“No, we did not.” The words were almost spat out. “If Mr. Vandike told you so much, why didn’t he tell you that too, I wonder? He’s the only person who knows.”
“I gather this was a private adoption, arranged through Vandike.”
“Of course it was. When James and I found out we couldn’t have kids of our own, we started thinking about adoption.”
“Did other people know this?”
“Know what?”
“That you were looking for a child to adopt?”
“Certainly not. It’s not the sort of thing one goes around discussing with all and sundry, is it? We did what we thought was the proper thing. We asked our doctor.”
“Your doctor in Ealing?”
“Well…no, as a matter of fact. Gossip gets about so fast in the suburbs. But it happened that James had been having some trouble with his hearing, and the doctor recommended him to a specialist. “
“William Cartwright!” cried Emmy.
Nora looked at her, surprised. “How did you know that?” she asked. “Why, I’d almost forgotten the name myself until you mentioned it. Yes, he did wonders for James. Hears as well as anybody now.” The bitterness seemed to have left Mrs. Turnberry, and there was almost relief in the way she spoke. “Well, Dr. Cartwright said it wasn’t really his province, and suggested we go to an adoption society. But we didn’t fancy that. We knew we wouldn’t be told the name of the parents, but we did want a sort of personal guarantee about the baby, if you know what I mean. So he told James that he’d keep it in mind, and make some inquiries. That’s how we got in touch with Professor Vandike. Or rather, he with us.”
“He with you?”
“Yes. He called on us in Ealing one day—drove up in a very flashy motorcar, for those days, and said he’d heard from Dr. Cartwright that we were looking for a baby to adopt, and that he knew just the one, and could arrange it.”
“And you believed him, just like that?” Henry asked.
“Oh, no. James did a very thorough check, you can be sure. First he contacted Dr. Cartwright, who said that this was a lawyer friend of his from Oxford. Then James checked with Oxford and found that Professor Vandike was really what he said he was. That’s to say, he wasn’t a professor back then, but he was teaching law, and he was a lawyer, all right. So we thought that was good enough.”
“What did he tell you about the baby?”
“Not very much,” said Nora Turnberry. “Just that he was two weeks old, a boy, white of course, and that both parents were healthy and of good family. I always remember him saying that—of good family. They say breeding will out, and look how handsome and clever Peter grew up. I mean, it just goes to show.”
“And you never told Peter?”
“No, Mr. Tibbett. I don’t know if we were wrong—”
Emmy broke in, “You were quite right, Mrs. Turnberry. At least in my opinion. I can’t imagine anything more unsettling for a child when he’s looked on you as his parents all his life—”
Nora Turnberry smiled gratefully at Emmy. “It’s nice to think you understand, Mrs. Tibbett. Have some walnut cake.”
In the car, Emmy said, “Jeannie’s child?”
“It’s much too early to say that yet,” said Henry, his eyes on the road. “What’s for sure is that at least two of the Carnworth party—Cartwright and Vandike—knew that Peter Turnberry was adopted.”
“And the Oppenshaws?”
“Very hard to say. I doubt that Sir Robert knew. If Peter was Jeannie’s child, he’d have been born before Oppenshaw married Pamela Warfield. I suppose she must have known about the baby, but Jeannie could have gone off and found a doctor somewhere—”
“Cartwright?”
“He’s an ear specialist. Still, he could have been a contact, I suppose. The question is, did Jeannie herself know what was in her father’s will?”
“That’s something we’ll never be able to answer,” said Emmy. “Well, what’s the next step? Go and confront the Oppenshaws?”
“No, not yet,” said Henry. “There are other things to do first. Back to London, I think. Got some calls to make tomorrow. And notice that I’ll be back in the office, saving the rest of my leave for Burgundy.”
The following morning, Henry called the Explorers Club and asked for Professor Vandike. He was told that the professor had not been there for some time, that he was on holiday in Wales. The secretary was extremely friendly.
Next, Henry telephoned Vandike’s Oxford college, to be told that the professor was not expected back until the following week.
Henry was just contemplating how he could discover the name of the hotel in Wales, when his phone rang again. This time the operator told him that Mrs. Tibbett was on the line.
