Lesson 13

 Chapter Twenty-Four: 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 looked distressed. 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 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?"

"No, I think your chauffeur will now disappear. I shall take 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 rather a 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 St. Leonard's Gardens, the keys of two more 'properties' which she had no wish to see, and an order to view yet a fourth.