“We’re sorry, Peter,” said Sara. “We really weren’t trying to interfere.”
“Well, that’s what you were doing. I’m not saying that you haven’t been helpful in the past. But when you go off on your own like this, not knowing what we’ve been doing or what we’re up against … You said that whoever’s working around here might bash you. Do you know what that means? How badly they might hurt you?”
“I think so.”
“I doubt it. But even if it wasn’t as bad as it might be, how do you think I’d feel about it?”
“All right,” said Andrew. “We get the idea. We’re sorry, and we won’t do it again. But … How did you know what happened?”
“How do you think?”
“Alf and Liza told you. Are they working with you?”
“Stop asking questions about things that are none of your business. How are you getting home?”
“We’ll take a bus.”
“No, you won’t.”
He hailed a hansom, put them in it and gave the cabby their address. Then, though Andrew protested, he dropped the money to pay for it in Sara’s lap and stood there while the hansom took them off.
8
The Ox Performs
A telegram came for Andrew at about nine the next morning. Sara was having breakfast with him when Matson brought it in, and though she looked out the window with pretended indifference when he opened it, he knew that she was watching him out of the corner of her eye.
When he had finished it, he handed it to her and she read, “If still interested in matter you saw me about, urge your presence at Sherburne Square at nine tonight.” It was signed, The Ox.
“Isn’t Sherburne Square where your friend Cortland lives?”
“Yes.”
“Who’s The Ox?”
“Beasley.”
“Why?”
He told her about the Latin phrases Beasley had shown him.
“What’s he up to?”
“I don’t know, but it’s got to have something to do with either Cortland or his grandfather.”
“I take it you’re going.”
“Of course. Do you want to come with me?”
She looked at him steadily. “If you hadn’t shown me the telegram, I would have thrown the teapot at you. If you hadn’t asked me to come, I would have thrown the teapot and the milk jug.”
“Lucky I did then,” he said, grinning. “There won’t be any trouble about it, will there? I mean, you don’t have a rehearsal, do you?”
“No. And your mother’s going to be out. She’s going to a concert at St. James Hall with Mr. Richards and his wife.”
“That’s good.”
They both knew that Verna would probably have let them go out if they had wanted to, but she would also have asked a few questions that they might have had difficulty in answering.
In the light of Beasley’s telegram, it did not seem wise to go to see Cortland when Sara and his mother went off to the theatre that afternoon. And, after the dressing down that Wyatt had given them the night before, Andrew thought he had better stay away from the Yard.
What should he do, then? He suddenly remembered that one of the things he and Chadwick had talked about when they were coming down from school was Maskelyne, the famous stage magician. Chadwick said he had never seen him and was interested to hear that Andrew had several times. That seemed worth a try, so he had Fred drop him off on Picadilly when he was driving Verna and Sara to the theatre. He took a bus back to Belgravia, found Chadwick in and delighted at the idea of seeing Maskelyne, especially with Andrew, so they went to the Egyptian Hall and spent the afternoon watching magic tricks and illusions that impressed Chadwick more than he cared to admit, though he spent some time after they left the theatre making guesses as to how the various tricks were done and seemed disappointed when Andrew said he had no more idea about them than Chadwick did.
Mr. and Mrs. Richards picked Verna up a litttle before eight to take her to the concert, and shortly after that Andrew remarked that it was a nice night and asked Sara’s mother if it was all right if they went out for a walk. Mrs. Wiggins, busy bringing the household accounts up to date, said, “Of course.” That it was a good idea after they’d both spent the afternoon in stuffy theatres, but not to come home too late, and they said they wouldn’t.
They took their time walking to Sherburne Square, pausing on the bridge over the Regent’s Canal until Andrew looked at his watch and said they’d better stir stumps, so they walked the rest of the way quite briskly. The bells of St. John’s were just striking nine when they arrived at the Square.
“Where’s your friend’s house?” asked Sara.
Andrew pointed it out to her.
