'You sound quite dramatic,' said Nicholson. 'Possibly you are paying too much attention to local gossip. Local gossip is very unreliable. I have heard the wildest stories.' He paused.
His voice altered slightly in tone. 'I have even had a story brought to my ears that my wife and your chauffeur had been seen talking together down by the river.' Another pause. 'He was, I believe, a very superior young man. Lady Frances.' 'Is that it?' thought Frankie. 'Is he going to pretend that his wife has run off with my chauffeur? Is that his little game?' Aloud she said: 'Hawkins is quite above the average chauffeur.' 'So it seems,' said Nicholson.
He turned to Roger.
'I must be going. Believe me, all my sympathies are with you and Mrs Bassingtonffrench.' Roger went out into the hall with him. Frankie followed. On the hall table were a couple of letters addressed to her. One was a bill. The other Her heart gave a leap.
The other was in Bobby's handwriting.
Nicholson and Roger were on the doorstep.
She tore it open.
Dear Frankie (wrote Bobby), I'm on the trail at last. Follow me as soon as possible to Chipping Somerton. You'd better come by train and not by car. The Bentley is too noticeable. The trains aren't too good but you can get there all right. You're to come to a house called Tudor Cottage. I'll explain to you just exactly how to find it. Don't ask the way. (Here followed some minute directions.) Have you got that clear? Don't tell anyone. (This was heavily underlined.) No one at all. Yours ever, Bobby.
Frankie crushed the letter excitedly in the palm of her hand.
So it was all right.
Nothing dreadful had overtaken Bobby.
He was on the trail - and by a coincidence on the same trail as herself. She had been to Somerset House to look up the will of John Savage. Rose Emily Templeton was given as the wife of Edgar Templeton of Tudor Cottage, Chipping Somerton.
And that again had fitted in with the open ABC in the St Leonard's Gardens house. Chipping Somerton had been one of the stations on the open page. The Caymans had gone to Chipping Somerton.
Everything was falling into place. They were nearing the end of the chase.
Roger Bassington-ffrench turned and came towards her.
'Anything interesting in your letter?' he inquired casually.
For a moment Frankie hesitated. Surely Bobby had not meant Roger when he adjured her to tell nobody?
Then she remembered the heavy underlining - remembered, too, her own recent monstrous idea. If that were true, Roger might betray them both in all innocence. She dared not hint to him her own suspicions.
So she made up her mind and spoke.
'No,' she said. 'Nothing at all.' She was to repent her decision bitterly before twenty-four hours had passed.
More than once in the course of the next few hours did she bitterly regret Bobby's dictum that the car was not to be used.
Chipping Somerton was no very great distance as the crow flies but it involved changing three times, with a long dreary wait at a country station each time, and to one of Frankie's impatient temperament, this slow method of procedure was extremely hard to endure with fortitude.
Still, she felt bound to admit that there was something in what Bobby had said. The Bentley was a noticeable car.
Her excuses for leaving it at Merroway had been of the flimsiest order, but she had been unable to think of anything brilliant on the spur of the moment.
It was getting dark when Frankie's train, an extremely deliberate and thoughtful train, drew into the little station of Chipping Somerton. To Frankie it seemed more like midnight.
The train seemed to her to have been ambling on for hours and hours.
It was just beginning to rain, too, which was additionally trying.
Frankie buttoned up her coat to her neck, took a last look at Bobby's letter by the light of the station lamp, got the directions clearly in her head and set off.
The instructions were quite easy to follow. Frankie saw the lights of the village ahead and turned off to the left up a lane which led steeply uphill. At the top of the lane she took the right-hand fork and presently saw the little cluster of houses that formed the village lying below her and a belt of pine trees ahead. Finally, she came to a neat wooden gate and, striking a match, saw Tudor Cottage written on it.
There was no one about. Frankie slipped up the latch and passed inside. She could make out the outlines of the house behind a belt of pine trees. She took up her post within the trees where she could get a clear view of the house. Then, heart beating a little faster, she gave the best imitation she could of the hoot of an owl. A few minutes passed and nothing happened. She repeated the call.
