‘Came here Wednesday evening, miss. Left his bag and said he mightn’t be in till late. His bag’s still here but he hasn’t been back to fetch it.’ Frankie felt suddenly rather sick. She clutched at a table for support. The man was looking at her sympathetically.
‘Feeling bad, miss?’ he inquired.
Frankie shook her head.
‘It’s all right,’ she managed to say. ‘He didn’t leave any message?’ The man went away again and returned, shaking his head.
‘There’s a telegram come for him,’ he said. ‘That’s all.’ He looked at her curiously.
‘Anything I can do, miss?’ he asked.
Frankie shook her head.
At the moment she only wanted to get away. She must have time to think what to do next.
‘It’s all right,’ she said and, getting into the Bentley, she drove away.
The man nodded his head wisely as he looked after her.
‘He’s done a bunk, he has,’ he said to himself. ‘Disappointed her. Given her the slip. A fine rakish piece of goods she is.
Wonder what he was like?’ He asked the young lady in the reception office, but the young lady couldn’t remember.
‘A couple of nobs,’ said the boots wisely. ‘Going to get married on the quiet – and he’s hooked it.’ Meanwhile, Frankie was driving in the direction of Staverley, her mind a maze of conflicting emotions.
Why had Bobby not returned to the Station Hotel? There could only be two reasons: either he was on the trail – and that trail had taken him away somewhere, or else – or else something had gone wrong. The Bentley swerved dangerously.
Frankie recovered control just in time.
She was being an idiot – imagining things. Of course, Bobby was all right. He was on the trail – that was all-on the trail.
But why, asked another voice, hadn’t he sent her a word of reassurance?
That was more difficult to explain, but there were explanations.
Difficult circumstances – no time or opportunity Bobby would know that she, Frankie, wouldn’t get the wind up about him. Everything was all right – bound to be.
The inquest passed like a dream. Roger was there and Sylvia – looking quite beautiful in her widow’s weeds. She made an impressive figure and a moving one. Frankie found herself admiring her as though she were admiring a performance at a theatre.
The proceedings were very tactfully conducted. The Bassington-ffrenches were popular locally and everything was done to spare the feelings of the widow and the brother of the dead man.
Frankie and Roger gave their evidence – Dr Nicholson gave his – the dead man’s farewell letter was produced. The thing seemed over in no time and the verdict given – ‘Suicide while of Unsound Mind’.
The ‘sympathetic’ verdict, as Mr Spragge had called it.
The two events connected themselves in Frankie’s mind.
Two suicides while of Unsound Mind. Was there – could there be a connection between them?
That this suicide was genuine enough she knew, for she had been on the scene. Bobby’s theory of murder had had to be dismissed as untenable. Dr Nicholson’s alibi was cast iron vouched for by the widow herself.
Frankie and Dr Nicholson remained behind after the other people departed, the coroner having shaken hands with Sylvia and uttered a few words of sympathy.
‘I think there are some letters for you, Frankie, dear,’ said Sylvia. ‘You won’t mind if I leave you now and go and lie down.
It’s all been so awful.’ She shivered and left the room. Nicholson went with her, murmuring something about a sedative.
Frankie turned to Roger.
‘Roger, Bobby’s disappeared.’ ‘Disappeared?’ ‘Yes!’ ‘Where and how?’ Frankie explained in a few rapid words.
‘And he’s not been seen since?’ said Roger.
‘No. What do you think?’ ‘I don’t like the sound of it,’ said Roger slowly.
Frankie’s heart sank.
‘You don’t think – ?’ ‘Oh! it may be all right, but – sh, here comes Nicholson.’ The doctor entered the room with his noiseless tread. He was rubbing his hands together and smiling.
‘That went off very well,’ he said. ‘Very well, indeed. Dr Davidson was most tactful and considerate. We may consider ourselves very lucky to have had him as our local coroner.’ ‘I suppose so,’ said Frankie mechanically.