Chapter 9 Chapter Nine Concerning Bassington-French

Frankie lost no time in getting to work.That night, she attacked her father. "Papa," she said, "do you know anything about the Bassington-French family?" The Earl of Marchington, who was reading a political article, did not quite catch the question. "It's not French, it's not American," he said passionately, "all these stupid meetings, wasting the time and money of the people..." The earl's words were like a train running along a customary route, rushing for thousands of miles, as if the train had reached a station, he stopped, and Frankie's thoughts turned around at this time.

"I'm asking about the Bassington-French family," repeated Frankie. "Ask them what?" asked the count. Frankie didn't know what to ask.She knew quite well that her father liked to argue, so she explained first: "They're a Yorkshire family, aren't they?" "Absurdly, Hampshire. And the Shropshire branch, and, of course, a part of Ireland later. Where is your friend?" "I'm not sure." Frankie accepted the inference of his friendship with several strangers. "Not sure? What do you mean? You must be sure." "People are wandering all over the place these days," said Frankie.

"Adrift, adrift, that's all they do. When I was young we asked people: do you know where you are...someone would say he was Hampshire; well, your grandmother Married to my second-generation next-door cousin. That forms a bond." "It's sure to be too romantic," said Frankie, "but it's really not the time for genealogy and geography." "No, you don't have time for anything but those poisonous cocktails." Lord Marchington gave a sudden cry of pain as he moved his epileptic foot, and drank copious amounts of house wine to no avail. "Are they rich?" asked Frankie.

"The Bassington-French family? Can't tell. The Shropshire line is tough, I think because of inheritance tax and all sorts of things. One of the Hampshire lines married an heiress." , an American woman." "One of them came here one day," said Frankie, "looking for housing, I think." "Funny idea. Who would come here and want a house?" That, Frankie thought, was the problem. The next day, Frankie walked into the offices of real estate agents Wheeler and Mr. Orne. Mr. Orne stood up to greet him, and Frankie gave him a friendly smile and sat down in the chair.

"What can I do for you, Miss Frances? I don't think you want to sell your castle, do you? Ha! Ha!" Mr. Orne laughed smartly, "I wish we could sell it, said Frankie. "Not for that. In fact, I thought a friend of mine was here one day, a Mr. Bassington-French, who came to my room." "Oh! It did. I remember the name exactly, the two lowercase 'f's." "Yes," said Frankie. "He made inquiries about various small properties from a buying point of view. Since he had to go back to town the next day, he didn't get to see many houses, but I understood he was in no rush at all. Because after he left, a couple of A suitable property is on the market, I wrote and sent him a detailed letter, but he didn’t reply at all.”

"Are you sending it to London, or to his address in the country?" asked Frankie. "Let me look it up," he called the clerk below. "Frank, please look up Mr. Bassington-French's address." "Mr. Roger Bassington-French, Merowe Court, Staveley Village, Hants Township." The clerk gave the address fluently. "Oh!" said Frankie, "that's not my Mr. Bassington-French. This must be a relation of his. I thought it was odd that he didn't come to see me when he got here." "Yes, yes," said Mr. Orth wisely. "I suppose it must have been Wednesday when he came to you."

"That's right. It's not until six-thirty. We close at six-thirty. I remember it very well because that was the day the tragic incident happened. A man fell off a cliff. Bassington-French before the police came." Actually stayed with the dead man. He looked very disturbed when he entered the house. It's too bad, and something should have been done about that road. I can tell you, Miss Frances, that the town council has been criticized unceremoniously. Too dangerous I can't think of a reason why there haven't been more accidents." "Very true," said Frankie.

She left the office thoughtfully.As Bobby had said before, all the conduct of Mr. Bassington-French seemed innocent and above board.He was a member of the Bassington-French family in Hampshire, left the correct address, and mentioned his role in the cliff tragedy to the estate agent.Could it be possible that Bassington-French was perfectly innocent? Frankie had doubts, and then she dismissed them. "No," she said to herself, "a man who wants to buy a house comes here early in the day, or stays until the next day. He doesn't step into a real estate agency at six-thirty in the evening." and go to London the next day. Why make this trip? Why not write a letter?"

No, she concluded that Bassington-French was the guilty party. Then she visited the police station. Inspector Williams was an old acquaintance who had once successfully hunted down a burglar who had absconded by sweeping Frankie's jewels under the guise of a maid. "Good afternoon, Pudu." "Good afternoon, Your Excellency. I hope nothing has happened." "Not yet, but I'm thinking of robbing a bank soon, because I'm so short of money." The Inspector burst out laughing at the quip. "Actually, I'm asking something out of curiosity."

"Is that so, Miss Frances?" "Please tell me one thing, Inspector, the man who fell off the cliff, his name was Pritchard or . . . " "Yes, Pritchard." "He only has one picture on him, doesn't he? I've been told he has three!" "One is right," said the Inspector. "It's the picture of her sister, who has come to identify him." "It's ridiculous to say there are three pictures!" "Well: it's easy to explain, Your Excellency. Those journalists, who don't care for exaggeration, tend to screw up the whole thing."

"I see," said Frankie, "and I've heard the wildest legends." She paused for a moment, and then began to speak freely of her imagination, "I've heard that his pockets are full of the papers, another said his pockets were full of drugs, another said his pockets were full of counterfeit money." The inspector laughed happily. "really interesting." "I think there are some ordinary things in his pocket?" "And very little. An unmarked handkerchief, some change, a pack of cigarettes, two bonds, all odds and ends, not in a clip. No papers. Without that photograph, we'd have to verify it." The work of identity. You might call it Providence." "I don't believe it," said Frankie. Out of her personal experience, she thinks "God's will" is an extremely inappropriate word.She changed the subject. "I went to see Mr. Jones yesterday, the clergyman's son. He has been poisoned. It is beyond imagination." "Oh!" said the Inspector, "if you want to think like that, it's unimaginable. Never heard of such a thing happen before. Maybe you'll say, he's a good boy who has no enemies in the world. You see Well, Miss Frances, there's some queer figure wandering about now. I've never heard of a murderer acting in this way, however." "Who did it, any clues?" Frankie asked with wide-eyed eyes.Then he added, "It's so interesting to hear the whole thing." The inspector was full of joy, and he took pleasure in intimate conversation with the earl's daughter.Miss Frances was airless and not snobby. "A vehicle was seen near the scene," said the Inspector, "a dark blue Talbot sedan. The people at 'Rock Point' reported that the dark blue Talbot with the registration number GG8282 was a pilgrim. Going in the direction of Botolf." "what do you say?" "GG8282 is the license plate number of the Archbishop of Botolf." Frankie savored the idea of ​​a murderous bishop sacrificing a vicar's son for a minute or two, and dismissed it with a sigh. "I don't think you doubt the bishop, do you?" "We have ascertained that the bishop's car did not leave the garage of the mansion that afternoon." "So it's a fake number." "Yes. We must continue to investigate this matter." Frankie said goodbye with admiration.Although she said nothing dejected, she thought to herself: "There must be countless dark blue Talbots in England." When she got home she took the Marchbolt directory from the desk in the study, took it to her room, and consulted it for hours. The result is not satisfactory. March Bolt has four hundred and eighty-two men named Evans. "Damn it!" Frankie cursed. She began to make plans for the next step.