Chapter 12 Donald Fraser

I felt sorry at once for the young man. His white haggard face and bewildered eyes showed how great a shock he had had.
He was a well-made, fine-looking young fellow, standing¹ close on six foot, not good-looking, but with a pleasant, freckled² face, high cheek-bones and flaming red hair.
‘What’s this, Megan?’ he said. ‘Why in here? For God’s sake, tell me—I’ve only just heard—Betty…’
His voice trailed away.
Poirot pushed forward a chair and he sank down on it.
My friend then extracted a small flask³ from his pocket, poured some of its contents into a convenient cup which was hanging on the dresser and said:
‘Drink some of this, Mr Fraser. It will do you good.’
The young man obeyed. The brandy brought a littlecolour back into his face. He sat up straighter and turned once more to the girl. His manner was quite quiet and self-controlled.
‘It’s true, I suppose?’ he said. ‘Betty is—dead—killed?’
‘It’s true, Don.’
He said as though mechanically:
‘Have you just come down from London?’
‘Yes. Dad phoned me.’
‘By the 9.30, I suppose?’ said Donald Fraser.
His mind, shrinking from reality, ran for safety along these unimportant details.
‘Yes.’
There was silence for a minute or two, then Fraser said:
‘The police? Are they doing anything?’
‘They’re upstairs now. Looking through Betty’s things, I suppose.’
‘They’ve no idea who—? They don’t know—?’
He stopped.
He had all a sensitive, shy person’s dislike of putting violent facts into words.
Poirot moved forward a little and asked a question. He spoke⁴ in a businesslike, matter-of-fact voice as though what he asked was an unimportant detail.
‘Did Miss Barnard tell you where she was going last night?’
Fraser replied to the question. He seemed to be speaking mechanically:
‘She told me she was going with a girl friend to St Leonards.’
‘Did you believe her?’
‘I—’ Suddenly the

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