Bobby had some ado to preserve his impassive chauffeur1’s demeanour asFrankie came out alone.
She said: “Back to Staverly, Hawkins,” for the benefit of the nurse.
The car swept down the drive and out through the gates. Then, whenthey came to an empty bit of road, Bobby pulled up and looked inquiringlyat his companion.
“What about it?” he asked.
Rather pale, Frankie replied:
“Bobby, I don’t like it. Apparently2, 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 backthere yesterday.”
“You don’t think she’s—dead, do you?” whispered Frankie in a shakyvoice.
“No,” said Bobby in a violent voice, as though to reassure3 himself.
They were both silent for a minute or two, then Bobby stated his deduc-tions 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 eitherbeen spirited away somewhere against her will, or else—and this is what Ibelieve—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 backto 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, youmust go. Nicholson may suspect, but he can’t be sure that you know any-thing. You go back to town and I’ll stay.”
“At the Anglers’ Arms?”
“No, I think your chauffeur will now disappear. I shall take up myheadquarters at Ambledever—that’s ten miles away—and if Moira’s still inthat beastly house I shall find her.”
Frankie demurred4 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 cer-tainly sensible enough. She herself could do no further good down here.
Bobby drove her up to town and Frankie, letting herself into the BrookStreet house, felt suddenly forlorn.
She was not one, however, to let the grass grow under her feet. At threeo’clock that afternoon, a fashionably- but soberly-dressed young womanwith pince-nez and an earnest frown might have been seen approachingSt. Leonard’s Gardens, a sheaf of pamphlets and papers in her hand.
St. Leonard’s Gardens, Paddington, was a distinctly gloomy collection ofhouses, most of them in a somewhat dilapidated condition. The place hada general air of having seen “better days” a long time ago.
Frankie walked along, looking up at the numbers. Suddenly she came toa halt with a grimace5 of vexation.
No. 17 had a board up announcing that it was to be sold or let unfur-nished.
Frankie immediately removed the pince-nez and the earnest air.
It seemed that the political canvasser6 would not be required.
The names of several house agents were given. Frankie selected two andwrote them down. Then, having determined7 on her plan of campaign, sheproceeded 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 addressof 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 her-self. “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 totake 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 thehouse.”
“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 electriclight and gas.”
“Oh!” said Frankie, feeling despairing.
She saw the young man looking rather curiously8 at her. House agentsare adept9 at summing up the “class” of clients. He obviously foundFrankie’s interest in the Caymans rather unexpected.
“He owes me a good deal of money,” said Frankie mendaciously10.
The young man’s face immediately assumed a shocked expression.
Thoroughly12 sympathetic with beauty in distress13, he hunted up files ofcorrespondence and did all he could, but no trace of Mr. Cayman’s presentor late abode14 could be found.
Frankie thanked him and departed. She took a taxi to the next firm ofhouse agents. She wasted no time in repeating the process. The first agentswere the ones who had let Cayman the house. These people would bemerely concerned to let it again on behalf of the owner. Frankie asked foran order to view.
This time, to counteract15 the expression of surprise that she saw appearon the clerk’s face, she explained that she wanted a cheap property toopen as a hostel16 for girls. The surprised expression disappeared, andFrankie emerged with the key of 17 Leonard’s Gardens, the keys of twomore “properties” which she had no wish to see, and an order to view yeta fourth.
It was a bit of luck, Frankie thought, that the clerk had not wished to ac-company her, but perhaps they only did that when it was a question of afurnished tenancy.
The musty smell of a closed-up house assailed17 Frankie’s nostrils18 as sheunlocked 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 ofstring, old newspapers and some odd nails and tools. But of personal mat-ter, Frankie could not find so much as the scrap19 of a torn-up letter.
The only thing that struck her as having a possible significance was anABC railway guide which lay open on one of the window seats. There wasnothing to indicate that any of the names of the open page were of specialsignificance, but Frankie copied the lot down in a little notebook as a poorsubstitute for all she had hoped to find.
As far as tracing the Caymans was concerned, she had drawn20 a blank.
She consoled herself with the reflection that this was only to be expec-ted. If Mr. and Mrs. Cayman were associated with the wrong side of thelaw they would take particularly good care that no one should be able totrace them. It was at least a kind of negative confirmatory evidence.
Still Frankie felt definitely disappointed as she handed back the keys tothe house agents and uttered mendacious11 statements as to communicatingwith them in a few days.
She walked down towards the Park feeling rather depressed21 andwondered what on earth she was going to do next. These fruitless medita-tions were interrupted by a sharp and violent squall of rain. No taxi wasin sight and Frankie hurriedly preserved a favourite hat by hurrying intothe tube which was close at hand. She took a ticket to Piccadilly Circus andbought a couple of papers at the bookstall.
When she had entered the train—almost empty at this time of day—sheresolutely banished22 thoughts of the vexing23 problem and, opening her pa-per, strove to concentrate her attention on its contents.
She read desultory24 snippets here and there.
Number of road deaths. Mysterious disappearance25 of a schoolgirl. LadyPeterhampton’s party at Claridge’s. Sir John Milkington’s convalescenceafter his accident yachting—the Astradora—the famous yacht which hadbelonged to the late Mr. John Savage26, the millionaire. Was she an unluckyboat? The man who had designed her had met with a tragic27 death—Mr.
Savage had committed suicide — Sir John Milkington had just escapeddeath by a miracle.
Frankie lowered the paper, frowning in an effort of remembrance.
Twice before, the name of Mr. John Savage had been mentioned—onceby Sylvia Bassington- ffrench when she was speaking of Alan Carstairs,and once by Bobby when he was repeating the conversation he had hadwith Mrs. Rivington.
