Chapter 12 Chapter Twelve In the Enemy Camp

"Aha, here I come," thought Frankie, "safely into the enemy camp. Now it's up to me." There was a light knock at the door, and Mrs Bassington-French entered the room. Frankie lifted herself up a little on the pillow. "I'm sorry," she said weakly, "for causing you so much trouble." "Don't talk nonsense," said Mrs Bassington-French.Frankie recognized again the slight American accent in the cold, engaging, drawn-out voice.She thought of what the Earl of Marchington had said about one of the Bassington and French families in Hampshire who had married an American heiress. "Dr. Arbuthnot says if you keep quiet you'll be perfectly fine in a day or two."

Frankie felt like she should say something like "original sin" or "hospice" at this point, but was worried about saying the wrong thing. "He seemed like a nice guy," she said. "He was kind." "A very capable young man," said Mrs Bassington-French, "fortunately he happened to be passing by." "Yes, is that so? Of course, I don't really need him." "But you must not talk too much," said the hostess. "I will order the maid to bring you something you need, and she will arrange for you to sleep comfortably."

"Thank you so much." "you are welcome." Frankie felt dizzy as the woman left. "A beautiful, well-meaning woman," she said to herself, "indisputably beautiful." For the first time she felt that she was playing a dirty trick on the mistress.Her mind was so occupied with the brutal Bassington-French pushing an innocent victim off a cliff that the lesser characters in the drama did not enter her. in the imagination. "Come on," thought Frankie, "I've got to get it right now, though I wish she didn't take it so seriously."

She just spent a boring afternoon and evening lying in the dimming room.Mrs Bassington-French came once or twice to see how she was doing, but did not linger in the room. The next day, however, as soon as dawn came Frankie expressed her desire for company, and the mistress came and sat with her for some time.By the end of the day, the two found that they had many of the same acquaintances and friends.Frankie felt with a guilty conscience that they had become friends. Mrs. Bassington-French mentioned her husband and the little boy Tommy many times. She seemed to be an ordinary woman, deeply attached to her family, yet Frankie always had a certain feeling that she was not very happy.There was sometimes a look of anxiety in her eyes that was at odds with her calm mind.

On the third day, Frankie woke up and was introduced to the hostess. He has a large body, a thick jaw, and a gentle but absent-minded expression.He seems to spend a lot of time behind closed doors in his study.But Frankie judged that he loved his wife very much, though he paid little attention to her concern. Tommy, a seven-year-old boy, is strong and playful.Sylvia clearly doted on him. "It's nice to live here," sighed Frankie.She was lying on a bench in the garden at this moment. "I don't know if I bumped my head or where, but I just don't feel like moving. I just want to lie here all day."

"Okay, lie down," Sylvia said calmly and unobtrusively, "don't move, I'm telling the truth. Don't rush back to the city. You understand, I think it's better to keep you here. Very pleasant. You are so lively and lovely. I am very happy to have you." "So she needs to be happy," the thought crossed Frankie's mind.At the same time she felt ashamed of what she had done. "I think we have really become friends." The other party said again. Frankie felt even more ashamed. She was doing something vile and despicable.She should quit!go back to town...

The hostess went on: "It won't be too dull here. To-morrow my brother-in-law is coming. I'm sure Hugh will like him. Everybody likes Roger." "He lives with you?" "On and off. He was a restless man, and he called himself the never-successful man in his family, which may be true in a way. He never lasted long in a career, and I actually don't believe he ever Had any real work. But some people were just that, especially in old-fashioned homes. They were usually men of great charisma in their demeanor. Roger was especially sympathetic. Tommy wasn't there when Tommy fell ill this spring. ,I do not know what to do."