“Henry, have you seen this morning’s paper?”
“Haven’t opened it yet, as a matter of fact.”
“Well, you should. And if you remember, neither of us saw a paper yesterday, but it was in last evening’s Star.”
“What was?”
“I’ll read it to you,” said Emmy. There was a slight rustling of paper. “‘Fears for safety of mountaineering professor,’ is the headline. And it goes on, ‘Mr. Roger Talbot, twenty-one, raised the alarm in the small Welsh village of Aberpriddy when his friend Professor Harold Vandike, fifty-eight, of Oxford, failed to return from a lone ascent on Tuesday. It is understood that a search party has already set out.’”
“Tuesday?” Henry repeated. “You’re sure it says Tuesday?”
“Quite certain. And in this morning’s paper—”
“Okay. I’ve got my own copy here. Thanks for calling, darling. You’ve got sharp eyes.”
Emmy said, “I thought you had lunch with him on Tuesday in London.”
“I did,” said Henry. “This requires a little investigation.”
The morning paper carried quite a few more details. Professor Vandike had been identified by the press as the compiler of crosswords, the pontificator on television panels, the literary critic—in fact, a personality. Consequently the story had moved up several notches in the estimation of the sub-editor, and reached page two.
Henry read that Vandike had apparently set out early on Tuesday morning to make a lone ascent of a difficult climb known as the Devil’s Chimney. He had forbidden young Mr. Talbot to come with him, saying that he was not sufficiently experienced. As a result, Roger Talbot had joined another group of young people for a long but fairly easy climb, returning to the hotel at 5:00 P.M. He did not begin to worry until after seven, when it began to grow dark. He knew that the Devil’s Chimney, although difficult, was not a particularly long climb.
As a result, a search party had set out at once, but by darkness had found nothing. The following day, the Wednesday that Henry and Emmy had spent on the Isle of Wight, searchers had been out again, and had again found nothing. It was pointed out by local guides that the climb involved circumnavigating some deep ravines where a body might lie undiscovered. Indeed, a cross surmounting a cairn of stones indicated where one such unfortunate was presumed to have fallen some years before. His body was never found.
Some local men had remarked that it was a foolhardy thing, and uncharacteristic of Professor Vandike, to go off on a dangerous climb like that by himself. No blame, of course, could attach to his young companion, one of his law students from Oxford, to whom he was teaching the rudiments of mountain climbing. The search continued, but hopes for the professor’s safety were fading.
Henry picked up the telephone and called the Explorers Club again. The porter was quite definite. No, they had not seen Professor Vandike for some time. Everybody at the club was very distressed at the news of his probable accident.
“Were you on duty at noon on Tuesday last?” Henry demanded.
“Yes, sir. I was.”
“Then you must remember that I lunched with Professor Vandike. Chief Superintendent Tibbett of Scotland Yard. Well, I gave my name as Mr. Tibbett. You had the professor paged—”
&n
bsp; “That’s right, sir. I remember it well. And he wasn’t in the club, so you went away again, saying there must have been a mistake.”
Angrily, Henry went to the Explorers Club in person. The porter greeted him with obvious recognition, but stuck to his story. Producing his police identity card, Henry demanded to see the headwaiter. He was met by the same polite, blank stare. The headwaiter did not recollect ever having seen him before. Professor Vandike had not reserved a table on Tuesday—in fact, he had not lunched in the club for some weeks. Tragic, isn’t it, sir, that he should be lost like that? Still, never give up hope. They have found people after quite a long time…
Full of frustration, Henry telephoned Barbara Oppenshaw.
Her first words were, “Oh, Mr. Tibbett. You’ve heard about Harry?”
“That he’s missing from a climb?”
“Yes. The papers keep talking about possibilities, but I don’t see how he can be alive…”
Henry said, “Now look here, young lady. I’ve had enough of these practical jokes. First the crossword, now this.”
“What on earth do you mean?” Barbara sounded genuinely bewildered.
“Harry Vandike was a great practical joker, wasn’t he?” Silence. “Well, wasn’t he?”
“I…yes, I suppose he was.”
