Why Didn’t They Ask Evans?

‘Absolutely,’ said Bobby unhappily. ‘Oh, absolutely.’

He grinned nervously and was immediately aware of his father’s sigh – a sigh of Christian resignation.

‘Poor Alex,’ said Mrs Cayman, dabbing her eyes. ‘Poor, poor Alex.’

‘I know,’ said Bobby. ‘Absolutely grim.’

He wriggled uncomfortably.

‘You see,’ said Mrs Cayman, looking hopefully at Bobby, ‘if he left any last words or messages, naturally I want to know.’

‘Oh, rather,’ said Bobby. ‘But as a matter of fact he didn’t.’

‘Nothing at all?’

Mrs Cayman looked disappointed and incredulous. Bobby felt apologetic.

‘No – well – as a matter of fact, nothing at all.’

‘It was best so,’ said Mr Cayman solemnly. ‘To pass away unconscious– without pain – why, you must think of it as a mercy, Amelia.’

‘I suppose I must,’ said Mrs Cayman. ‘You don’t think he felt any pain?’

‘I’m sure he didn’t,’ said Bobby.

Mrs Cayman sighed deeply.

‘Well, that’s something to be thankful for. Perhaps I did hope he’d left a last message, but I can see that it’s best as it is. Poor Alex. Such a fine out-of-door man.’

‘Yes, wasn’t he?’ said Bobby. He recalled the bronze face, the deep blue eyes. An attractive personality, that of Alex Pritchard, attractive even so near death. Strange that he should be the brother of Mrs Cayman and the brother-in-law of Mr Cayman. He had been worthy, Bobby felt, of better things.

‘Well, we’re very much indebted to you, I’m sure,’ said Mrs Cayman.

‘Oh, that’s all right,’ said Bobby. ‘I mean – well, couldn’t do anything else – I mean –’

He floundered hopelessly.

‘We shan’t forget it,’ said Mr Cayman. Bobby suffered once more that painful grip. He received a flabby hand from Mrs Cayman. His father made further adieus. Bobby accompanied the Caymans to the front door.

‘And what do you do with yourself, young man?’ inquired Cayman. ‘Home on leave – something of that kind?’

‘I spend most of my time looking for a job,’ said Bobby. He paused. ‘I was in the Navy.’

‘Hard times – hard times nowadays,’ said Mr Cayman, shaking his head. ‘Well, I wish you luck, I’m sure.’

‘Thank you very much,’ said Bobby politely.

He watched them down the weed-grown drive.

Standing there, he fell into a brown study. Various ideas flashed chaotically through his mind – confused reflections – the photograph – that girl’s face with the wide-apart eyes and the misty hair – and ten or fifteen years later Mrs Cayman with her heavy make-up, her plucked eyebrows, those wide-apart eyes sunk in between folds of flesh till they looked like pig’s eyes, and her violent henna-tinted hair. All traces of youth and innocence had vanished. The pity of things! It all came, perhaps, of marrying a hearty bounder like Mr Cayman. If she had married someone else she might possibly have grown older gracefully. A touch of grey in her hair, eyes still wide apart looking out from a smooth pale face. But perhaps anyway –

Bobby sighed and shook his head.

‘That’s the worst of marriage,’ he said gloomily.

‘What did you say?’

Bobby awoke from meditation to become aware of Frankie, whose approach he had not heard.

‘Hullo,’ he said.

‘Hullo. Why marriage? And whose?’

‘I was making a reflection of a general nature,’ said Bobby.

‘Namely –?’

‘On the devasting effects of marriage.’

‘Who is devastated?’

Bobby explained. He found Frankie unsympathetic.

‘Nonsense. The woman’s exactly like her photograph.’

‘When did you see her? Were you at the inquest?’

‘Of course I was at the inquest. What do you think? There’s little enough to do down here. An inquest is a perfect godsend. I’ve never been to one before. I was thrilled to the teeth. Of course, it would have been better if it had been a mysterious poisoning case, with the analyst’s reports and all that sort of thing; but one mustn’t be too exacting when these simple pleasures come one’s way. I hoped up to the end for a suspicion of foul play, but it all seemed most regrettably straightforward.’

‘What blood-thirsty instincts you have, Frankie.’

‘I know. It’s probably atavism (however do you pronounce it? – I’ve never been sure). Don’t you think so? I’m sure I’m atavistic. My nickname at school was Monkey Face.’

‘Do monkeys like murder?’ queried Bobby.

‘You sound like a correspondence in a Sunday paper,’ said Frankie. ‘Our correspondents’ views on this subject are solicited.’

‘You know,’ said Bobby, reverting to the original topic, ‘I don’t agree with you about the female Cayman. Her photograph was lovely.’

‘Touched up – that’s all,’ interrupted Frankie.

‘Well, then, it was so much touched up that you wouldn’t have known them for the same person.’

‘You’re blind,’ said Frankie. ‘The photographer had done all that the art of photography could do, but it was still a nasty bit of work.’

‘I absolutely disagree with you,’ said Bobby coldly. ‘Anyway, where did you see it?’

‘In the local Evening Echo.’