'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.
By the time she got back to Merroway Court, it was half-past nine. Breakfast had just been brought in and Roger was pouring himself out some coffee. He looked ill and worn.
'Good morning,' said Frankie. 'I slept awfully badly. In the end I got up about seven and went for a walk.' 'I'm frightfully sorry you should have been let in for all this worry,' said Roger.
'How's Sylvia?' 'They gave her an opiate last night. She's still asleep, I believe. Poor girl, I'm most terribly sorry for her. She was simply devoted to Henry.' 'I know.' Frankie paused and then explained her plans for departure.
'I suppose you'll have to go,' said Roger resentfully. 'The inquest's on Friday. I'll let you know if you're wanted for it. It all depends on the coroner.' He swallowed a cup of coffee and a piece of toast and then went off to attend to the many things requiring his attention.
Frankie felt very sorry for him. The amount of gossip and curiosity created by a suicide in a family she could imagine only too well. Tommy appeared and she devoted herself to amusing the child.
Bobby brought the car round at half-past ten, Frankie's luggage was brought down. She said goodbye to Tommy and left a note for Sylvia. The Bentley drove away.
They covered the distance to the Grange in a very short time. Frankie had never been there before and the big iron gates and the overgrown shrubbery depressed her spirits.
'It's a creepy place,' she observed. 'I don't wonder Moira gets the horrors here.' They drove up to the front door and Bobby got down and rang the bell. It was not answered for some minutes. Finally a woman in nurse's kit opened it.
'Mrs Nicholson?' said Bobby.
The woman hesitated, then withdrew into the hall and opened the door wider. Frankie jumped out of the car and passed into the house. The door closed behind her. It had a nasty echoing clang as it shut. Frankie noticed that it had heavy bolts and bars across it. Quite irrationally she felt afraid - as though she was here, in this sinister house, a prisoner.
'Nonsense,' she told herself. 'Bobby's outside in the car. I've come here openly. Nothing can happen to me.' And, shaking off the ridiculous feeling, she followed the nurse upstairs and along a passage. The nurse threw open a door and Frankie passed into a small sitting-room daintily furnished with cheerful chintzes and flowers in the vases. Her spirits rose.
Murmuring something, the nurse withdrew.
About five minutes passed and the door opened and Dr Nicholson came in.
Frankie was quite unable to control a slight nervous start, but she masked it by a welcoming smile and shook hands.
'Good morning,' she said.
'Good morning. Lady Frances. You have not come to bring me bad news of Mrs Bassington-ffrench, I hope?' 'She was still asleep when I left,' said Frankie.
'Poor lady. Her own doctor is, of course, looking after her.' 'Oh! yes.' She paused, then said: 'I'm sure you're busy. I mustn't take up your time, Dr Nicholson. I really called to see your wife.' 'To see Moira? That was very kind of you.' Was it only fancy, or did the pale-blue eyes behind the strong glasses harden ever so slightly.
'Yes,' he repeated. 'That was very kind.' 'If she isn't up yet,' said Frankie, smiling pleasantly, 'I'll sit down and wait.' 'Oh! she's up,' said Dr Nicholson.
'Good,' said Frankie. 'I want to persuade her to come to me for a visit. She's practically promised to.' She smiled again.
'Why, now, that's really very kind of you. Lady Frances very kind, indeed. I'm sure Moira would have enjoyed that very much.' 'Would have?' asked Frankie sharply.
Dr Nicholson smiled, showing his fine set of even white teeth.
'Unfortunately, my wife went away this morning.' 'Went away?' said Frankie blankly. 'Where?' 'Oh! just for a little change. You know what women are, Lady Frances. This is rather a gloomy place for a young woman. Occasionally Moira feels she must have a little excitement and then off she goes.' 'You don't know where she has gone?' said Frankie.
'London, I imagine. Shops and theatres. You know the sort of thing.' Frankie felt that his smile was the most disagreeable thing she had ever come across.