“The crossword puzzle was his idea, wasn’t it?”
“I told you before, I can’t remember.”
“Never mind. What I’m telling you is that I think this is another example of his warped sense of humor.”
“I don’t understand you.”
Grimly, Henry said, “Harry Vandike wasn’t climbing any mountain last Tuesday. He was lunching with me here in London at his club.”
Barbara gave a little gasp. “Well, in that case, the club staff can surely—”
“No, they can’t. That is, they won’t. I don’t know how much he paid them, but it’s only a question of the hall porter and the headwaiter. They both swear that he wasn’t there, and certainly didn’t lunch with me.”
Sweetly, Barbara said, “Your work must be a terrible strain, Mr. Tibbett.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Don’t you think you may have been…imagining things?”
“Of course I don’t.”
“Two people’s word against yours is quite convincing, you know,” said Barbara. “Not to mention the young man in Wales, and the hotel staff there and—”
“I’m going to find Harry Vandike if it kills me.” Henry was losing his well-known professional calm.
“Are you an experienced climber, Mr. Tibbett?”
“No, I’ve never so much as climbed a wall. But—”
“Then it may well kill you, Mr. Tibbett,” said Barbara, and hung up.
The local police in Wales were most helpful, although depressed. It didn’t do the neighborhood any good to lose a climber, especially a popular, celebrated, and expert one. So the search parties went on searching doggedly, even with little or no hope left.
“I wish you’d call them off, Superintendent,” said Henry.
“So long as there’s a chance he might be alive, sir—”
Henry said, “You’ve only my word for this, but you’re risking valuable lives on a wild-goose chase. Professor Vandike wasn’t even in Wales on Tuesday. He was in London.”
“But…that’s not possible, sir.”
“He was not only in London,” said Henry. “He lunched with me.”
“Well, in that case, sir, there must be people who remember—”
Trying to be patient, Henry said, “The professor is a well-known practical joker, Superintendent. We lunched at his club, but he has persuaded or bribed the few members of the staff who saw us to deny the fact.”
“You mean they say they never saw either of you, sir?”
“The hall porter says I turned up asking for Vandike,” Henry admitted, “but went away again when told that he wasn’t there.”
There was a pause. Then the superintendent said, “It’s an odd story, sir.”
“I’m well aware of that,” said Henry. “Now, will you do something for me?”
“Of course, sir.” The superintendent sounded wooden.
“Go to the hotel where he was staying—the Mountainside, I believe it’s called—”
“That’s right, sir.”
“Go there and get every detail you can—when he arrived, what luggage he had, what he was wearing when he arrived, what time he left the place on Tuesday morning, what he was wearing then, whether he came by car, and if so, where is the car now? Did he take an early train to London on Tuesday, or did he hire a self-drive car locally? You know what I mean.”
“Yes, sir.” The superintendent sounded bedazzled. This sort of high-speed, high-power inquiry was a novelty in his quiet Welsh valley. “I’ll call you back, sir.”
Henry had only just hung up, and was contemplating the best way of bullying the staff of the Explorers Club to come clean, when the switchboard operator called to say that a boy named Richard Perkins was downstairs and wished to see him.
“What about?” Henry demanded.
“He won’t say, sir. He’s only a bit of a lad, about eighteen.”
“Then get one of the sergeants to see him.”
“Yes, sir.”
A moment later the phone rang again. “Switchboard here again, sir. Perkins says to tell you it’s about the Explorers Club.”
“Send him up at once,” said Henry.
Richard Perkins was a fresh-faced, red-haired boy, and Henry recognized him at once. “Come in and sit down, Richard. You’re the page boy at the Explorers, aren’t you?”
“I was.” The cherubic face was sulky.
“You were last Tuesday.”
“Yes, I was, sir. And that Mr. Grafton—the hall porter—he got me fired. That’s why I come to you.”
“How did you know where to find me?” Henry asked.
“Well, it come about like this, sir. You come to the club this morning, didn’t you? Talked to Mr. Grafton.”
“Yes, I did. I didn’t see you.”