The door of the cottage opened and she saw a figure in chauffeur's dress peer cautiously out. Bobby! He made a beckoning gesture then withdrew inside, leaving the door ajar.
Frankie came out from the trees and up to the door. There was no light in any window. Everything was perfectly dark and silent.
Frankie stepped gingerly over the threshold into a dark hall.
She stopped, peering about her.
'Bobby?' she whispered.
It was her nose that gave her warning. Where had she known that smell before - that heavy, sweet odour?
Just as her brain gave the answer 'Chloroform', strong arms seized her from behind. She opened her mouth to scream and a wet pad was clapped over it. The sweet, cloying smell filled her nostrils.
She fought desperately, twisting and turning, kicking. But it was of no avail. Despite the fight she put up, she felt herself succumbing. There was a drumming in her ears, she felt herself choking. And then she knew no more...
CHAPTER 28 At the Eleventh Hour
When Frankie came to herself, the immediate reactions were depressing. There is nothing romantic about the after effects of chloroform. She was lying on an extremely hard wooden floor and her hands and feet were tied. She managed to roll herself over and her head nearly collided violently with a battered coalbox.
Various distressing events then occurred.
A few minutes later, Frankie was able, if not to sit up, at least to take notice.
Close at hand she heard a faint groan. She peered about her.
As far as she could make out, she seemed to be in a kind of attic.
The only light came from a skylight in the roof, and at this moment there was very little of that. In a few minutes it would be quite dark. There were a few broken pictures lying against the wall, a dilapidated iron bed and some broken chairs, and the coal-scuttle before mentioned.
The groan seemed to have come from the corner.
Frankie's bonds were not very tight. They permitted motion of a somewhat crablike type. She wormed her way across the dusty floor.
'Bobby!' she ejaculated.
Bobby it was, also tied hand and foot. In addition, he had a piece of cloth bound round his mouth.
This he had almost succeeded in working loose. Frankie came to his assistance. In spite of being bound together, her hands were still of some use and a final vigorous pull with her teeth finally did the job.
Rather stiffly, Bobby managed to ejaculate: 'Frankie!' 'I'm glad we're together,' said Frankie. 'But it does look as though we'd been had for mugs.' 'I suppose,' said Bobby gloomily, 'it's what they call a "fair cop".' 'How did they get you?' demanded Frankie. 'Was it after you wrote that letter to me?' 'What letter? I never wrote any letter.' 'Oh! I see,' said Frankie, her eyes opening. 'What an idiot I have been! And all that stuff in it about not telling a soul.' 'Look here, Frankie, I'll tell you what happened to me and then you carry on the good work and tell me what happened to you.' He described his adventures at the Grange and their sinister sequel.
'I came to in this beastly hole,' he said. 'There was some food and drink on a tray. I was frightfully hungry and I had some.
I think it must have been doped for I fell asleep almost immediately. What day is it?' 'Friday.' 'And I was knocked out on Wednesday evening. Dash it all, I've been pretty well unconsc
ious all the time. Now tell me what happened to you?' Frankie recounted her adventures, beginning with the story she had heard from Mr Spragge and carrying on until she thought she recognized Bobby's figure in the doorway.
'And then they chloroformed me,' she finished. 'And oh, Bobby, I've just been sick in a coal-bucket!' 'I call that very resourceful of you, Frankie,' said Bobby approvingly. 'With your hands tied and everything? The thing is: what are we going to do now? We've had it our own way for a long time, but now the tables are turned.' 'If only I'd told Roger about your letter,' lamented Frankie.
'I did think of it and wavered - and then I decided to do exactly what you said and tell nobody at all.' 'With the result that no one knows where we are,' said Bobby gravely. 'Frankie, my dear, I'm afraid I've landed you in a mess.' 'We got a bit too sure of ourselves,' said Frankie sombrely.
