Читать книгу Why Didn’t They Ask Evans? - Agatha Christie, Georgette Heyer, Mary Westmacott - Страница 9

Bobby did not see the immediate sequel of his adventure. On the following morning he went up to town, there to meet a friend who was thinking of starting a garage and who fancied Bobby’s co-operation might be valuable.

After settling things to everybody’s satisfaction, Bobby caught the 11.30 train home two days later. He caught it, true, but only by a very narrow margin. He arrived at Paddington when the clock announced the time to be 11.28, dashed down the subway, emerged on No. 3 Platform just as the train was moving and hurled himself at the first carriage he saw, heedless of indignant ticket collectors and porters in his immediate rear.

Wrenching open the door, he fell in on his hands and knees, picked himself up. The door was shut with a slam by an agile porter and Bobby found himself looking at the sole occupant of the compartment.

It was a first-class carriage and in the corner facing the engine sat a dark girl smoking a cigarette. She had on a red skirt, a short green jacket and a brilliant blue beret, and despite a certain resemblance to an organ grinder’s monkey (she had long sorrowful dark eyes and a puckered-up face) she was distinctly attractive.

In the midst of an apology, Bobby broke off.

‘Why, it’s you, Frankie!’ he said. ‘I haven’t seen you for ages.’

‘Well, I haven’t seen you. Sit down and talk.’

Bobby grinned.

‘My ticket’s the wrong colour.’

‘That doesn’t matter,’ said Frankie kindly. ‘I’ll pay the difference for you.’

‘My manly indignation rises at the thought,’ said Bobby. ‘How could I let a lady pay for me?’

‘It’s about all we seem to be good for these days,’ said Frankie.

‘I will pay the difference myself,’ said Bobby heroically as a burly figure in blue appeared at the door from the corridor.

‘Leave it to me,’ said Frankie.

She smiled graciously at the ticket collector, who touched his hat as he took the piece of white cardboard from her and punched it.

‘Mr Jones has just come in to talk to me for a bit,’ she said. ‘That won’t matter, will it?’

‘That’s all right, your ladyship. The gentleman won’t be staying long, I expect.’ He coughed tactfully. ‘I shan’t be round again till after Bristol,’ he added significantly.

‘What can be done with a smile,’ said Bobby as the official withdrew.

Lady Frances Derwent shook her head thoughtfully.

‘I’m not so sure it’s the smile,’ she said. ‘I rather think it’s father’s habit of tipping everybody five shillings whenever he travels that does it.’

‘I thought you’d given up Wales for good, Frankie.’

Frances sighed.

‘My dear, you know what it is. You know how mouldy parents can be. What with that and the bathrooms in the state they are, and nothing to do and nobody to see – and people simply won’t come to the country to stay nowadays! They say they’re economizing and they can’t go so far. Well, I mean, what’s a girl to do?’

Bobby shook his head, sadly recognizing the problem.

‘However,’ went on Frankie, ‘after the party I went to last night, I thought even home couldn’t be worse.’

‘What was wrong with the party?’

‘Nothing at all. It was just like any other party, only more so. It was to start at the Savoy at half-past eight. Some of us rolled up about a quarter-past nine and, of course, we got entangled with other people, but we got sorted out about ten. And we had dinner and then after a bit we went on to the Marionette – there was a rumour it was going to be raided, but nothing happened – it was just moribund, and we drank a bit and then we went on to the Bullring and that was even deader, and then we went to a coffee stall, and then we went to a fried-fish place, and then we thought we’d go and breakfast with Angela’s uncle and see if he’d be shocked, but he wasn’t – only bored, and then we sort of fizzled home. Honestly, Bobby, it isn’t good enough.’

‘I suppose not,’ said Bobby, stifling a pang of envy.

Never in his wildest moments did he dream of being able to be a member of the Marionette or the Bullring.

His relationship with Frankie was a peculiar one.

As children, he and his brothers had played with the children at the Castle. Now that they were all grown up, they seldom came across each other. When they did, they still used Christian names. On the rare occasions when Frankie was at home, Bobby and his brothers would go up and play tennis. But Frankie and her two brothers were not asked to the Vicarage. It seemed to be tacitly recognized that it would not be amusing for them. On the other hand, extra men were always wanted for tennis. There may have been a trace of constraint in spite of the Christian names. The Derwents were, perhaps, a shade more friendly than they need have been as though to show that ‘there was no difference’. The Jones, on their side, were a shade formal, as though determined not to claim more friendship than was offered them. The two families had now nothing in common save certain childish memories. Yet Bobbie was very fond of Frankie and was always pleased on the rare occasions when Fate threw them together.

‘I’m so tired of everything,’ said Frankie in a weary voice. ‘Aren’t you?’

Bobby considered.

‘No, I don’t think I am.’

‘My dear, how wonderful,’ said Frankie.

‘I don’t mean I’m hearty,’ said Bobby, anxious not to create a painful impression. ‘I just can’t stand people who are hearty.’

Frankie shuddered at the mere mention of the word.

‘I know,’ she murmured. ‘They’re dreadful.’

They looked at each other sympathetically.

‘By the way,’ said Frankie suddenly. ‘What’s all this about a man falling over the cliffs?’