'I am going up to London today,' she said lightly. 'Will you give me her address?' 'She usually stays at the Savoy,' said Dr Nicholson. 'But in any case I shall probably hear from her in a day or so. She's not a very good correspondent, I'm afraid, and I believe in perfect liberty between husband and wife. But I think the Savoy is the most likely place for you to find her.' He held the door open and Frankie found herself shaking hands with him and being ushered to the
front door. The nurse was standing there to let her out. The last thing Frankie heard was Dr Nicholson's voice, suave and, perhaps, just a trifle ironical.
'So very kind of you to think of asking my wife to stay. Lady Frances.'
CHAPTER 24 On the Track of the Caymans
Bobby had some ado to preserve his impassive chauffeur's demeanour as Frankie came out alone.
She said: 'Back to Staverley, Hawkins,' for the benefit of the nurse.
The car swept down the drive and out through the gates.
Then, when they came to an empty bit of road, Bobby pulled up and looked inquiringly at his companion.
'What about it?' he asked.
Rather pale, Frankie replied: 'Bobby, I don't like it. Apparently, she's gone away.' 'Gone away? This morning?' 'Or last night.' 'Without a word to us?' 'Bobby, I just don't believe it. The man was lying - I'm sure of it.' Bobby had gone very pale. He murmured: 'Too late! Idiots that we've been! We should never have let her go back there yesterday.' 'You don't think she's - dead, do you?' whispered Frankie in a shaky voice.
'No,' said Bobby in a violent voice, as though to reassure himself.
They were both silent for a minute or two, then Bobby stated his deductions in a calmer tone.
'She must be still alive, because of the disposing of the body and all that. Her death would have to seem natural and accidental. No, she's either been spirited away somewhere against her will, or else - and this is what I believe - she's still there.' 'At the Grange?' 'At the Grange.' 'Well,' said Frankie, 'what are we going to do?' Bobby thought for a minute.
'I don't think you can do anything,' he said at last. 'You'd better go back to London. You suggested trying to trace the Caymans. Go on with that.' 'Oh, Bobby!' 'My dear, you can't be of any use down here. You're known - very well known by now. You've announced that you're going - what can you do? You can't stay on at Merroway. You can't come and stay at the Anglers' Arms. You'd set every tongue in the neighbourhood wagging. No, you must go.
Nicholson may suspect, but he can't be sure that you know anything. You go back to town and I'll stay.' 'At the Anglers' Arms?' up my headquarters at Ambledever - that's ten miles away and if Moira's still in that beastly house I shall find her.' Frankie demurred a little.
'Bobby, you will be careful?' 'I shall be cunning as the serpent.' With a rather heavy heart Frankie gave in. What Bobby said was certainly sensible enough. She herself could do no further good down here. Bobby drove her up to town and Frankie, letting herself into the Brook Street house, felt suddenly forlorn.
She was not one, however, to let the grass grow under her feet. At three o'clock that afternoon, a fashionably but soberly dressed young woman with pince-nez and an earnest frown might have been seen approaching St Leonard's Gardens, a sheaf of pamphlets and papers in her hand.
St Leonard's Gardens, Paddington, was a distinctly gloomy collection of houses, most of them in a somewhat dilapidated condition. The place had a general air of having seen 'better days' a long time ago.
Frankie walked along, looking up at the numbers. Suddenly she came to a halt with a grimace of vexation.
No. 17 had a board up announcing that it was to be sold or let unfurnished.
Frankie immediately removed the pince-nez and the earnest air.
It seemed that the political canvasser would not be required.
The names of several house agents were given. Frankie selected two and wrote them down. Then, having determined on her plan of campaign, she proceeded to put it into action.
The first agents were Messrs. Gordon & Porter of Praed Street.
'Good morning,' said Frankie. 'I wonder if you can give me the address of a Mr Cayman? He was until recently at 17 St Leonard's Gardens.' 'That's right,' said the young man to whom Frankie had addressed herself. 'Only there a short time, though, wasn't he?
