'Unfortunately, my wife went away this morning.' 'Went away?' said Frankie blankly. 'Where?' 'Oh! just for a little change. You know what women are, Lady Frances. This is rather a gloomy place for a young woman. Occasionally Moira feels she must have a little excitement and then off she goes.' 'You don't know where she has gone?' said Frankie.
'London, I imagine. Shops and theatres. You know the sort of thing.' Frankie felt that his smile was the most disagreeable thing she had ever come across.
'I am going up to London today,' she said lightly. 'Will you give me her address?' 'She usually stays at the Savoy,' said Dr Nicholson. 'But in any case I shall probably hear from her in a day or so. She's not a very good correspondent, I'm afraid, and I believe in perfect liberty between husband and wife. But I think the Savoy is the most likely place for you to find her.' He held the door open and Frankie found herself shaking hands with him and being ushered to the front door. The nurse was standing there to let her out. The last thing Frankie heard was Dr Nicholson's voice, suave and, perhaps, just a trifle ironical.
'So very kind of you to think of asking my wife to stay. Lady Frances.'
CHAPTER 24 On the Track of the Caymans
Bobby had some ado to preserve his impassive chauffeur's demeanour as Frankie came out alone.
She said: 'Back to Staverley, Hawkins,' for the benefit of the nurse.
The car swept down the drive and out through the gates.
Then, when they came to an empty bit of road, Bobby pulled up and looked inquiringly at his companion.
'What about it?' he asked.
Rather pale, Frankie replied: 'Bobby, I don't like it. Apparently, she's gone away.' 'Gone away? This morning?' 'Or last night.' 'Without a word to us?' 'Bobby, I just don't believe it. The man was lying - I'm sure of it.' Bobby had gone very pale. He murmured: 'Too late! Idiots that we've been! We should never have let her go back there yesterday.' 'You don't think she's - dead, do you?' whispered Frankie in a shaky voice.
'No,' said Bobby in a violent voice, as though to reassure himself.
They were both silent for a minute or two, then Bobby stated his deductions in a calmer tone.
'She must be still alive, because of the disposing of the body and all that. Her death would have to seem natural and accidental. No, she's either been spirited away somewhere against her will, or else - and this is what I believe - she's still there.' 'At the Grange?' 'At the Grange.' 'Well,' said Frankie, 'what are we going to do?' Bobby thought for a minute.
'I don't think you can do anything,' he said at last. 'You'd better go back to London. You suggested trying to trace the Caymans. Go on with that.' 'Oh, Bobby!' 'My dear, you can't be of any use down here. You're known - very well known by now. You've announced that you're going - what can you do? You can't stay on at Merroway. You can't come and stay at the Anglers' Arms. You'd set every tongue in the neighbourhood wagging. No, you must go.
Nicholson may suspect, but he can't be sure that you know anything. You go back to town and I'll stay.' 'At the Anglers' Arms?' up my headquarters at Ambledever - that's ten miles away and if Moira's still in that beastly house I shall find her.' Frankie demurred a little.
'Bobby, you will be careful?' 'I shall be cunning as the serpent.' With a rather heavy heart Frankie gave in. What Bobby said was certainly sensible enough. She herself could do no further good down here. Bobby drove her up to town and Frankie, letting herself into the Brook Street house, felt suddenly forlorn.
She was not one, however, to let the grass grow under her feet. At three o'clock that afternoon, a fashionably but soberly dressed young woman with pince-nez and an earnest frown might have been seen approaching St Leonard's Gardens, a sheaf of pamphlets and papers in her hand.
St Leonard's Gardens, Paddington, was a distinctly gloomy collection of houses, most of them in a somewhat dilapidated condition. The place had a general air of having seen 'better days' a long time ago.
Frankie walked along, looking up at the numbers. Suddenly she came to a halt with a grimace of vexation.
No. 17 had a board up announcing that it was to be sold or let unfurnished.
Frankie immediately removed the pince-nez and the earnest air.
It seemed that the political canvasser would not be required.
The names of several house agents were given. Frankie selected two and wrote them down. Then, having determined on her plan of campaign, she proceeded to put it into action.