'The only thing I can't make out is why they didn't knock us both on the head straight away,' mused Bobby. 'I don't think Nicholson would stick at a little trifle like that.' 'He's got a plan,' said Frankie with a slight shiver.
'Well, we'd better have one, too. We've got to get out of this, Frankie. How are we going to do it?' 'We can shout,' said Frankie.
'Ye-es,' said Bobby. 'Somebody might be passing and hear.
But from the fact that Nicholson didn't gag you I should say that the chances in that direction are pretty poor. Your hands are more loosely tied than mine. Let's see if I can get them undone with my teeth.' The next five minutes were spent in a struggle that did credit to Bobby's dentist.
'Extraordinary how easy these things sound in books,' he panted. 'I don't believe I'm making the slightest impression.' 'You are,' said Frankie. 'It's loosening. Look out! There's somebody coming.' She rolled away from him. A step could be heard mounting a stair, a heavy, ponderous tread. A gleam of light appeared under the door. Then there was the sound of a key being turned in the lock. The door swung slowly open.
'And how are my two little birds?' said the voice of Dr Nicholson.
He carried a candle in one hand and, though he was wearing a hat pulled down over his eyes and a heavy overcoat with the collar turned up, his voice would have betrayed him anywhere.
His eyes glittered palely behind the strong glasses.
He shook his head at them playfully.
'Unworthy of you, my dear young lady,' he said, 'to fall into the trap so easily.' Neither Bobby nor Frankie made any reply. The honours of the situation so obviously lay with Nicholson that it was difficult to know what to say.
Nicholson put the candle down on a chair.
'At any rate,' he said, 'let me see if you are comfortable.' He examined Bobby's fastenings, nodded his head approvingly and passed on to Frankie. There he shook his head.
'As they truly used to say to me in my youth,' he remarked, 'fingers were made before forks - and teeth were used before fingers. Your young friend's teeth, I see, have been active.' A heavy, broken-backed oak chair was standing in a corner.
Nicholson picked up Frankie, deposited her on the chair and tied her securely to it.
'Not too uncomfortable, I trust?' he said. 'Well, it isn't for long.' Frankie found her tongue.
'What are you going to do with us?' she demanded.
Nicholson walked to the door and picked up his candle.
'You taunted me. Lady Frances, with being too fond of accidents. Perhaps I am. At any rate, I am going to risk one more accident.' 'What do you mean?' said Bobby.
'Shall I tell you? Yes, I think I will. Lady Frances Derwent, driving her car, her chauffeur beside her, mistakes a turning and takes a disused road leading to a quarry. The car crashes over the edge. Lady Frances and her chauffeur are killed.' There was a slight pause, then Bobby said: 'But we mightn't be. Plans go awry sometimes. One of yours did down in Wales.' 'Your tolerance of morphia was certainly very remarkable and from our point of view - regrettable,' said Nicholson. 'But you need have no anxiety on my behalf this time. You and Lady Frances will be quite dead when your bodies are discovered.' Bobby shivered in spite of himself. There had been a queer note in Nicholson's voice - it was the tone of an artist contemplating a masterpiece.
'He enjoys this,' thought Bobby. 'Really enjoys it.' He was not going to give Nicholson further cause for enjoyment than he could help. He said in a casual tone of voice: 'You're making a mistake - especially where Lady Frances is concerned.' 'Yes,' said Frankie. 'In that very clever letter you forged you told me to tell nobody. Well, I made just one exception. I told Roger Bassington-ffrench. He knows all about you. If anything happens to us, he will know who is responsible for it. You'd better let us go and clear out of the country as fast as you can.' Nicholson was silent for a moment. Then he said: 'A good bluff - but I call it.' He turned to the door.
'What about your wife, you swine?' cried Bobby. 'Have you murdered her, too?' 'Moira i§ still alive,' said Nicholson. 'How much longer she will remain so, I do not really know. It depends on circumstances.' He made them a mocking little bow.