“Where’s Beasley?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“He did say nine, didn’t he?”
“Yes. Now be patient. He may not come here himself, but if he said I was to be here—”
Sara clutched his arm. “Look!” she said excitedly.
A plume of smoke drifted out of the iron gate under the steps of the Cortland house and more smoke puffed out of the partly open basement window.
“Fire!”
“Yes. And here comes Beasley.”
If they had not been expecting him, they might not have recognized him, for he was dressed, not as he usually was in his bottle green velvet jacket, but in the dark, sober clothes of a butler or a valet on his day off. To complete the picture, he wore a bowler that sat squarely on his head with no nonsense of tipping it forward, back or to either side.
Moving with a lightness that was surprising in such a big man, he ran up the steps of the Cortland house, tugged at the bell-pull and kept tugging at it. Andrew and Sara moved closer and were near the foot of the steps when the door opened and Hodge looked out.
“Are you all asleep in there?” said Beasley severely. “Don’t you know what’s going on?”
“What?”
“Look there!” said Beasley, pointing to the smoke. “Fire! And a bad one, I suspect. I’ve already sent for the brigade. Better get everyone out of the house.”
“But … but …”
“Don’t argue, man! I’m telling you to get everyone out! It could be a matter of life or death!” Then, leaning past Hodge, he shouted up the stairs. “Fire! Fire! Everyone out of the house! And hurry!”
By now windows were opening in other houses on the square. Doors were opening, and householders and servants were peering out.
“All right,” said Hodge. “The madam’s out, but cook and the maids is upstairs and so’s the boy. I’ll get them.” And he hurried back inside and up the stairs, leaving the door open. Beasley came down the stairs and stood there, near Sara and Andrew, but with his back to them.
“Where is he?” he asked under his breath and without turning around.
Andrew knew he must mean Cortland’s grandfather.
“To the right at the top of the stairs,” he said.
Beasley nodded and bent down, peering at the smoke that was much thicker now, pouring out of the basement gate and the partly open window.
“It’s good one, all right. Hot enough to smoke haddocks. And here come the brave fire laddies.”
Horses galloping and sparks streaming from the stack of the steam pumper, the fire brigade arrived. As they jumped down off their engines, trim and military in their shining brass helmets, blue uniforms and boots, young Cortland came down the outside steps of the house, followed by a plump woman—probably the cook—and the maids and tweeny. They must have been in bed or getting ready for bed, for they were all in wrappers or had blankets or shawls over their shoulders. But while Cortland’s hair was a bit touseled, he was fully dressed and, for some reason, he did not seem at all surprised to see Andrew there.
“What’s happening?” he asked.
“Fire,” said Andrew. “Didn’t Hodge tell you?”
“He did say something about it, but I wasn’t sure …” Then, in a belated reaction, “Fire?
What about my grandfather?”
“Not to worry,” said Beasley. Then, authoritatively, “Here, men. We’ve got a sick old man upstairs who can’t get around on his own. Two of you get him while the rest of you take care of the fire.”
Two of the sturdiest of the firemen immediately ran up the steps and into the house, while the others began to unroll their hoses and take them down into the basement.
“Is it a bad fire?” asked Cortland.
“I don’t think anyone knows yet,” said Andrew. “By the way, this is Sara Wiggins. I’ve told you about her.”
“Yes, you have,” said Cortland.
“Hello,” said Sara. “Is everyone out of the house now?”
“Everyone except grandfather. My stepmother went out some time ago. I believe she’s having dinner with Dr. Thurlow and … Oh. They did get grandfather!”
They watched as the firemen came carefully down the steps. They had wrapped Mr. Cortland in a blanket and were carrying him between them, each of them holding one of his legs but supporting his back so that he was sitting bolt upright.
Cortland hurried over to him.
“Grandfather, are you all right?” he asked anxiously.
The old gentleman’s eyes went to his face, then moved right and left, taking in as much of the scene as he could.
“Is he all right?” asked Sara.
