‘Looking for a house, I believe.’ ‘Funny idea. What should anyone want with a house down here?’ That, thought Frankie, was the question.
On the following day she walked into the office of Messrs.
Wheeler & Owen, House and Estate Agents.
Mr Owen himself sprang up to receive her. Frankie gave him a gracious smile and dropped into a chair.
‘And what can we have the pleasure of doing for you. Lady Frances? You don’t want to sell the Castle, I suppose. Ha! Ha!’ Mr Owen laughed at his own wit.
‘I wish we could,’ said Frankie. ‘No, as a matter of fact, I believe a friend of mine was down here the other day – a Mr Bassington-ffrench. He was looking for a house.’ ‘Ah! yes, indeed. I remember the name perfectly. Two small if ‘s.’ ‘That’s right,’ said Frankie.
‘He was making inquiries about various small properties with a view to purchase. He was obliged to return to town the next day, so could not view many of the houses, but I understand he is in no great hurry. Since he left, one or two suitable properties have come into the market and I have sent him on particulars, but have had no reply.’ ‘Did you write to London – or to the – er – country address?’ inquired Frankie.
‘Let me see now.’ He called to a junior clerk. ‘Frank, Mr Bassington-ffrench’s address.’ ‘Roger Bassington-ffrench, Esq., Merroway Court, Staverley, Hants,’ said the junior clerk glibly.
‘Ah!’ said Frankie. ‘Then it wasn’t my Mr Bassingtonffrench.
This must be his cousin. I thought it was odd his being here and not looking me up.’ ‘Quite so – quite so,’ said Mr Owen intelligently.
‘Let me see, it must have been the Wednesday he came to see you.’ ‘That’s right. Just before six-thirty. We close at six-thirty. I remember particularly because it was the day when that sad accident happened. Man fell over the cliff. Mr Bassingtonffrench had actually stayed by the body till the police came. He looked quite upset when he came in here. Very sad tragedy, that, and high time something was done about that bit of path.
The Town Council have been criticized very freely, I can tell you. Lady Frances. Most dangerous. Why we haven’t had more accidents than we have I can’t imagine.’ ‘Extraordinary,’ said Frankie.
She left the office in a thoughtful mood. As Bobby had prophesied, all Mr Bassington-ffrench’s actions seemed clear and above aboard. He was one of the Hampshire Bassingtonffrenches, he had given his proper address, he had actually mentioned his part in the tragedy to the house agent. Was it possible that, after all, Mr Bassington-ffrench was the completely innocent person he seemed?
Frankie had a qualm of doubt. Then she refused it.
‘No,’ she said to herself. ‘A man who wants to buy a little place would either get here earlier in the day, or else stay over the next day. You wouldn’t go into a house agent’s at six-thirty in the evening and go up to London the following day. Why make the journey at all? Why not write?’ No, she decided, Bassington-fFrench was the guilty party.
Her next call was the police station.
Inspector Williams was an old acquaintance, having succeeded in tracking down a maid with a false reference who had absconded with some of Frankie’s jewellery.
‘Good afternoon. Inspector.’ ‘Good afternoon, your Ladyship. Nothing wrong, I hope.’ ‘Not as yet, but I’m thinking of holding up a bank soon, because I’m getting so short of money.’ The inspector gave a rumbling laugh in acknowledgement of this witticism.
‘As a matter of fact, I’ve come to ask questions out of sheer curiosity,’ said Frankie.
‘Is that so. Lady Frances?’ ‘Now do tell me this. Inspector – the man who fell over the cliff – Pritchard, or whatever his name was -‘ ‘Pritchard, that’s right.’ ‘He had only one photograph on him, didn’t he? Somebody told me he had three?
‘One’s right,’ said the inspector. ‘Photograph of his sister it was. She came down and identified him.’ ‘How absurd to say there were three!’ ‘Oh! That’s easy, your Ladyship. These newspaper reporters don’t mind how much they exaggerate and as often as not they get the whole thing wrong.’ ‘I know,’ said Frankie. ‘I’ve heard the wildest stories.’ She paused a moment then drew freely on her imagination. ‘I’ve heard that his pockets were stuffed with papers proving him to be a Bolshevik agent, and there’s another story that his pockets were full of dope, and another again about his having pockets full of counterfeit bank notes.’ The inspector laughed heartily.