The first agents were Messrs. Gordon & Porter of Praed Street.
'Good morning,' said Frankie. 'I wonder if you can give me the address of a Mr Cayman? He was until recently at 17 St Leonard's Gardens.' 'That's right,' said the young man to whom Frankie had addressed herself. 'Only there a short time, though, wasn't he?
We act for the owners, you see. Mr Cayman took it on a quarterly tenancy as he might have to take up a post abroad any moment. I believe he's actually done so.' 'Then you haven't got his address?' 'I'm afraid not. He settled up with us and that was all.' 'But he must have had some address originally when he took the house.' 'A hotel - I think it was the G.W.R., Paddington Station, you know.' 'References,' suggested Frankie.
'He paid the quarter's rent in advance and a deposit to cover the electric light and gas.' 'Oh!' said Frankie, feeling despairing.
She saw the young man looking rather curiously at her.
House agents are adepts at summing up the 'class' of clients.
He obviously found Frankie's interest in the Caymans rather unexpected.
'He owes me a good deal of money,' said Frankie mendaciously.
The young man's face immediately assumed a shocked expression.
Thoroughly sympathetic with beauty in distress, he hunted up files of correspondence and did all he could, but no trace of Mr Cayman's present or late abode could be found.
Frankie thanked him and departed. She took a taxi to the next firm of house agents. She wasted no time in repeating the process. The first agents were the ones who had let Cayman the house. These people would be merely concerned to let it again on behalf of the owner. Frankie asked for an order to view.
This time, to counteract the expression of surprise that she saw appear on the clerk's face, she explained that she wanted a cheap property to open as a hostel for girls. The surprised expression disappeared, and Frankie emerged with the key of 17 Leonard's Gardens, the keys of two more 'properties' which she had no wish to see, and an order to view yet a fourth.
It was a bit of luck, Frankie thought, that the clerk had not wished to accompany her, but perhaps they only did that when it was a question of a furnished tenancy.
The musty smell of a closed-up house assailed Frankie's nostrils as she unlocked and pushed open the front door of No. 17.
It was an unappetising house, cheaply decorated, and with blistered, dirty paint. Frankie went over it methodically from garret to basement. The house had not been cleaned up on departure. There were bits of string, old newspapers and some odd nails and tools. But of personal matter, Frankie could not find so much as the scrap of a tom-up letter.
The only thing that struck her as having a possible significance was an ABC railway guide which lay open on one of the window seats. There was nothing to indicate that any of the names of the open page were of special significance, but Frankie copied the lot down in a little note-book as a poor substitute for all she had hoped to find.
As far as tracing the Caymans was concerned, she had drawn a blank.
She consoled herself with the reflection that this was only to be expected. If Mr and Mrs Cayman were associated with the wrong side of the law they would take particularly good care that no one should be able to trace them. It was at least a kind of negative confirmatory evidence.
Still Frankie felt definitely disappointed as she handed back the keys to the house agents and uttered mendacious statements as to communicating with them in a few days.
She walked down towards the Park feeling rather depressed and wondered what on earth she was going to do next. These fruitless meditations were interrupted by a sharp and violent squall of rain. No taxi was in sight and Frankie hurriedly preserved a favourite hat by hurrying into the tube which was close at hand. She took a ticket to Piccadilly Circus and bought a couple of papers at the bookstall.
When she had entered the train - almost empty at this time of day - she resolutely banished thoughts of the vexing problem and, opening her paper, strove to concentrate her attention on its contents.
She read desultory snippets here and there.
Number of road deaths. Mysterious disappearance of a schoolgirl. Lady Peterhampton's party at Claridge's. Sir John Milkington's convalescence after his accident yachting - the Astradora - the famous yacht which had belonged to the late Mr John Savage, the millionaire. Was she an unlucky boat?
The man who had designed her had met with a tragic death Mr Savage had committed suicide - Sir John Milkington had just escaped death by a miracle.
Frankie lowered the paper, frowning in an effort of remembrance.
Twice before, the name of Mr John Savage had been mentioned - once by Sylvia Bassington-ffrench when she was speaking of Alan Carstairs, and once by Bobby when he was repeating the conversation he had had with Mrs Rivington.