“No, you wouldn’t, sir. I got a sort of cubby’ole where I sits and waits till there’s someone to be paged, or baggage carried. Well, when I ’eard you was a chief superintendent at the Yard, I thought to meself, That’s too much.”
“What was too much?” said Henry.
“I know for a fact,” Perkins added bitterly, “that Mr. Grafton got a hundred pound out of it. And not a penny did ’e give me, you can be sure. So after you’d gone, I come out and I sez to ’im—”
“Just a moment,” said Henry. “It was you who paged Professor Vandike last Tuesday, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, sir, it was. You was at the front desk, and the professor come down and took you up to the dining room.”
“Thank you, Richard,” said Henry, with a grin. “You’ve set my mind at rest.”
“I ’ave, sir?”
“I really thought I might be going mad. All right, what happened then?”
“Well, sir, Mr Grafton sez it’s just a joke of the professor’s, like ’e’s always playing on people, and that if anyone asks me, I must say like ’e did, that I paged ’im but ’e wasn’t there, so you went off again. And I sez, ‘Okay, Mr. Grafton, but what’s in it for me?’”
“And what did he say?
“’E sez there’s nothing in it for anyone, it’s just to oblige the professor. ‘’E’s a very generous tipper, as well you know, young Perkins,’ sez Mr. Grafton—and that’s true, sir, so ’e is. Then after lunch—Tuesday, that is—I seen you go out, and a few minutes later down come the professor and ’ad a talk with Mr. Grafton, confidential-like, leanin’ over the desk. And after the professor went, I saw Mr. Grafton countin’ ten-pound notes, and there was ten if there was one, sir. And not so much as fifty p. did come my way. D’you call that fair, sir?”
“No, I don’t,” said Henry reasonably. “So what did you do?”
“I didn’t do nothing ti
ll you come this morning, sir. That’s when I ’eard you tell Mr. Grafton you was a copper from the Yard. So after you’d gone, I come out and I sez, ‘Mr. Grafton,’ I sez, ‘you was tellin’ lies to the police.’ ‘You shut your impudent mouth, Perkins,’ ’e sez. I sez, ‘It’s the duty of every citizen to ’elp the police and tell ’em the truth, and if ’e comes and asks me personal, I won’t tell ’im a lie for a penny under ten quid.’ That made ’im proper mad. ‘You’re fired, Perkins,’ ’e sez. ‘Wot for?’ I sez. ‘Unsubordingnation,’ ’e sez, or some such long word. ‘Very well,’ I sez, ‘I’m off and you can carry the members’ bleeding baggage yerself.’ Just then a party of members arrives, and I’m off to the staff cloakroom, change out of me uniform, and out the back way before you could say knife. And I come straight ’ere.”
“You did very well, Richard,” said Henry, who had been keeping a straight face with some difficulty. “Ten quid was the very least you could have expected. I suppose Professor Vandike gave money to the headwaiter too.”
“You bet, sir.”
“And you say this wasn’t the first time?”
“Oh, no, sir. Up to all sorts of larks is the professor. I remember once ’e invited a big group of guests to what ’e called a special gourmet lunch, and then ’e ordered the chef to serve nothing but bread—no butter, mind—apple jelly and water. Cor, I wish I’d seen their faces. All the dining room staff was laughing fit to bust. Seems the professor went on about the special sort of apple for the jelly and the flour for the bread, and wot ’e called the vintage of the water. I did see the blokes’ faces when they come out, and they was a proper study. After, I asked the professor—’im and me bein’ on good terms—‘Wot did you do it for, Mr. Vandike?’ And ’e sez, ‘To take ’em down a peg, that’s what, Dicky. Serve ’em right for talkin’ big about food and wine.’ Well, you couldn’t ’elp but laugh, could you, sir?”
“It sounds rather a cruel joke to me,” said Henry.
“Well, jokes is cruel, ain’t they?” replied Perkins matter-of-factly.
“Yes,” said Henry. “Yes, I suppose they are. Now, young gentleman, I can’t give you a tenner for telling the truth, nor can I give you a gourmet lunch, but if you’d like to come to the canteen with me and have a bite to eat, be my guest.”
A Six-Letter Word for Death Page 17
