The service door opened, and a severe looking woman in a dark dress, whom Andrew assumed was Mrs. Severn, looked out. Bobbing in an awkward curtsey, Sara began talking to her and, though Andrew was too far away to hear what she said, he knew that that would be in character, too; that it would be in as broad a Cockney as she had originally spoken, before Andrew’s mother had begun teaching her proper speech.
Mrs. Severn said something to Sara then, apparently in response to a question of some sort, shook her head and went back into the house. Andrew remained where he was, behind the beech tree across the street from the Somerville house, and watched as Sara went to the next house, rang the bell at the service door there, and engaged in a colloquy with a rather dumpy woman who may have been another housekeeper but could also have been a cook. In all, Sara stopped off at nine houses, four on each side of the Somerville house; then, looking over her shoulder, she jerked her head at Andrew and walked west toward Wellington Road.
“Well?” he said, catching up with her, “Did you get your ear full?”
He said this in his own best Cockney, and she gave him a half appreciative and half rueful smile.
“No. At least, it didn’t turn out the way I hoped.”
“Well, tell anyway.”
“First, there’s who I was—and that’s a poor girl whose father’s a chimney sweep.”
“The tall scarecrow of a sweep that Pierre works for?”
“Yes.”
“What were you doing here?”
“Looking for dad. Because he was a dabeno, a real bad one, who left mom and me a few months ago. But we heard he’d been seen around here and wanted to find him.”
“How could anyone around here help you?” “How do you think sweeps get work? Besides shouting ‘Sweep!’ they knock at doors, and if people don’t want the sweeping done right then, they leave a card or say, ‘A word at the coal dealer’s will always find me.’”
“And you thought if that particular sweep had done that, it would lead us to Pierre.”
“That’s right. But you know what? The boyo we’re looking for stopped off at only one house around here. Do you know which one?”
“Lord Somerville’s.”
“Right. Mrs. Severn—at least I think it was Mrs. Severn—said he knocked at the door sometime last week, asked if she wanted sweeping done and offered to do it real cheap.”
“Are you sure it was the chap we want?”
“Certain sure. I started to describe him, and she did it for me—tall and thin as a beanpole. She even remembered Pierre—a very little, white-faced boy with very big eyes.”
“And did he sweep for her?”
“No. She said she didn’t need it done, didn’t let him in.”
“I see. Now what do you think he was after?”
“I think I know.”
“Of course you do. I think this is something we should tell Wyatt.”
“So do I.”
They went up the street, turned right on Wellington Road, and went into the police station. Wyatt had told Andrew that when he was on a case he generally spent more time at the local station house, working with the detective who was based there and knew the area—in this case, Tucker—than he did at Scotland Yard. However they had forgotten how Sara looked until the desk sergeant frowned at them.
“Yes?” he said.
“We’d like to talk to Inspector Wyatt,” said Andrew. “Is he here?”
“Maybe he is and maybe he isn’t. What do you want with him?”
“We told you what we want,” said Sara. “We want to talk to him. So don’t give us any of your lip but just tell him we’re here.”
“Yes, m’lady,” said the sergeant ironically. “And what names shall I give him?”
“Sara Wiggins and Andrew Tillett.”
There’s no telling with what witticism the sergeant would have responded to this if, at that moment a door to the left of the desk had not opened and Tucker looked out.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said with no particular surprise. “Were you looking for the inspector?”
“Yes.”
“Come on in then.”
They went in. The room was only slightly larger than Wyatt’s office at Scotland Yard. The desk was, if anything, older and more battered. Wyatt, sitting at it and going over some notes, looked up at them, particularly at Sara.
“What are you dressed up for?” he asked.
“You said we were unofficial plainclothes agents. We’ve been doing some investigating. At least, I have.”
“Have you?”
“Yes. You said you’d like to talk to Pierre, so we thought we’d try to find him for you. We didn’t, but we found out something else.”
“What was that?”
“The flue faker he works for—the tall, thin one—was at the Somerville house last week, wanted to clean the chimneys there, but Mrs. Severn wouldn’t let him in. And that was the only house he went to—he didn’t go to any others around here.”
“Fascinating,” said Wyatt dryly.
“You don’t sound fascinated.”
“I was mildly interested when I first found it out.”
“You already knew it?”
“Yes.”
“How did you find out about it?”
“The way the C.I.D. usually finds things out. I asked Sergeant Tucker to go around this morning and inquire.”
“Oh,” said Sara.
“What do you think it means?” asked Andrew.
“What do you think it means?”
“Well, we know—or at least we’re pretty sure—that there’s some connection between Severn and the tall, thin sweep.”
“His name is Gann. Matty Gann.”
“How do you know?”
“We looked him up. He has a record—not as serious as Severn’s—but a record just the same.”