“He seems to be. He’s had a stroke, so he can’t talk. But what are we going to do with him? He can’t stay out here in the street, and …”
“Of course not,” said Beasley. “And here’s the ambulance.”
Its bell ringing, the ambulance drew up near one of the fire engines, and the driver and the attendant jumped down.
“Here you are,” called Beasley. “Here’s your patient.”
The driver and attendant took a stretcher out of the ambulance, the two firemen carried Mr. Cortland over to it and laid him down gently. The driver and attendant covered him with another blanket, strapped him down, put the stretcher back inside the ambulance again, and not more than a minute or two after it had arrived, it was on its way back to the hospital.
“Well, that’s that. Smartly done,” said Beasley.
Andrew agreed silently, especially when the door of a four-wheeler that had followed the ambulance opened and Beasley’s assistant, Sean, looked out. He must have gone to the hospital and summoned the ambulance while Beasley was calling the fire brigade.
Hodge, standing further up the street with the cook and the maids, watched the ambulance go off. Then, saying something to the cook, went hurrying up the street himself.
“Nothing more to be done here,” said Beasley, “so we might as well be going. Can we take you anywhere?” he asked Sara and Andrew.
“What are you going to do now?” Andrew asked Cortland.
“I don’t know. I suppose I should stay and see how bad the fire is, but I’m much more concerned about my grandfather. Do you know what hospital they’ve taken him to?”
“Of course,” said Beasley. “St. Mary’s. Get in, and we’ll take you there.”
Sean stepped aside; Sara, Andrew and Cortland got into the cab; Beasley said something to the cabby, then he and Sean got into the four-wheeler too, sitting opposite the three young people.
“Do you think it’s a bad fire?” asked Sara.
“I shouldn’t think so,” said Beasley. “You know the old saying?”
“You mean, ‘Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.’?”
“Yes. Like many of the old things they say, it’s not always true.”
“I see,” said Sara, smiling.
“Do you know each other?” asked Cortland, looking from Sara and Andrew to Beasley.
“Now that’s a question,” said Beasley with great gravity. “Can any man truly say he knows another? You’re a bit of a scholar, Sean. What do you think?”
“Much too deep and difficult a question for me, Mr. Beasley,” said Sean. “I wouldn’t dream of trying to answer it.”
“Oh,” said Cortland, with a gleam in his eye. “The next thing I was going to ask was how you happened to be there, Tillett—you and Miss Wiggins—when the fire broke out. But perhaps I’d better not.”
“It’s always better not to,” said Beasley. “The fewer questions you ask, the fewer lies you’ll be told.”
“You don’t think very much of people, do you?” said Sara.
“You run a shop like mine for a while, and see what you think of them. Shoful, almost everyone—meaning no good, fake. Buying or selling, they’ll cheat you out of your eyeteeth if they can. True, Sean?”
“I’ve never seen anyone get the better of you, Mr. B., either buying or selling. But, in a general way, I suppose it’s true.”
“Where are we now?” asked Cortland, peering out through the window.
“Praed Street,” said Beasley. “Almost there.”
The growler turned into Norfolk Place and drew up in front of the hospital.
“There you are,” said Beasley, opening the cab door. “The best of British luck to you.”
“Thank you,” said Cortland, getting out. “Thank you very much for everything.”
“Nothing to it. Delighted to have been of service. Ta-ta, chums.”
Beasley shut the cab door, and it went off.
The three went through the large battered doors and into the reception hall. It was the first time any of them had been in a hospital, and its size awed them. The clerk at the admissions desk, used to odd occurrences, did not seem particularly surprised to see three young people appear at that hour without an adult accompanying them, but he did not know anything about Cortland’s grandfather, and it took some time before the messenger he sent to Emergency came back with information.
They were directed upstairs, where the sister in charge told them that, yes, Mr. Cortland was there and Dr. Reeves was with him; and if they would sit down on that bench there, the doctor would talk to them.
“You’re behind all this, aren’t you?” asked Cortland as they sat.