We act for the owners, you see. Mr Cayman took it on a quarterly tenancy as he might have to take up a post abroad any moment. I believe he's actually done so.' 'Then you haven't got his address?' 'I'm afraid not. He settled up with us and that was all.' 'But he must have had some address originally when he took the house.' 'A hotel - I think it was the G.W.R., Paddington Station, you know.' 'References,' suggested Frankie.
'He paid the quarter's rent in advance and a deposit to cover the electric light and gas.' 'Oh!' said Frankie, feeling despairing.
She saw the young man looking rather curiously at her.
House agents are adepts at summing up the 'class' of clients.
He obviously found Frankie's interest in the Caymans rather unexpected.
'He owes me a good deal of money,' said Frankie mendaciously.
The young man's face immediately assumed a shocked expression.
Thoroughly sympathetic with beauty in distress, he hunted up files of correspondence and did all he could, but no trace of Mr Cayman's present or late abode could be found.
Frankie thanked him and departed. She took a taxi to the next firm of house agents. She wasted no time in repeating the process. The first agents were the ones who had let Cayman the house. These people would be merely concerned to let it again on behalf of the owner. Frankie asked for an order to view.
This time, to counteract the expression of surprise that she saw appear on the clerk's face, she explained that she wanted a cheap property to open as a hostel for girls. The surprised expression disappeared, and Frankie emerged with the key of 17 Leonard's Gardens, the keys of two more 'properties' which she had no wish to see, and an order to view yet a fourth.
It was a bit of luck, Frankie thought, that the clerk had not wished to accompany her, but perhaps they only did that when it was a question of a furnished tenancy.
The musty smell of a closed-up house assailed Frankie's nostrils as she unlocked and pushed open the front door of No. 17.
It was an unappetising house, cheaply decorated, and with blistered, dirty paint. Frankie went over it methodically from garret to basement. The house had not been cleaned up on departure. There were bits of string, old newspapers and some odd nails and tools. But of personal matter, Frankie could not find so much as the scrap of a tom-up letter.
The only thing that struck her as having a possible significance was an ABC railway guide which lay open on one of the window seats. There was nothing to indicate that any of the names of the open page were of special significance, but Frankie copied the lot down in a little note-book as a poor substitute for all she had hoped to find.
As far as tracing the Caymans was concerned, she had drawn a blank.
She consoled herself with the reflection that this was only to be expected. If Mr and Mrs Cayman were associated with the wrong side of the law they would take particularly good care that no one should be able to trace them. It was at least a kind of negative confirmatory evidence.
Still Frankie felt definitely disappointed as she handed back the keys to the house agents and uttered mendacious statements as to communicating with them in a few days.
She walked down towards the Park feeling rather depressed and wondered what on earth she was going to do next. These fruitless meditations were interrupted by a sharp and violent squall of rain. No taxi was in sight and Frankie hurriedly preserved a favourite hat by hurrying into the tube which was close at hand. She took a ticket to Piccadilly Circus and bought a couple of papers at the bookstall.
When she had entered the train - almost empty at this time of day - she resolutely banished thoughts of the vexing problem and, opening her paper, strove to concentrate her attention on its contents.
She read desultory snippets here and there.
Number of road deaths. Mysterious disappearance of a schoolgirl. Lady Peterhampton's party at Claridge's. Sir John Milkington's convalescence after his accident yachting - the Astradora - the famous yacht which had belonged to the late Mr John Savage, the millionaire. Was she an unlucky boat?
The man who had designed her had met with a tragic death Mr Savage had committed suicide - Sir John Milk
ington had just escaped death by a miracle.
Frankie lowered the paper, frowning in an effort of remembrance.
Twice before, the name of Mr John Savage had been mentioned - once by Sylvia Bassington-ffrench when she was speaking of Alan Carstairs, and once by Bobby when he was repeating the conversation he had had with Mrs Rivington.
Alan Carstairs had been a friend of John Savage's. Mrs Rivington had had a vague idea that Carstairs' presence in England had something to do with the death of Savage. Savage had - what was it? - he had committed suicide because he thought he had cancer.