It may interest you to know that Henry didn't commit suicide.
I killed him! When I was talking to you in the garden I saw there was no time to waste - and I went straight in and saw to things.
The aeroplane that came over gave me my chance. I went into the study, sat down by Henry who was writing and said: 'Look here, old man -' and shot him! The noise of the plane drowned the sound. Then I wrote a nice affecting letter, wiped off my fingerprints from the revolver, pressed Henry's hand round it and let it drop to the floor. I put the key of the study in Henry's pocket and went out, locking the door from the outside with the diningroom key which fits the lock.
I won't go into details of the neat little squib arrangement in the chimney which was timed to go off four minutes later.
Everything went beautifully. You and I were in the garden together and heard the 'shot'. A perfect suicide! The only person who laid himself open to suspicion was poor old Nicholson. The ass came back for a stick or something!
Of course Bobby's knight errantry was a bit difficult for Moira.
So she just went off to the cottage. We fancied that Nicholson's explanation of his wife's absence would be sure to make you suspicious.
Where Moira really showed her mettle was at the cottage. She realized from the noise upstairs that I'd been knocked out, and she quickly injected a large dose of morphia into herself and lay down on the bed. After you all went down to telephone she nipped up to the attic and cut me free. Then the morphia took effect and by the time the doctor arrived she was genuinely off in a hypnotic sleep.
But all the same her nerve was going. She was afraid you'd get on to Evans and get the hang of how Savage's will and suicide was worked. Also she was afraid that Carstairs had written to Evans before he came to Marchbolt. She pretended to go up to a London nursing home. Instead, she hurried down to Marchbolt - and met you on the doorstep! Then her one idea was to get you both out of the way. Her methods were crude to the last degree, but I believe she 'd have got away with it. I doubt if the waitress would have been able to remember much about what the woman who came in with you was like. Moira would have got away back to London and lain low in a nursing home. With you and Bobby out of the way the whole thing would have died down.
But you spotted her - and she lost her head. And then at the trial she dragged me into it!
Perhaps I was getting a little tired of her.
But I had no idea that she knew it.
You see, she had got the money - my money! Once I had married her I might have got tired of her. I like variety.
So here I am starting life again.
And all owing to you and that extremely objectionable young man Bobby Jones.
But I've no doubt I shall make good!
Or ought it to be bad, not good?
I haven't reformed yet.
But if at first you don't succeed, try, try, try again.
Goodbye, my dear - or, perhaps au revoir. One never knows, does one?
Your affectionate enemy, the bold, bad villain of the piece, Roger Bassingtonffrench.
CHAPTER 35 News from the Vicarage
Bobby handed back the letter and with a sigh Frankie took it.
'He's really a very remarkable person,' she said.
'You always had a fancy for him,' said Bobby coldly.
'He had charm,' said Frankie. 'So had Moira,' she added.
Bobby blushed.
'It was very queer that all the time the clue to the whole thing should have been in the Vicarage,' he said. 'You do know, don't you, Frankie, that Carstairs had actually written to Evans - to Mrs Roberts, that is?' Frankie nodded.
'Telling her that he was coming to see her and that he wanted information about Mrs Templeton whom he had reason to believe was a dangerous international crook wanted by the police.
'And then when he's pushed over the cliff she doesn't put two and two together,' said Bobby bitterly.
'That's because the man who went over the cliff was Pritchard,' said Frankie. 'That identification was a very clever bit of work. If a man called Pritchard is pushed over, how could it be a man called Carstairs? That's how the ordinary mind works.' 'The funny thing is that she recognized Cayman,' went on Bobby. 'At least she caught a glimpse of him when Roberts was letting him in and asked him who it was. And he said it was Mr Cayman and she said, "Funny, he's the dead spit of a gentleman I used to be in service with." ' 'Can you beat it?' said Frankie.
'Even Bassington-ffrench gave himself away once or twice,' she continued. 'But like an idiot I never spotted it.' 'Did he?' 'Yes, when Sylvia said that the picture in the paper was very like Carstairs he said there wasn't much likeness really showing he'd seen the dead man. And then later he said to me that he never saw the dead man's face.' 'How on earth did you spot Moira, Frankie?' 'I think it was the description of Mrs Templeton,' said Frankie dreamily. 'Everyone said she was "such a nice lady".
Now that didn't seem to fit with the Cayman woman. No servant would describe her a "nice lady". And then we got to the Vicarage and Moira was there and it suddenly came to me - Suppose Moira was Mrs Templeton?' 'Very bright of you.' 'I'm very sorry for Sylvia,' said Frankie. 'With Moira dragging Roger into it, it's been a terrible lot of publicity for her. But Dr Nicholson has stuck by her and I shouldn't be at all surprised if they ended by making a match of it.' 'Everything seems to have ended very fortunately,' said Bobby. 'Badger's doing well at the garage - thanks to your father, and also thanks to your father, I've got this perfectly marvellous job.' 'Is it a marvellous job?' 'Managing a coffee estate out in Kenya on a whacking big screw? I should think so. It's just the sort of thing I used to dream about.' He paused.
'People come out to Kenya a good deal on trips,' he said with intention.
'Quite a lot of people live out there,' said Frankie demurely.
'Oh! Frankie, you wouldn't?' He blushed, stammered, recovered himself. 'W-w-would you?' 'I would,' said Frankie. 'I mean, I will.' 'I've been keen about you always,' said Bobby in a stifled voice. 'I used to be miserable - knowing, I mean, that it was no good.' 'I suppose that's what made you so rude that day on the golf links?' 'Yes, I was feeling pretty grim.' 'H'm,' said Frankie. 'What about Moira?' Bobby looked uncomfortable.
'Her face did sort of get me,' he admitted.
'It's a better face than mine,' said Frankie generously.
'It isn't - but it sort of "haunted" me. And then, when we were up in the attic and you were so plucky about things - well, Moira just faded out. I was hardly interested in what happened to her. It was you - only you. You were simply splendid! So frightfully plucky.' 'I wasn't feeling plucky inside,' said Frankie. 'I was all shaking. But I wanted you to admire me.' 'I did, darling. I do. I always have. I always shall. Are you sure you won't hate it out in Kenya?' 'I shall adore it. I was fed up with England.' 'Frankie.' 'Bobby.' 'If you will come in here,' said the Vicar, opening the door and ushering in the advance guard of the Dorcas Society.
He shut the door precipitately and apologized.
'My - er - one of my sons. He is - er - engaged.' A member of the Dorcas Society said archly that it looked like it.
'A good boy,' said the Vicar. 'Inclined at one time not to take life seriously. But he has improved very much of late. He is going out to manage a coffee estate in Kenya.' Said one member of the Dorcas Society to another in a whisper: 'Did you see? It was Lady Frances Derwent he was kissing?' In an hour's time the news was all over Marchbolt.
The End
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Agatha Christie - Why Didn't They Ask Evans Page 21
