Earl's daughter. Nothing stuck up or snobbish about Lady Frances.
'There was a car seen in the vicinity,' said the inspector.
'Dark-blue Talbot saloon. A man on Lock's Corner reported dark-blue Talbot, No. GG 8282, passed going direction St Botolph's.' 'And you think?' 'GG 8282 is the number of the Bishop of Botolph's car.' Frankie toyed for a minute or two with the idea of a homicidal bishop who offered sacrifices of clergymen's sons, but rejected it with a sigh.
'You don't suspect the Bishop, I suppose?' she said.
'We've found out that the Bishop's car never left the Palace garage that afternoon.' 'So it was a false number.' 'Yes. We've got that to go on all right.' With expressions of admiration, Frankie took her leave. She made no damping remark, but she thought to herself: 'There must be a large number of dark-blue Talbots in England.' On her return home she took a directory of Marchbolt from its place on the writing-table in the library and removed it to her own room. She worked over it for some hours.
The result was not satisfactory.
There were four hundred and eighty-two Evanses in Marchbolt.
'Damn!' said Frankie.
She began to make plans for the future.
CHAPTER 10 Preparations for an Accident
A week later Bobby had joined Badger in London. He had received several enigmatical communications from Frankie, most in such an illegible scrawl that he was quite unable to do more than guess at their meaning. However, their general purport seemed to be that Frankie had a plan and that he (Bobby) was to do nothing until he heard from her. This was as well, for Bobby would certainly have had no leisure to do anything, since the unlucky Badger had already succeeded in embroiling himself and his business in every way ingenuity could suggest, and Bobby was kept busy disentangling the extraordinary mess his friend seemed to have got into.
Meanwhile, the young man remained very strictly on his guard. The effect of eight grains of morphia was to render their taker extremely suspicious of food and drink and had also induced him to bring to London a Service revolver, the possession of which was extremely irksome to him.
He was just beginning to feel that the whole thing had been an extravagant nightmare when Frankie's Bentley roared down the Mews and drew up outside the garage. Bobby, in greasestained overalls, came out to receive it. Frankie was at the wheel and beside her sat a rather gloomy-looking young man.
'Hullo, Bobby,' said Frankie. 'This is George Arbuthnot.
He's a doctor, and we shall need him.' Bobby winced slightly as he and George Arbuthnot made faint recognitions of each other's presence.
'Are you sure we're going to need a doctor?' he asked.
'Aren't you being a bit pessimistic?' 'I didn't mean we should need him in that way,' said Frankie. 'I need him for a scheme that I've got on. Look here, is there anywhere we can go and talk?' Bobby looked round him.
'Well, there's my bedroom,' he said doubtfully.
'Excellent,' said Frankie.
She got out of the car and she and George Arbuthnot followed Bobby up some outside steps and into a microscopic bedroom.
'I don't know,' said Bobby, looking round dubiously, 'if there's anywhere to sit.' There was not. The only chair was loaded with, apparently, the whole of Bobby's wardrobe.
'The bed will do,' said Frankie.
She plumped down on it. George Arbuthnot did the same and the bed groaned protestingly.
'I've got everything planned out,' said Frankie. 'To begin with, we want a car. One of yours will do.' 'Do you mean you want to buy one of our cars?' Yes.' 'That's really very nice of you, Frankie,' said Bobby, with warm appreciation. 'But you needn't. I really do draw the line at sticking my friends.' 'You've got it all wrong,' said Frankie. 'It isn't like that at all.
I know what you mean - it's like buying perfectly appalling clothes and hats from one's friends who are just starting in business. A nuisance, but it's got to be done. But this isn't like that at all. I really need a car.' 'What about the Bentley?' 'The Bentley's no good.' 'You're mad,' said Bobby.
