Chapter 13 Chapter Thirteen Alan Carstairs

Strange to say, she confirmed this inference before the next day, and she confirmed it from Roger. After playing tennis for a while, they sat down with iced drinks. They had been chatting about insignificant topics, and Frankie had become more and more aware of the allure of a man like Roger who had traveled all over the world.She could not help thinking that this man, who had never succeeded in his family, was decidedly more agreeable than his stocky, prim brother. The conversation paused as these thoughts raced through Frankie's mind.Roger broke the silence, speaking in a completely different tone this time.

"Miss Frances, I intend to do something rather special. I have not known you for twenty-four hours, but I have a hunch that you are someone I can turn to for advice." "Advice?" asked Frankie in surprise. "Yes. I cannot make up my mind between two different courses of action." He remained silent and leaned forward.Dangling the racket between his knees, his forehead was slightly wrinkled and looked anxious. "It concerns my brother. Miss Frances." "yes?" "He did drugs. I'm sure that's true." "What makes you think so?" asked Frankie.

"Various circumstances. His appearance, his markedly altered mood, and. Did you notice his eyes? Both pupils were like needlepoints." "I noticed," Frankie admitted. "What do you think he was smoking?" "Morphine or some kind of opium." "How long has this happened?" "I'm sure it started about six months ago. I remember him complaining about insomnia many times. How he started doing drugs, I don't know, but I think it must have started not long after that." "How did he get the drugs?" Frankie asked almost immediately.

"It came to him by post, I think. Did you find him particularly nervous and excitable at teatime on certain days?" "Yes, I noticed." "I suspect that's because he ran out of drugs and was waiting to refill. Then. The six o'clock post came. He went into the study and came out for dinner in a completely different mood." Frankie nodded.She recalled Henry's sometimes contrived brilliance at dinner. "But where does the drug supply come from?" she asked. "Oh, then I don't know. A reputable doctor won't give him drugs at all. There are all sorts of sources, and they can be had for a good price in London, I suppose."

Frankie nodded thoughtfully. She was recalling what she had said to Bobby about the drug gangs, and he replied: Too many crimes cannot be lumped together.It was strange that their investigations had stumbled upon such a lead so quickly. Stranger still, it was the main suspect who turned her attention to the facts.This made her even more inclined than before to deny Roger of murder. She reminded herself that the photo-swapping was still inexplicable, that the evidence was against Roger, and that the evidence was true.It's not enough to dissent on the personality of the man, it's always said that murderers are charismatic people!

She dismissed these thoughts, and turned to her companion bluntly, "Why did you tell me this?" "Because I don't know what to do with Sylvia." He confessed. "You think she doesn't know?" "Of course she doesn't know. Should I tell her?" "It's hard..." "It's hard. That's why I thought you might be able to help me. Sylvia has a crush on you. She doesn't care about anyone around her, but she told me she fell in love with you pretty quickly .What shall I do, Miss Frances? Tell her, and I shall be a great burden to her life."

"If she knew, she might have some influence," Frankie suggested. "I doubt it. Once someone is on drugs, no one, not even the closest, dearest, can do anything to him." "It's such a hopeless view, isn't it?" "It's a fact. Of course, there's a way. If Henry agrees to treatment, there's a place near here. A doctor named Nicholson does it." "But he won't agree." "He might. Sometimes you can see the look of extreme remorse in people who smoke morphine, and they do everything they can to cure themselves. I'd rather think that if Henry thought Sylvia didn't know about it, he It might be easier to get into that mental state. If the treatment goes well (of course, they call his disease 'neurotic'), she doesn't have to know the truth."

"Does he have to leave home for treatment?" "The place I'm talking about is about three miles from here, on the other side of the village. It's run by a Canadian—Dr. Nicholson. I know the man is very bright. And, thankfully, Henry likes He. Hush, here comes Sylvia." Mrs. Bassington-French came up to them and said, "Have you always been so energetic?" "Three rounds," said Frankie, "and I lost every round." "You hit the ball pretty well," Roger said. "I'm very lazy playing tennis," said Sylvia. "We've got to have the Nicholsons come over someday. Mrs. Nicholson is very fond of sports. Well, what's the matter?" She noticed the two They are exchanging glances.

"Nothing, I just happened to be talking about the Nicholsons with Miss Frances." "You'd better call her Frankie like I—" said Sylvia. "How can this happen? Isn't it a bit strange that when a person talks about someone or something, others immediately talk about this person?" "Are they Canadian?" Frankie asked. "The doctor must be Canadian. And his wife, I think she might be English, but I'm not sure. She's a lovely little thing, with those big, lovely eyes. I don't know why, but I always find her very unhappy, It must have been a depressing day."

"He's kind of a nursing home, isn't it?" "Yeah, it's got psychopaths and drug addicts in it. I think he's pretty effective. He's a pretty memorable guy." "you like him?" "No," Sylvia said in a blunt tone, "I don't like him." After a while, she added fiercely, "I don't like him at all." Later, pointing to a picture of a woman with large, charming eyes on the piano, she said: "This is Moira Nicholson, isn't that a very seductive face? Someone was with us some time ago." A friend of mine came here and was fascinated by the picture. I think he also wanted to introduce her."

