Moira joined them.
‘Has he gone?’ she asked, her voice trembling. ‘Oh! do be careful. He’s dangerous – horribly dangerous.’ ‘He can’t do anything so long as we’re all together,’ said Bobby.
‘Brace up, Moira,’ said Frankie. ‘Don’t be such a rabbit.’ ‘Well, we can’t do anything for the moment,’ said Bobby, leading the way back to the table. ‘Go on with what you were telling us, Moira.’ He picked up his cup of coffee. Frankie lost her balance and fell against him and the coffee poured over the table.
‘Sorry,’ said Frankie.
She stretched over the adjoining table which was laid for possible diners. There was a cruet on it with two glass stoppered bottles containing oil and vinegar.
The oddity of Frankie’s proceedings riveted Bobby’s attention.
She took the vinegar bottle, emptied out the vinegar into the slop bowl and began to pour coffee into it from her cup.
‘Have you gone batty, Frankie?’ asked Bobby. ‘What the devil are you doing?’ ‘Taking a sample of this coffee for George Arbuthnot to analyse,’ said Frankie.
She turned to Moira.
‘The game’s up, Moira! The whole thing came to me in a flash as we stood at the door just now! When I jogged Bobby’s elbow and made him spill his coffee I saw your face. You put something in our cups when you sent us running to the door to look for Bassington-ffrench. The game’s up, Mrs Nicholson or Templeton or whatever you like to call yourself’.’ ‘Templeton?’ cried Bobby.
‘Look at her face,’ cried Frankie. ‘If she denies it ask her to come to the Vicarage and see if Mrs Roberts doesn’t identify her.’ Bobby did look at her. He saw that face, that haunting, wistful face transformed by a demoniac rage. That beautiful mouth opened and a stream of foul and hideous curses poured out.
She fumbled in her handbag.
Bobby was still dazed but he acted in the nick of time.
It was his hand that struck the pistol up.
The bullet passed over Frankie’s head and buried itself in the wall of the Orient Cafe.
For the first time in its history one of the waitresses hurried.
With a wild scream she shot out into the street calling: ‘Help!
Murder! Police!’
CHAPTER 34 Letter from South America
It was some weeks later.
Frankie had just received a letter. It bore the stamp of one of the less well-known South American republics.
After reading it through, she passed it to Bobby.
It ran as follows: Dear Frankie, Really, I congratulate you! You and your young naval friend have shattered the plans of a life-time. I had everything so nicely arranged.
Would you really like to hear all about it? My lady friend has given me away so thoroughly (spite, I’m afraid – women are invariable spiteful!) that my most damaging admissions won’t do me any further harm. Besides, I am starting life again. Roger Bassington-ffrench is dead.
I fancy I’ve always been what they call a ‘wrong ‘un’. Even at Oxford I had a little lapse. Stupid, because it was bound to be found out. The Pater didn’t let me down. But he sent me to the Colonies.
I fell in with Moira and her lot fairly soon. She was the real thing.. She was an accomplished criminal by the time she was fifteen. When I met her things were getting a bit too hot for her.
The American police were on her trail.
She and I liked each other. We decided to make a match of it but we’d a few plans to carry through first.
To begin with, she married Nicholson. By doing so she removed herself to another world and the police lost sight of her. Nicholson was just coming over to England to start a place for nerve patients.
He was looking for a suitable house to buy cheap. Moira got him on to the Grange.
She was still working in with her gang in the dope business.
Without knowing it, Nicholson was very useful to her.
I had always had two ambitions. I wanted to be the owner of Merroway and I wanted to command an immense amount of money. A Bassington-ffrench played a great part in the reign of Charles II. Since then the family has dwindled down to mediocrity.