‘Yes. I can’t make up my mind between two different courses of action.’ He paused. He was leaning forward, swinging a racquet between his knees, a light frown on his forehead. He looked worried and upset.
‘It’s about my brother. Lady Frances.’ ‘Yes?’ ‘He is taking drugs. I am sure of it.’ ‘What makes you think so?’ asked Frankie.
‘Everything. His appearance. His extraordinary changes of mood. And have you noticed his eyes? The pupils are like pinpoints.’
‘I had noticed that,’ admitted Frankie. ‘What do you think it is?’ ‘Morphia or some form of opium.’ ‘Has it been going on for long?’ ‘I date the beginning of it from about six months ago. I remember that he complained of sleeplessness a good deal.
How he first came to take the stuff, I don’t know, but I think it must have begun soon after then.’ ‘How does he get hold of it?’ inquired Frankie practically.
‘I think it comes to him by post. Have you noticed that he is particularly nervous and irritable some days at tea time?’ ‘Yes, I have.’ ‘I suspect that that is when he has finished up his supply and is waiting for more. Then, after the six o’clock post has come, he goes into his study and emerges for dinner in quite a different mood.’ Frankie nodded. She remembered that unnatural brilliance of conversation sometimes at dinner.
‘But where does the supply come from?’ she asked.
‘Ah, that I don’t know. No reputable doctor would give it to him. There are, I suppose, various sources where one could get it in London by paying a big price.’ Frankie nodded thoughtfully.
She was remembering having said to Bobby something about a gang of drug smugglers and his replying that one could not mix up too many crimes. It was queer that so soon in their investigations they should have come upon the traces of such a thing.
It was queerer that it should be the chief suspect who should draw her attention to the fact. It made her more inclined than ever to acquit Roger Bassington-ffrench of the charge of murder.
And yet there was the inexplicable matter of the changed photograph. The evidence against him, she reminded herself, was still exactly what it had been. On the other side was only the personality of the man himself. And everyone always said that murderers were charming people!
She shook off these reflections and turned to her companion.
‘Why exactly are you telling me this?’ she asked frankly.
‘Because I don’t know what to do about Sylvia,’ he said simply.
‘You think she doesn’t know?’ ‘Of course she doesn’t know. Ought I to tell her?’ ‘It’s very difficult ‘ ‘It is difficult. That’s why I thought you might be able to help me. Sylvia has taken a great fancy to you. She doesn’t care much for any of the people round about, but she liked you at once, she tells me. What ought I to do. Lady Frances? By telling her I shall add a great burden to her life.’ ‘If she knew she might have some influence,’ suggested Frankie.
‘I doubt it. When it’s a case of drug-taking, nobody, even the nearest and dearest, has any influence.’ ‘That’s rather a hopeless point of view, isn’t it?’ ‘It’s a fact. There are ways, of course. If Henry would only consent to go in for a cure – there’s a place actually near here.
Run by a Dr Nicholson.’ ‘But he’d never consent, would he?’ ‘He might. You can catch a morphia taker in a mood of extravagant remorse sometimes when they’d do anything to cure themselves. I’m inclined to think that Henry might be got to that frame of mind more easily if he thought Sylvia didn’t know – if her knowing was held over him as a kind of threat. If the cure was successful (they’d call it “nerves”, of course) she never need know.’ ‘Would he have to go away for the cure?’ ‘The place I mean is about three miles from here, the other side of the village. It’s run by a Canadian – Dr Nicholson. A very clever man, I believe. And, fortunately. Henry likes him.