She laughed. "I'm asking them to supper tomorrow night. I'd like to know what you think of him." "to him?" "Yeah, I told you, I hate him, but he's definitely an attractive guy." There was something in the tone of her voice, and Frankie looked quickly at her, but Sylvia had already turned to remove the withered flowers from the vase. "I've got to concentrate," Frankie thought, as she combed through her thick black hair that night, as she got dressed for dinner that night, "and it's time for me to run a few experiments." She decided Think so. Was Roger the bad guy she and Bobby had decided he was? What she agreed with Bobby was that whoever was going to such lengths to get rid of Bobby must have easy access to morphine.Now from this point of view, Roger is suitable for this.If his brother got his supply of morphine by post, it would be easy for Roger to take a pack of it for his own use. Frankie wrote on a piece of paper: memorandum: (1) Find out where Roger was on the 16th (the day Bobby was poisoned). She thought she might be able to figure it out. (2) Present a photo of the deceased.Observe the reaction.Pay special attention to the reaction if Roger admits to being in March Bolt at the time. She was a little nervous about the second item, which meant making the issue public.On the other hand, the tragedy had already happened near her, and it was a very natural thing in the world to casually mention it. She crumpled up the paper and burned it. She made up her mind to throw the first one out naturally at dinner. "I say," she said frankly to Roger, "I always feel like we've met before, and not so long ago. Couldn't happen to be at that party at Mrs. Shane's in Claridges?" It was the sixteenth." "It couldn't be on the sixteenth," said Sylvia at once. "Roger was here. I remember it because there was a children's party that day. Without Roger, I don't know how Just do it." After she finished speaking, she cast a grateful glance at her uncle, and Roger smiled at her. "I don't think I've seen you before," he said kindly to Frankie. "I'm sure I'll remember if I did." What he said was very tactful. "Part number one settled," thought Frankie, "Roger Bassington-French was not in Wales the day Bobby was poisoned." It is then fairly easy to come up with the second point.Frankie turned the conversation on to country life, on its dullness, on the interest aroused by local excitement. "Last month we had a man fall off a cliff," she said. "We were all shaken. I was so excited to go to the autopsy hearing, but it was really boring. real." "Is that the place called Marchbolt?" Sylvia asked suddenly. Frankie nodded. "Fort Derwent is only about seven miles from Marchbolt," she explained. "Roger, that must be the man you saw." Sylvia cried. Frankie looked at Roger inquiringly. "I was with the deceased," Roger said. "I was with the deceased until the police came." "I thought it was a clergyman's son beside the dead man," said Frankie. "He had to play the organ or something, so I took over for him." "What a surprise," said Frankie. "I did hear there were other people who were there, but no names. So it was you?" Immediately there was that usual "How strange! Isn't the world too small?" kind of amazed conversational atmosphere.Frankie thought it was a clever move. "Perhaps that's where you've seen me before, at Marchbolt?" said Roger roundly. "I wasn't there when the accident happened," said Frankie. "I didn't come back from London until two days later. Did you attend the hearing?" "No. I went back to London the morning after that happened." "He has some ridiculous ideas. He wants to buy a house in that place." "Perfect nonsense," said Henry Bassington-French. "Not at all," said Roger cheerfully. "You know very well, Roger, that as soon as you buy the house, you're going to get into a fever of travel and go abroad." "Oh, I'm going to live someday, Sylvia." "When you want to stay, you'd better live near us," said Sylvia, "and don't leave us for Wales." After a good laugh Roger said to Frankie: "Is there anything else interesting about that accident? Is it suicide or something else?" "Oh, no. It's a pity that the whole truth has come out. Several relatives, terrified by terror, have come to identify the deceased. He appears to be on a walking tour. Too bad, really, because he was long So handsome. Did you see the picture in the paper?" "I thought I saw it," said Sylvia vaguely, "but I can't remember." "I have a newspaper clipping upstairs from our local newspaper." Frankie ran upstairs impatiently, and came downstairs with the clipping in hand. She handed the clipping to Sylvia.Roger came and looked over Sylvia's shoulder. "Don't you think he's handsome?" Frankie asked in the tone of a schoolgirl. "He's handsome," said Sylvia. "He seems quite a man, Alan Carstairs, don't you think, Roger? I remember saying so." "There is a resemblance to that man in appearance," agreed Roger, "but you see, there are not many real resemblances." "You can't tell by the photo in the newspaper, can you?" Sylvia handed the clipping back to Frankie. Frankie agreed that it could not. The conversation turned to other topics. Frankie went to bed still feeling unresolved.Everyone's reaction is very natural.It was no secret that Roger was looking for a house. The only time she succeeded was to learn the name of one person, and that was Alan Carstairs.