Alan Carstairs had been a friend of John Savage’s. Mrs. Rivington hadhad a vague idea that Carstairs’ presence in England had something to dowith the death of Savage. Savage had—what was it?—he had committedsuicide because he thought he had cancer.
Supposing—supposing Alan Carstairs had not been satisfied with the ac-count of his friend’s death. Supposing he had come over to inquire intothe whole thing? Supposing that here, in the circumstances surroundingSavage’s death—was the first act of the drama that she and Bobby wereacting in.
“It’s possible,” thought Frankie. “Yes, it’s possible.”
She thought deeply, wondering how best to attack this new phase of thematter. She had no idea as to who had been John Savage’s friends or in-timates.
Then an idea struck her—his will. If there had been something suspi-cious about the way he met his death, his will would give a possible clue.
Somewhere in London, Frankie knew, was a place where you went andread wills if you paid a shilling. But she couldn’t remember where it was.
The train drew up at a station and Frankie saw that it was the BritishMuseum. She had overshot Oxford28 Circus, where she meant to havechanged, by two stations.
She jumped up and left the train. As she emerged into the street an ideacame to her. Five minutes’ walk brought her to the office of Messrs.
Spragge, Spragge, Jenkinson & Spragge.
Frankie was received with deference29 and was at once ushered30 into theprivate fastness of Mr. Spragge, the senior member of the firm.
Mr. Spragge was exceedingly genial31. He had a rich mellow32 persuasivevoice which his aristocratic clients had found extremely soothing33 whenthey had come to him to be extricated34 from some mess. It was rumouredthat Mr. Spragge knew more discreditable secrets about noble familiesthan any other man in London.
“This is a pleasure indeed, Lady Frances,” said Mr. Spragge. “Do sitdown. Now are you sure that chair is quite comfortable? Yes, yes. Theweather is very delightful35 just now, is it not? A St. Martin’s summer. Andhow is Lord Marchington? Well, I trust?”
Frankie answered these and other inquiries36 in a suitable manner.
Then Mr. Spragge removed his pince- nez from his nose and becamemore definitely the legal guide and adviser37.
“And now, Lady Frances,” he said. “What is it gives me the pleasure ofseeing you in my—hm—dingy office this afternoon?”
“Blackmail?” said his eyebrows38. “Indiscreet letters? An entanglementwith an undesirable40 young man? Sued by your dressmaker?”
But the eyebrows asked these questions in a very discreet39 manner as be-fitted a solicitor41 of Mr. Spragge’s experience and income.
“I want to look at a will,” said Frankie. “And I don’t know where you goand what you do. But there is somewhere you can pay a shilling, isn’tthere?”
“Somerset House,” said Mr. Spragge. “But what will is it? I think I canpossibly tell you anything you want to know about—er—wills in your fam-ily. I may say that I believe our firm has had the honour of drawing themup for many years past.”
“It isn’t a family will,” said Frankie.
“No?” said Mr. Spragge.
And so strong was his almost hypnotic power of drawing confidencesout of his clients that Frankie, who had not meant to do so, succumbed42 tothe manner and told him.
“I wanted to see the will of Mr. Savage—John Savage.”
“In-deed?” A very real astonishment43 showed in Mr. Spragge’s voice. Hehad not expected this. “Now that is very extraordinary—very extraordin-ary indeed.”
There was something so unusual in his voice that Frankie looked at himin surprise.
“Really,” said Mr. Spragge. “Really, I do not know what to do. Perhaps,Lady Frances, you can give me your reasons for wanting to see that will?”
“No,” said Frankie slowly. “I’m afraid I can’t.”
It struck her that Mr. Spragge was, for some reason, behaving quite un-like his usual benign44 omniscient45 self. He looked actually worried.
“I really believe,” said Mr. Spragge, “that I ought to warn you.”
“Warn me?” said Frankie.
“Yes. The indications are vague, very vague—but clearly there is some-thing afoot. I would not, for the world, have you involved in any question-able business.”
As far as that went, Frankie could have told him that she was already in-volved up to the neck in a business of which he would have decidedly dis-approved. But she merely stared at him inquiringly.
“The whole thing is rather an extraordinary coincidence,” Mr. Spraggewas going on. “Something is clearly afoot—clearly. But what it is I am notat present at liberty to say.”
Frankie continued to look inquiring.
“A piece of information has just come to my knowledge,” continued Mr.
Spragge. His chest swelled46 with indignation. “I have been impersonated,Lady Frances. Deliberately47 impersonated. What do you say to that?”
But for just one panic-stricken minute Frankie could say nothing at all.
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1
chauffeur
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| n.(受雇于私人或公司的)司机；v.为…开车 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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demurred
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| v.表示异议，反对( demur的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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6
canvasser
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| n.挨户推销商品的推销员 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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8
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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adept
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| adj.老练的，精通的 | |
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mendaciously
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mendacious
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| adj.不真的，撒谎的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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counteract
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| vt.对…起反作用，对抗，抵消 | |
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hostel
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| n.（学生）宿舍，招待所 | |
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assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vexing
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| adj.使人烦恼的，使人恼火的v.使烦恼( vex的现在分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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extricated
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| v.使摆脱困难，脱身( extricate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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adviser
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| n.劝告者，顾问 | |
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38
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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39
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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undesirable
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| adj.不受欢迎的，不良的，不合意的，讨厌的；n.不受欢迎的人，不良分子 | |
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41
solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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42
succumbed
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的过去式和过去分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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43
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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44
benign
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| adj.善良的，慈祥的；良性的，无危险的 | |
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45
omniscient
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| adj.无所不知的；博识的 | |
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46
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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47
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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