‘You don’t know anyone called Evans, do you?’ said Bobby.
‘Evans?’ Moira frowned, trying to think. ‘No, I don’t think so. It’s a very common name, of course, but I can’t remember anybody. What is he?’ ‘That’s just what we don’t know. Oh! hullo, here’s Frankie.’ Frankie came hurrying along the path. Her face, at the sight of Bobby and Mrs Nicholson sitting chatting together, was a study in conflicting expressions.
‘Hullo, Frankie,’ said Bobby. ‘I’m glad you’ve come. We’ve got to have a great pow-wow. To begin with it’s Mrs Nicholson who is the original of the photograph.’ ‘Oh!’ said Frankie blankly.
She looked at Moira and suddenly laughed.
‘My dear,’ she said to Bobby, ‘now I see why the sight of Mrs Cayman at the inquest was such a shock to you!’ ‘Exactly,’ said Bobby.
What a fool he had been. However could he have imagined for one moment that any space of time could have turned a Moira Nicholson into an Amelia Cayman.
‘Lord, what a fool I’ve been!’ he exclaimed.
Moira was looking bewildered.
‘There’s such an awful lot to tell,’ said Bobby, ‘and I don’t quite know how to put it all.’ He described the Caymans and their identification of the body.
‘But I don’t understand,’ said Moira, bewildered. ‘Whose body was it really, her brother’s or Alan Carstairs?’ ‘That’s where the dirty work comes in,’ explained Bobby.
‘And then,’ continued Frankie, ‘Bobby was poisoned.’ ‘Eight grains of morphia,’ said Bobby reminiscently.
‘Don’t start on that,’ said Frankie. ‘You’re capable of going on for hours on the subject and it’s really very boring to other people. Let me explain.’ She took a long breath.
‘You see,’ she said, ‘those Cayman people came to see Bobby after the inquest to ask him if the brother (supposed) had said anything before he died, and Bobby said, “No.” But afterwards he remembered that he had said something about a man called Evans, so he wrote and told them so, and a few days afterwards he got a letter offering him a job in Peru or somewhere and when he wouldn’t take it, the next thing was that someone put a lot of morphia ‘ ‘Eight grains,’ said Bobby.
‘- in his beer. Only, having a most extraordinary inside or something, it didn’t kill him. And so then we saw at once that Pritchard – or Carstairs, you know – must have been pushed over the cliff.’ ‘But why?’ asked Moira.
‘Don’t you see? Why, it seems perfectly clear to us. I expect I haven’t told it very well. Anyway, we decided that he had been and that Roger Bassington-ffrench had probably done it.’ ‘Roger Bassington-ffrench?’ Moira spoke in tones of the liveliest amusement.
‘We worked it out that way. You see, he was there at the time, and your photograph disappeared, and he seemed to be the only man who could have taken it.’ ‘I see,’ said Moira thoughtfully.
‘And then,’ continued Frankie, ‘I happened to have an accident just here. An amazing coincidence, wasn’t it?’ She looked hard at Bobby with an admonishing eye. ‘So I telephoned to Bobby and suggested that he should come down here pretending to be my chauffeur and we’d look into the matter.’ ‘So now you see how it was,’ said Bobby, accepting Frankie’s one discreet departure from the truth. ‘And the final climax was when last night I strolled into the grounds of the Grange and ran right into you – the original of the mysterious photograph.’ ‘You recognized me very quickly,’ said Moira, with a faint smile.
‘Yes,’ said Bobby. ‘I would have recognized the original of that photograph anywhere.’ For no particular reason, Moir;a blushed.
Then an idea seemed to strike her and she looked sharply from one to the other.
‘Are you telling me the truth?’ she asked. ‘Is it really true that you came down here – by accident? Or did you come because – because’ – her voice quavered in spite of herself ‘you suspected my husband?’ Bobby and Frankie looked at each other. Then Bobby said: ‘I give you my word of honour that we’d never even heard of your husband till we came down here.’ ‘Oh, I see.’ She turned to Frankie. ‘I’m sorry. Lady Frances, but, you see, I remembered that evening when we came to dinner. Jasper went on and on at you – asking you things about your accident. I couldn’t think why. But I think now that perhaps he suspected it wasn’t genuine.’ ‘Well, if you really want to know, it wasn’t,’ said Frankie.