‘And how are my two little birds?’ said the voice of Dr Nicholson.
He carried a candle in one hand and, though he was wearing a hat pulled down over his eyes and a heavy overcoat with the collar turned up, his voice would have betrayed him anywhere.
His eyes glittered palely behind the strong glasses.
He shook his head at them playfully.
‘Unworthy of you, my dear young lady,’ he said, ‘to fall into the trap so easily.’ Neither Bobby nor Frankie made any reply. The honours of the situation so obviously lay with Nicholson that it was difficult to know what to say.
Nicholson put the candle down on a chair.
‘At any rate,’ he said, ‘let me see if you are comfortable.’ He examined Bobby’s fastenings, nodded his head approvingly and passed on to Frankie. There he shook his head.
‘As they truly used to say to me in my youth,’ he remarked, ‘fingers were made before forks – and teeth were used before fingers. Your young friend’s teeth, I see, have been active.’ A heavy, broken-backed oak chair was standing in a corner.
Nicholson picked up Frankie, deposited her on the chair and tied her securely to it.
‘Not too uncomfortable, I trust?’ he said. ‘Well, it isn’t for long.’ Frankie found her tongue.
‘What are you going to do with us?’ she demanded.
Nicholson walked to the door and picked up his candle.
‘You taunted me. Lady Frances, with being too fond of accidents. Perhaps I am. At any rate, I am going to risk one more accident.’ ‘What do you mean?’ said Bobby.
‘Shall I tell you? Yes, I think I will. Lady Frances Derwent, driving her car, her chauffeur beside her, mistakes a turning and takes a disused road leading to a quarry. The car crashes over the edge. Lady Frances and her chauffeur are killed.’ There was a slight pause, then Bobby said: ‘But we mightn’t be. Plans go awry sometimes. One of yours did down in Wales.’ ‘Your tolerance of morphia was certainly very remarkable and from our point of view – regrettable,’ said Nicholson. ‘But you need have no anxiety on my behalf this time. You and Lady Frances will be quite dead when your bodies are discovered.’ Bobby shivered in spite of himself. There had been a queer note in Nicholson’s voice – it was the tone of an artist contemplating a masterpiece.
‘He enjoys this,’ thought Bobby. ‘Really enjoys it.’ He was not going to give Nicholson further cause for enjoyment than he could help. He said in a casual tone of voice: ‘You’re making a mistake – especially where Lady Frances is concerned.’ ‘Yes,’ said Frankie. ‘In that very clever letter you forged you told me to tell nobody. Well, I made just one exception. I told Roger Bassington-ffrench. He knows all about you. If anything happens to us, he will know who is responsible for it. You’d better let us go and clear out of the country as fast as you can.’ Nicholson was silent for a moment. Then he said: ‘A good bluff – but I call it.’ He turned to the door.
‘What about your wife, you swine?’ cried Bobby. ‘Have you murdered her, too?’ ‘Moira i§ still alive,’ said Nicholson. ‘How much longer she will remain so, I do not really know. It depends on circumstances.’ He made them a mocking little bow.
‘Au revoir,’ he said. ‘It will take me a couple of hours to complete my arrangements. You may enjoy talking the matter over. I shall not gag you unless it becomes necessary. You understand? Any calls for help and I return and deal with the matter.’ He went out and closed and locked the door behind him.
‘It isn’t true,’ said Bobby. ‘It can’t be true. These things don’t happen.’ But he could not help feeling that they were going to happen – and to him and Frankie.
‘In books there’s always an eleventh-hour rescue,’ said Frankie, trying to speak hopefully.
But she was not feeling very hopeful. In fact, her morale was decidedly low.
‘The whole thing’s so impossible,’ said Bobby as though pleading with someone. ‘So fantastic. Nicholson himself was absolutely unreal. I wish an eleventh-hour rescue was possible, but I can’t see who’s going to rescue us.’ ‘If only I’d told Roger,’ wailed Frankie.