"What happened to Tommy?" "He fell off the swing and hurt quite badly. The swing was tied to a rotten branch and the dead branch broke. Roger was very disturbed because he was swinging a child on the swing and it was very high. Well, the kids like that. We thought Tommy's back was hurt at first, but it turned out it wasn't serious. He's all right now." "He's sure to be all right," said Frankie, smiling, when she heard a faint cry in the distance. "I see. He looks perfectly healthy, which is reassuring. He's had a lot of bad luck, and he's had a lot of accidents, and he nearly drowned last winter."

"Really?" asked Frankie thoughtfully. She no longer thought about going back to the city, and the guilt had subsided. Accident: She thought, is it Roger who makes accidents? "If you're telling the truth, I'd rather stay here longer. But does your husband care if I stay here like this?" "Henry?" Sylvia's lips curled into a strange expression. "No, Henry wouldn't care. Henry doesn't care about anything these days." Frankie looked at each other curiously. "If she knew me better, she would tell me more," she thought to herself. "I see a lot of strange things going on in this family."

Henry Bassington-French joined them at tea, and Frankie studied him carefully.There must be something odd about this man.He was of the common country gentleman type, jovial and sporty.But such a man should not sit down and twitch nervously, evidently out of control; he alternates between being in an unawakeable trance, and responding harshly and sarcasticly to what is said to him.He wasn't always like this.At dinner that evening, he looked quite different.He cracked jokes, laughed loudly, told stories, and was brilliant, for his ability. Frankie thought he was too brilliant, but this brilliance seemed artificial and inappropriate.

"His strange eyes," she thought, "are kind of frightening to me." Even so, she did not doubt Henry at all, for his brother, and not he, had been at Marchbolt on the day of the fatality. Thinking of the brother, Frankie looked forward to seeing him with eager interest. According to her and Bobby's thinking, this person is the murderer.She is about to come face to face with the murderer. She was tense for a while. What might he have guessed so far? In any case, how could he connect her with a well-executed murder? "You're making yourself a monster out of nowhere," she said to herself. Roger Bassington-French arrived just before tea the next afternoon, when Frankie did not see him.They still thought she was on a "lunch break". When she came out to the lawn where the afternoon tea was set, Sylvia smiled and said: "Here comes our patient. This is my brother-in-law. Miss Frances de Winter." What Frankie saw was a tall, outline young man in his early thirties with lovely eyes.While she could understand Bobby's preconceived notion that the man should wear a pince-nez and have a toothbrush beard, she preferred to deal politely with the cool blue eyes.They shook hands. "I just heard about the situation where you tried your best to break down the fence," he said. "I'll admit it," said Frankie, "I'm the worst driver in the world. But I was driving an old wretched car. My own car wasn't being driven, so I bought a cheap second-hand car." .” "A very handsome young doctor rescued her from the scene of the accident," Sylvia said. "He's quite lovely," agreed Frankie. At this time Tommy came, shouting and throwing himself into his uncle's arms. "Did you bring me the Hornby train? You said you would, you said you would." "Oh, Tommy! You shouldn't ask for something," said Sylvia. "He's right, Sylvia. I promised. I've got your train, old man." He said, looking casually at his sister-in-law. "Henry isn't coming to tea?" "I don't think so," Sylvia's voice was unnatural, "I think he doesn't feel well today." Then she said impulsively: "Oh, Roger, I'm so glad you're back." Roger's hand rested on her arm for a moment. "There, there, Sylvia, old woman." After tea, Roger played train games with his nephew. Frankie watched them, feeling agitated. Make no mistake, this isn't the kind of guy who pushes people off a cliff: there's no way this likable lad is a cold-blooded killer! Then she and Bobby had been mistaken all along.That's what's wrong with this part. She was now convinced that it had not been Bassington-French who had pushed Pritchard over the cliff. So who did it? She is still convinced that Pritchard was pushed down.Who pushed it?And who put the morphine in Bobby's beer bottle? The thought of morphine, and the sudden thought of Henry Bassington-French's strange eyes with their tiny pupils, inspired her. Could Henry be a drug addict?