‘Dr Thomas and I found him,’ said Bobby. ‘How did you know about it, Frankie?’

‘Saw it in the paper. Look.’

She indicated with her finger a small paragraph headed: ‘Fatal Accident in Sea Mist.’

The victim of the tragedy at Marchbolt was identified late last night by means of a photograph which he was carrying. The photograph proved to be that of Mrs Leo Cayman. Mrs Cayman was communicated with and journeyed at once to Marchbolt, where she identified the deceased as her brother, Alex Pritchard. Mr Pritchard had recently returned from Siam. He had been out of England for ten years and was just starting upon a walking tour. The inquest will be held at Marchbolt tomorrow.

Bobby’s thoughts flew back to the strangely haunting face of the photograph.

‘I believe I shall have to give evidence at the inquest,’ he said.

‘How thrilling. I shall come and hear you.’

‘I don’t suppose there will be anything thrilling about it,’ said Bobby. ‘We just found him, you know.’

‘Was he dead?’

‘No, not then. He died about a quarter of an hour later. I was alone with him.’

He paused.

‘Rather grim,’ said Frankie with that immediate understanding that Bobby’s father had lacked.

‘Of course he didn’t feel anything –’

‘No?’

‘But all the same – well – you see, he looked awfully alive – that sort of person – rather a rotten way to finish – just stepping off a cliff in a silly little bit of mist.’

‘I get you, Steve,’ said Frankie, and again the queer phrase represented sympathy and understanding.

‘Did you see the sister?’ she asked presently.

‘No. I’ve been up in town two days. Had to see a friend of mine about a garage business we’re going in for. You remember him. Badger Beadon.’

‘Do I?’

‘Of course you do. You must remember good old Badger. He squints.’

Frankie wrinkled her brows.

‘He’s got an awfully silly kind of laugh – haw haw haw – like that,’ continued Bobby helpfully.

Still Frankie wrinkled her brows.

‘Fell off his pony when we were kids,’ continued Bobby. ‘Stuck in the mud head down, and we had to pull him out by the legs.’

‘Oh!’ said Frankie in a flood of recollection. ‘I know now. He stammered.’

‘He still does,’ said Bobby proudly.

‘Didn’t he run a chicken farm and it went bust?’ inquired Frankie.

‘That’s right.’

‘And then he went into a stockbroker’s office and they fired him after a month?’

‘That’s it.’

‘And then they sent him to Australia and he came back?’

‘Yes.’

‘Bobby,’ said Frankie. ‘You’re not putting any money into this business venture, I hope?’

‘I haven’t got any money to put,’ said Bobby.

‘That’s just as well,’ said Frankie.

‘Naturally,’ went on Bobby. ‘Badger has tried to get hold of someone with a little capital to invest. But it isn’t so easy as you’d think.’

‘When you look round you,’ said Frankie, ‘you wouldn’t believe people had any sense at all – but they have.’

The point of these remarks seemed at last to strike Bobby.

‘Look here, Frankie,’ he said. ‘Badger’s one of the best – one of the very best.’

‘They always are,’ said Frankie.

‘Who are?’

‘The ones who go to Australia and come back again. How did he get hold of the money to start this business?’

‘An aunt or something died and left him a garage for six cars with three rooms over and his people stumped up a hundred pounds to buy second-hand cars with. You’d be surprised what bargains there are to be had in second-hand cars.’

‘I bought one once,’ said Frankie. ‘It’s a painful subject. Don’t let’s talk of it. What did you want to leave the Navy for? They didn’t axe you, did they? Not at your age.’

Bobby flushed.

‘Eyes,’ he said gruffly.

‘You always had trouble with your eyes, I remember.’

‘I know. But I just managed to scrape through. Then foreign service – the strong light, you know – that rather did for them. So – well – I had to get out.’

‘Grim,’ murmured Frankie, looking out of the window.

There was an eloquent pause.

‘All the same, it’s a shame,’ burst out Bobby. ‘My eyes aren’t really bad – they won’t get any worse, they say. I could have carried on perfectly.’

‘They look all right,’ said Frankie.

She looked straight into their honest brown depths.

‘So you see,’ said Bobby, ‘I’m going in with Badger.’

Frankie nodded.

An attendant opened the door and said, ‘First luncheon.’

‘Shall we?’ said Frankie.

They passed along to the dining car.

Bobby made a short strategic retreat during the time when the ticket collector might be expected.

‘We don’t want him to strain his conscience too much,’ he said.

But Frankie said she didn’t expect ticket collectors had any consciences.

It was just after five o’clock when they reached Sileham, which was the station for Marchbolt.

‘The car’s meeting me,’ said Frankie. ‘I’ll give you a lift.’

‘Thanks. That will save me carrying this beastly thing for two miles.’

He kicked his suitcase disparagingly.

‘Three miles, not two,’ said Frankie.

‘Two miles if you go by the footpath over the links.’

‘The one where –’

‘Yes – where that fellow went over.’

‘I suppose nobody pushed him over, did they?’ asked Frankie as she handed her dressing-case to her maid.

‘Pushed him over? Good Lord, no. Why?’ ‘Well, it would make it much more exciting, wouldn’t it?’ said Frankie idly.