‘It is about our client, Mr Alan Carstairs,’ he said.
Oh, yes?’ ‘He may have mentioned that we were acting for him.’ ‘Did he now? I believe he did,’ said Mrs Rivington, opening very large blue eyes. She was clearly of a suggestible type. ‘But of course, I know about you. You acted for Dolly Maltravers, didn’t you, when she shot that dreadful dressmaker man? I suppose you know all the details?’ She looked at him with frank curiosity. It seemed to Bobby that Mrs Rivington was going to be easy meat.
‘We know a lot that never comes into court,’ he said, smiling.
‘Oh, I suppose you must.’ Mrs Rivington looked at him enviously. ‘Tell me, did she really – I mean, was she dressed as that woman said?’ ‘The story was contradicted in court,’ said Bobby solemnly.
He slightly dropped the corner of his eyelid.
‘Oh, I see,’ breathed Mrs Rivington, enraptured.
‘About Mr Carstairs,’ said Bobby, feeling that he had now established friendly relations and could get on with his job. ‘He left England very suddenly, as perhaps you know?’ Mrs Rivington shook her head.
‘Has he left England? I didn’t know. We haven’t seen him for some time.’ ‘Did he tell you how long he expected to be over here?’ ‘He said he might be here for a week or two or it might be six months or a year.’ ‘Where was he staying?’ ‘At the Savoy.’ ‘And you saw him last – when?’ ‘Oh, about three weeks or a month ago. I can’t remember.’ ‘You took him down to Staverley one day?’ ‘Of course! I believe that’s the last time we saw him. He rang up to know when he could see us. He’d just arrived in London and Hubert was very put out because we were going up to Scotland the next day, and we were going down to Staverley to lunch and dining out with some dreadful people that we couldn’t get rid of, and he wanted to see Carstairs because he liked him so much, and so I said: “My dear, let’s take him down to the Bassington-ffrenches with us. They won’t mind.’ And we did. And, of course, they didn’t.’ She came breathlessly to a pause.
‘Did he tell you his reasons for being in England?’ asked Bobby.
‘No. Did he have any? Oh yes, I know. We thought it was something to do with that millionaire man, that friend of his, who had such a tragic death. Some doctor told him he had cancer and he killed himself. A very wicked thing for a doctor to do, don’t you think so? And they’re often quite wrong. Our doctor said the other day that my little girl had measles and it turned out to be a sort of heat rash. I told Hubert I should change him.’ Ignoring Mrs Rivington’s treatment of doctors as though they were library books, Bobby returned to the point.
‘Did Mr Carstairs know the Bassingtonffrenches?’ ‘Oh, no! But I think he liked them. Though he was very queer and moody on the way back. I suppose something that had been said must have upset him. He’s a Canadian, you know, and I often think Canadians are so touchy.’ ‘You don’t know what it was that upset him?’ ‘I haven’t the least idea. The silliest things do it sometimes, don’t they?’ ‘Did he take any walks in the neighbourhood?’ asked Bobby.
‘Oh, no! What a very odd idea!’ She stared at him.
Bobby tried again.
‘Was there a party? Did he meet any of the neighbours?’ ‘No, it was just ourselves and them. But it’s odd your saying that ‘ ‘Yes,’ said Bobby eagerly, as she paused.
‘Because he asked a most frightful lot of questions about some people who lived near there.’ ‘Do you remember the name?’ ‘No, I don’t. It wasn’t anyone very interesting – some doctor or other.’ ‘Dr Nicholson?’ ‘I believe that was the name. He wanted to know all about him and his wife and when they came there – all sorts of things.
It seemed so odd when he didn’t know them, and he wasn’t a bit a curious man as a rule. But, of course, perhaps he was only making conversation, and couldn’t think of anything to say.