Why Didn’t They Ask Evans?. Agatha Christie

gone off. But of course I felt I had to squat there – couldn’t just push off and leave him. And then another fellow came along so I passed the job of chief mourner on to him and legged it here as fast as I could.’

      The Vicar sighed.

      ‘Oh, my dear Bobby,’ he said. ‘Will nothing shake your deplorable callousness? It grieves me more than I can say. Here you have been brought face to face with death – with sudden death. And you can joke about it! It leaves you unmoved. Everything – everything, however solemn, however sacred, is merely a joke to your generation.’

      Bobby shuffled his feet.

      If his father couldn’t see that, of course, you joked about a thing because you had felt badly about it – well, he couldn’t see it! It wasn’t the sort of thing you could explain. With death and tragedy about you had to keep a stiff upper lip.

      But what could you expect? Nobody over fifty understood anything at all. They had the most extraordinary ideas.

      ‘I expect it was the War,’ thought Bobby loyally. ‘It upset them and they never got straight again.’

      He felt ashamed of his father and sorry for him.

      ‘Sorry, Dad,’ he said with a clear-eyed realization that explanation was impossible.

      The Vicar felt sorry for his son – he looked abashed – but he also felt ashamed of him. The boy had no conception of the seriousness of life. Even his apology was cheery and impenitent.

      They moved towards the Vicarage, each making enormous efforts to find excuses for the other.

      The Vicar thought: ‘I wonder when Bobby will find something to do … ?’

      Bobby thought: ‘Wonder how much longer I can stick it down here … ?’

      Yet they were both extremely fond of each other.

       Chapter 3 A Railway Journey

      Bobby did not see the immediate sequel of his adventure. On the following morning he went up to town, there to meet a friend who was thinking of starting a garage and who fancied Bobby’s co-operation might be valuable.

      After settling things to everybody’s satisfaction, Bobby caught the 11.30 train home two days later. He caught it, true, but only by a very narrow margin. He arrived at Paddington when the clock announced the time to be 11.28, dashed down the subway, emerged on No. 3 Platform just as the train was moving and hurled himself at the first carriage he saw, heedless of indignant ticket collectors and porters in his immediate rear.

      Wrenching open the door, he fell in on his hands and knees, picked himself up. The door was shut with a slam by an agile porter and Bobby found himself looking at the sole occupant of the compartment.

      It was a first-class carriage and in the corner facing the engine sat a dark girl smoking a cigarette. She had on a red skirt, a short green jacket and a brilliant blue beret, and despite a certain resemblance to an organ grinder’s monkey (she had long sorrowful dark eyes and a puckered-up face) she was distinctly attractive.

      In the midst of an apology, Bobby broke off.

      ‘Why, it’s you, Frankie!’ he said. ‘I haven’t seen you for ages.’

      ‘Well, I haven’t seen you. Sit down and talk.’

      Bobby grinned.

      ‘My ticket’s the wrong colour.’

      ‘That doesn’t matter,’ said Frankie kindly. ‘I’ll pay the difference for you.’

      ‘My manly indignation rises at the thought,’ said Bobby. ‘How could I let a lady pay for me?’

      ‘It’s about all we seem to be good for these days,’ said Frankie.

      ‘I will pay the difference myself,’ said Bobby heroically as a burly figure in blue appeared at the door from the corridor.

      ‘Leave it to me,’ said Frankie.

      She smiled graciously at the ticket collector, who touched his hat as he took the piece of white cardboard from her and punched it.

      ‘Mr Jones has just come in to talk to me for a bit,’ she said. ‘That won’t matter, will it?’

      ‘That’s all right, your ladyship. The gentleman won’t be staying long, I expect.’ He coughed tactfully. ‘I shan’t be round again till after Bristol,’ he added significantly.

      ‘What can be done with a smile,’ said Bobby as the official withdrew.

      Lady Frances Derwent shook her head thoughtfully.

      ‘I’m not so sure it’s the smile,’ she said. ‘I rather think it’s father’s habit of tipping everybody five shillings whenever he travels that does it.’

      ‘I thought you’d given up Wales for good, Frankie.’

      Frances sighed.

      ‘My dear, you know what it is. You know how mouldy parents can be. What with that and the bathrooms in the state they are, and nothing to do and nobody to see – and people simply won’t come to the country to stay nowadays! They say they’re economizing and they can’t go so far. Well, I mean, what’s a girl to do?’

      Bobby shook his head, sadly recognizing the problem.

      ‘However,’ went on Frankie, ‘after the party I went to last night, I thought even home couldn’t be worse.’

      ‘What was wrong with the party?’

      ‘Nothing at all. It was just like any other party, only more so. It was to start at the Savoy at half-past eight. Some of us rolled up about a quarter-past nine and, of course, we got entangled with other people, but we got sorted out about ten. And we had dinner and then after a bit we went on to the Marionette – there was a rumour it was going to be raided, but nothing happened – it was just moribund, and we drank a bit and then we went on to the Bullring and that was even deader, and then we went to a coffee stall, and then we went to a fried-fish place, and then we thought we’d go and breakfast with Angela’s uncle and see if he’d be shocked, but he wasn’t – only bored, and then we sort of fizzled home. Honestly, Bobby, it isn’t good enough.’

      ‘I suppose not,’ said Bobby, stifling a pang of envy.

      Never in his wildest moments did he dream of being able to be a member of the Marionette or the Bullring.

      His relationship with Frankie was a peculiar one.

      As children, he and his brothers had played with the children at the Castle. Now that they were all grown up, they seldom came across each other. When they did, they still used Christian names. On the rare occasions when Frankie was at home, Bobby and his brothers would go up and play tennis. But Frankie and her two brothers were not asked to the Vicarage. It seemed to be tacitly recognized that it would not be amusing for them. On the other hand, extra men were always wanted for tennis. There may have been a trace of constraint in spite of the Christian names. The Derwents were, perhaps, a shade more friendly than they need have been as though to show that ‘there was no difference’. The Jones, on their side, were a shade formal, as though determined not to claim more friendship than was offered them. The two families had now nothing in common save certain childish memories. Yet Bobbie was very fond of Frankie and was always pleased on the rare occasions when Fate threw them together.

      ‘I’m so tired of everything,’ said Frankie in a weary voice. ‘Aren’t you?’

      Bobby considered.

      ‘No, I don’t think I am.’

      ‘My dear, how wonderful,’ said Frankie.

      ‘I don’t mean I’m hearty,’ said Bobby, anxious not to create a painful impression. ‘I just can’t stand