“Do you think so?” said Andrew.
“Yes. I’m still not sure exactly how you did it, but I know that somehow you were talking to Grandfather when you were last at the house.”
“I did it by telling him to blink.”
“Blink?”
“Yes.” Andrew explained, and Cortland nodded as if that was exactly the kind of thing he would expect Andrew to do. They continued to sit there on the bench, watching the sister work at her desk and the nurses going back and forth into the wards, until finally the door of a room some distance up the corridor opened and Dr. Reeves, the doctor Andrew had met with Wyatt, came down the corridor toward them. Though it was quite late, he was as dapper as ever. He nodded to Andrew, said to Cortland, “You’re Benedict Cortland’s grandson?”
“Yes, I am. How is my grandfather?”
“I’m not sure I know how to answer that,” he began. He broke off, looking up the corridor at the sound of rapid footsteps. Andrew, Sara and Cortland looked up the corridor, too; and there, walking toward them quickly, were Cortland’s stepmother and Dr. Thurlow. They were both in evening clothes, Mrs. Cortland wearing a green silk dress and pearls, and Dr. Thurlow with a cape thrown over his shoulders.
“I’m relieved to see you, Benedict,” said Mrs. Cortland. “We weren’t sure where you’d gone. Is your grandfather here?”
“Yes, he is.”
“You’re young Cortland’s mother?” said Dr. Reeves.
“His stepmother. And you?”
“I’m Dr. Reeves.”
“Oh. How do you do. This is Dr. Thurlow.”
“Yes, I know. I’ve had the pleasure of hearing Dr. Thurlow lecture.” Then, as Dr. Thurlow bowed in acknowledgement, “How did you know that Mr. Cortland was here?”
“My butler knew that I was having dinner with Dr. Thurlow, and when the ambulance took Mr. Cortland away, he came to tell me what had happened.”
“How is he?” asked Dr. Thurlow.
“It’s difficult to say. He appears to have had a stroke or some sort of seizure, so that he can’t talk, can’t really communicate.”
“Yes, I know. I’ve been taking care of him.”
“Oh, have you?”
“Yes, I have.”
Andrew watched the confrontation between the two doctors with fascination. For although he was not sure he understood everything that was going on—and of course they were both being very polite—there was no doubt in his mind that it was a confrontation. The way in which Dr. Reeves had seen the old gentleman before was such that Andrew could understand why he could not admit that he had seen him or that he knew that Dr. Thurlow had been attending him. But why was Dr. Thurlow being so tentative? This must have puzzled Mrs. Cortland too, for after a glance at him, she said to Dr. Reeves, “I gather that someone who wasn’t familiar with the circumstances felt it was necessary to bring him here, but we’ve come to take him home.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible, Mrs. Cortland.”
She drew herself up. “What do you mean by impossible?”
“I mean I cannot permit him to be moved. As. Dr. Thurlow will testify—must testify if he has been taking care of him—Mr. Cortland was in a precarious state of health as it was. On top of that, he was exposed to a fire, to possible smoke inhalation and to transportation here—all of which must have had a profound effect on his nervous system. In the light of all this, I’m sure that Dr. Thurlow will agree that he should not be moved again. Certainly not tonight.”
“I’m not certain about that,” said Dr. Thurlow.
“Well, I am,” said Dr. Reeves. “I would not want to take the responsibility for releasing him now, after what he has been through, especially when he can have all the attention he needs here, while … have you had a nurse taking care of him at home?”
Mrs. Cortland and Dr. Thurlow both looked at young Cortland. They had no way of knowing whether he’d told Dr. Reeves that there hadn’t been a nurse taking care of him, and they couldn’t take a chance on lying.
“No,” said Dr. Thurlow. “No, we didn’t. I didn’t think it was necessary because Mrs. Cortland was spending a great deal of time with him, and he seemed to be improving.”
The Case of the Frightened Friend (Andrew Tillet, Sara Wiggins & Inspector Wyatt Book 6) Page 6
