Then he was put back in his bed and given chloral and Evans finds him dead in the morning.’ ‘My God, I believe you’ve hit it, Frankie. But can we prove it?’ ‘Yes – no – I don’t know. Supposing Rose Chudleigh – Pratt, I mean – was shown a photograph of the real Savage? Would she be able to say, “that wasn’t the man who signed the will”?’ ‘I doubt it,’ said Bobby. ‘She is such a nitwit.’ ‘Chosen for that purpose, I expect. But there’s another thing. An expert ought to be able to detect that the signature is a forgery.’ ‘They didn’t before.’ ‘Because nobody ever raised the question. There didn’t seem any possible moment when the will could have been forged. But now it’s different.’ ‘One thing we must do,’ said Bobby. ‘Find Evans. She may be able to tell us a lot. She was with the Templetons for six months, remember,’ Frankie groaned.
‘That’s going to make it even more difficult.’ ‘How about the post office?’ suggested Bobby.
They were just passing it. In appearance it was more of a general store than a post office.
Frankie darted inside and opened the campaign. There was no one else in the shop except the postmistress – a young woman with an inquisitive nose.
Frankie bought a two-shilling book of stamps, commented on the weather and then said: ‘But I expect you always have better weather here than we do in my part of the world. I live in Wales – Marchbolt. You wouldn’t believe the rain we have.’ The young woman with the nose said that they had a good deal of rain themselves and last Bank Holiday it had rained something cruel.
Frankie said: ‘There’s someone in Marchbolt who comes from this part of the world. I wonder if you know her. Her name was Evans – Gladys Evans.’ The young woman was quite unsuspicious.
‘Why, of course,’ she said. She was in service here. At Tudor Cottage. But she didn’t come from these parts. She came from Wales and she went back there and married – Roberts her name is now.’ ‘That’s right,’ said Frankie. ‘You can’t give me her address, I suppose? I borrowed a raincoat from her and forgot to give it back. If I had her address I’d post it to her.’ ‘Well now,’ the other replied, ‘I believe I can. I get a p.c. from her now and again. She and her husband have gone into service together. Wait a minute now.’ She went away and rummaged in a corner. Presently she returned with a piece of paper in her hand.
‘Here you are,’ she said, pushing it across the counter.
Bobby and Frankie read it together. It was the last thing in the world they expected.
‘Mrs Roberts, The Vicarage, Marchbolt, Wales.’
CHAPTER 33 Sensation in the Orient Cafe
How Bobby and Frankie got out of the post office without disgracing themselves neither of them ever knew.
Outside, with one accord, they looked at each other and shook with laugher.
‘At the Vicarage – all the time!’ gasped Bobby.
‘And I looked through four hundred and eighty Evans,’ lamented Frankie.
‘Now I see why Bassington-ffrench was so amused when he realized we didn’t know in the least who Evans was!’ ‘And of course it was dangerous from their point of view.
You and Evans were actually under the same roof.’ ‘Come on,’ said Bobby. ‘Marchbolt’s the next place.’ ‘Like where the rainbow ends,’ said Frankie. ‘Back to the dear old home.’ ‘Dash it all,’ said Bobby, ‘we must do something about Badger. Have you any money, Frankie?’ Frankie opened her bag and took out a handful of notes.
‘Give these to him and tell him to make some arrangement with his creditors and that Father will buy the garage and put him in as manager.’ ‘All right,’ said Bobby. ‘The great thing is to get off quickly.’ ‘Why this frightful haste?’ ‘I don’t know – but I’ve a feeling something might happen.’ ‘How awful. Let’s go ever so quickly.’ ‘I’ll settle Badger. You go and start the car.’ ‘I shall never buy that toothbrush,’ said Frankie.
Five minutes saw them speeding out of Chipping Somerton.