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Authors: Agatha Christie
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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.
Why Didnt They Ask Evans
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.
'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.
Why Didnt They Ask Evans
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.
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