'Au revoir,' he said. 'It will take me a couple of hours to complete my arrangements. You may enjoy talking the matter over. I shall not gag you unless it becomes necessary. You understand? Any calls for help and I return and deal with the matter.' He went out and closed and locked the door behind him.
'It isn't true,' said Bobby. 'It can't be true. These things don't happen.' But he could not help feeling that they were going to happen - and to him and Frankie.
'In books there's always an eleventh-hour rescue,' said Frankie, trying to speak hopefully.
But she was not feeling very hopeful. In fact, her morale was decidedly low.
'The whole thing's so impossible,' said Bobby as though pleading with someone. 'So fantastic. Nicholson himself was absolutely unreal. I wish an eleventh-hour rescue was possible, but I can't see who's going to rescue us.' 'If only I'd told Roger,' wailed Frankie.
'Perhaps in spite of everything, Nicholson believes you have,' suggested Bobby.
'No,' said Frankie. 'The suggestion didn't go down at all.
The man's too damned clever.' 'He's been too clever for us,' said Bobby gloomily. 'Frankie, do you know what annoys me most about this business?' 'No. What?' 'That even now, when we're going to be hurled into the next world, we still don't know who Evans is.' 'Let's ask him,' said Frankie. 'You know - a last-minute boon. He can't refuse to tell us. I agree with you that I simply can't die without having my curiosity satisfied.' There was a silence, then Bobby said: 'Do you think we ought to yell for help - a sort of last chance? It's about the only chance we've got.' 'Not yet,' said Frankie. 'In the first place, I don't believe anyone would hear - he'd never risk it otherwise - and in the second place, I feel I just can't bear waiting here to be killed without being able to speak or be spoken to. Let's leave shouting till the last possible moment. It's - it's so comforting having you to talk to.' Her voice wavered a little over the last words.
'I've got you into an awful mess, Frankie.' 'Oh! that's all right. You couldn't have kept me out. I wanted to come in. Bobby, do you think he'll really pull it off?
Us, I mean.' 'I'm terribly afraid he will. He's so damnably efficient.' 'Bobby, do you believe now that it was he who killed Henry Bassingtonffrench?' 'If it were possible ' 'It is possible - granted one thing: that Sylvia Bassingtonffrench is in it, too.' 'Frankie!' 'I know. I was just as horrified when the idea occurred to me.
But it fits. Why was Sylvia so dense about the morphia - why did she resist so obstinately when we wanted her to send her husband somewhere else instead of the Grange? And then she was in the house when the shot was fired ' 'She might have done it herself.' 'Oh! no, surely.' 'Yes, she might. And then have given the key of the study to Nicholson to put in Henry's pocket.' 'It's all crazy,' said Frankie in a hopeless voice. 'Like looking- through a distorting mirror. All the people who seemed most all right are really all wrong - all the nice, everyday people.
There ought to be some way of telling criminals - eyebrows or ears or something.' 'My God!' cried Bob
by.
'What is it?' 'Frankie, that wasn't Nicholson who came here just now.' 'Have you gone quite mad? Who was it then?' 'I don't know - but it wasn't Nicholson. All along I felt there was something wrong, but couldn't spot it, and your saying ears has given me the clue. When I was watching Nicholson the other evening through the window I especially noticed his ears - the lobes are joined to the face. But this man tonight - his ears weren't like that.' 'But what does it mean?' Frankie asked hopelessly.
'This is a very clever actor impersonating Nicholson.' 'But why - and who could it be?' 'Bassington-ffrench,' breathed Bobby. 'Roger Bassingtonffrench! We spotted the right man at the beginning and then, like idiots, we went astray after red herrings.' 'Bassington-ffrench,' whispered Frankie. 'Bobby, you're right. It must be him. He was the only person there when I taunted Nicholson about accidents.' 'Then it really is all up,' said Bobby. 'I've still had a kind of sneaking hope that possibly Roger Bassington-ffrench might nose out our trail by some miracle but now the last hope's gone.
Agatha Christie - Why Didn't They Ask Evans Page 17
