Then she asked suddenly: ‘You’re not connected with the police in any way, are you?’ ‘I? Oh, no!’ ‘I wondered, I mean ‘ Bobby looked down at his chauffeur’s livery.
‘It’s rather a long story,’ he said.
‘You are Lady Frances Derwent’s chauffeur, aren’t you? So the landlord here said. I met her at dinner the other night.’ ‘I know.’ He paused. ‘We’ve got to get hold of her,’ he said.
‘And it’s a bit difficult for me to do. Do you think you could ring up and ask to speak to her and then get her to come and meet you somewhere outdoors?’ ‘I suppose I could -‘ said Moira slowly.
‘I know it must seem frightfully odd to you. But it won’t when I’ve explained. We must get hold of Frankie as soon as possible. It’s essential.’ Moira rose.
‘Very well,’ she said.
With her hand on the door-handle she hesitated.
‘Alan,’ she said, ‘Alan Carstairs. Did you say you’d seen him?’ ‘I have seen him,’ said Bobby slowly. ‘But not lately.’ And he thought, with a shock: ‘Of course – she doesn’t know he’s dead…’ He said: ‘Ring up Lady Frances. Then I’ll tell you everything.’
CHAPTER 19 A Council of Three
Moira returned a few minutes later.
‘I got her,’ she said. ‘I’ve asked her to come and meet me at a little summer-house down near the river. She must have thought it very odd, but she said she’d come.’ ‘Good,’ said Bobby. ‘Now, just where is this place exactly?’ Moira described it carefully, and the way to get to it.
‘That’s all right,’ said Bobby. ‘You go first. I’ll follow on.’ They adhered to this programme, Bobby lingering to have a word with Mr Askew.
‘Odd thing,’ he said casually, ‘that lady, Mrs Nicholson, I used to work for an uncle of hers. Canadian gentleman.’ Moira’s visit to him might, he felt, give rise to gossip, and the last thing he wanted was for gossip of that kind to get about and possibly find its way to Dr Nicholson’s ears.
‘So that’s it, is it?’ said Mr Askew. ‘I rather wondered.’ ‘Yes,’ said Bobby. ‘She recognized me, and came along to hear what I was doing now. A nice, pleasant-spoken lady.’ ‘Very pleasant, indeed. She can’t have much of a life living at the Grange.’ ‘It wouldn’t be my fancy,’ agreed Bobby.
Feeling that he had achieved his object, he strolled out into the village and with an aimless air betook himself in the direction indicated by Moira.
He reached the rendezvous successfully and found her there waiting for him. Frankie had not yet put in an appearance.
Moira’s glance was frankly inquiring, and Bobby felt he must attempt the somewhat difficult task of explanation.
‘There’s an awful lot I’ve got to tell you,’ he said, and stopped awkwardly.
‘Yes?’ ‘To begin with,’ said Bobby plunging, ‘I’m not really a chauffeur, although I do work in a garage in London. And my name isn’t Hawkins – it’s Jones – Bobby Jones. I come from Marchbolt in Wales.’ Moira was listening attentively, but clearly the mention of Marchbolt meant nothing to her. Bobby set his teeth and went bravely to the heart of the matter.
‘Look here, I’m afraid I’m going to give you rather a shock.
This friend of yours – Alan Carstairs – he’s, well – you’ve got to know – he’s dead.’ He felt the start she gave and tactfully he averted his eyes from her face. Did she mind very much? Had she been – dash it all – keen on the fellow?
She was silent a moment or two, then she said in a low, thoughtful voice: ‘So that’s why he never came back? I wondered.’ Bobby ventured to steal a look at her. His spirits rose. She looked sad and thoughtful – but that was all.
‘Tell me about it,’ she said.
Bobby complied.
‘He fell over the cliff at Marchbolt – the place where I live.
I and the doctor there happened to be the ones to find him.’ He paused and then added: ‘He had your photograph in his pocket.’ ‘Did he?’ She gave a sweet, rather sad smile. ‘Dear Alan, he was – very faithful.’ There was silence for a moment or two and then she asked: ‘When did this happen?’ ‘About a month ago. October 3rd to be exact.’ ‘That must have been just after he came down here.’ ‘Yes. Did he mention that he was going to Wales?’ She shook her head.