“I see. You told us Severn had gone to the house but Mrs. Severn wouldn’t let him in or even talk to him. Well, if I were Severn and I was anxious to find out what was going on there, I might get a pal who was a chimney sweep to stop by, because a sweep goes all through a house and can see almost anything he wants.”
Tucker and Wyatt exchanged glances.
“Not bad,” said Tucker.
“Is that what you thought, too?” asked Sara.
“Yes,” said Wyatt. “Now listen to me and listen very carefully. You’re both very bright and you’ve been almost as helpful on this case as you were on the Denham diamond case, but you’ve done enough. This is not a game. It’s a serious and dangerous case. There’s been one murder already—Sergeant Polk—and I wouldn’t be surprised if there were more deaths. So I want you to mind your own business and stay out of things from now on. If you should run across the boy, Pierre, or discover where I can reach him, fine. Let me know. But, apart from that, you’re to avoid any connection with the case. Is that clear?”
Solemnly, they nodded.
“All right. Run along then and let us get on with what we’re doing.”
7
The Second Murder
Wyatt had meant to be emphatic, not prophetic; but, as often happens when there is validity to someone’s concern, what he warned them about came to pass. Before it did, however—or at least before Sara and Andrew learned about it—something else of equal importance happened.
It happened that night and, because Andrew’s room was in the front of the house, he was the first to be aware of it. They went home after their talk with Wyatt at the police station, hurrying a bit because Sara wanted to wash up and change her clothes before her mother came home. After supper they played parcheesi and, as she sometimes did, Mrs. Wiggins joined them, though she had some reservations about any game that involved dice.
They went up to bed at about ten o’clock, and Andrew read for a while. He was reading Stevenson’s The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, which he found disturbing as well as fascinating, and that may have been why he did not sleep particularly well. He woke up s
ometime later with a feeling that someone had been calling him. He lay there for a moment, listening. The house was quiet, and there was no sound but the solemn ticking of the grandfather clock out on the landing. Nevertheless the feeling that someone had called him was so strong that he got out of bed, went to the door and opened it. Still nothing. While he was there, he looked at the clock. It was ten after two. He went back into his room but, before he got back into bed, he looked out of the window. The moon was almost full and, though a few clouds were passing overhead, for the most part the front lawn was brightly lit. And, lying on the grass near the driveway, face down and arms outstretched, was a small figure. Though he couldn’t be sure, Andrew thought he knew who it was.
Stepping into his slippers, he put on his robe, hurried to the door and opened it again. This time the door of Sara’s room opened, and she came out.
“I thought I heard you,” she whispered. “What is it?”
“Someone outside, lying on the lawn. It looks as if he’s been hurt.”
“Who is it?”
“I’m not sure, but I think it’s Pierre.”
“Oh!” Her eyes widened. “Shall I wake Mum?”
“Perhaps you’d better. I’ll go down in the meantime and see.”
Sara ran up the corridor toward her mother’s room, and Andrew went downstairs. The door was not only locked and bolted, it had a chain on it too, and it took him several minutes to get it open. He ran down the driveway and discovered he had been right. The figure on the lawn was Pierre. Except for his outstretched arms, he was crumpled up and very still. Turning him over gently, Andrew saw that his eyes were closed and there was blood on his face. He knelt down, pressed his ear to the French boy’s chest, listening for his heart beat. When he finally heard it, it seemed very faint. As he straightened up, Sara and Mrs. Wiggins came out, both wearing robes over their nightclothes.
“Is it Pierre?” asked Sara.
“Yes.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“I’m not sure. There’s a nasty gash on his head—I think he was hit there. But besides that, he’s soaking wet, as if he’s been in water somewhere.”
“He looks bad, the poor child,” said Mrs. Wiggins. Then, as Matson, the butler, came out carrying a lit candle, “Do you think you and Matson can carry him upstairs to the guest room?”
“Of course. I could probably do it alone.”
“You’d better do it together, then you won’t shake him up so much. Meanwhile, Sara, you go wake Fred and tell him to go get Dr. Davison.”
The doctor, whose surgery was on Wimpole Street, lived nearby on Alder Road. He had been to the house a few times on calls and was a great admirer of Andrew’s mother.
“Yes, Mum,” said Sara and went running off, her hair flying.
Though Matson was usually very distant and reserved, Andrew found him strangely human in this particular emergency. Even Pierre’s torn and ragged clothes did not seem to upset him unduly, and together they undressed the unconscious boy and put a pajama top of Andrew’s on him—it was much too big of course—before they tucked him into the guest room bed.
“Do you see any reason for keeping these, Master Andrew?” asked Matson, picking up the torn and damp clothes they had dropped on the floor.
“No, Matson, I don’t.”
“I shall dispose of them, then.” And, holding them at arm’s length, he went out and down the back stairs.
Mrs Wiggins came in, and when Sara came back from calling Fred, there was a brief discussion as to whether they should do anything while waiting for Dr. Davison; sponge off the wound on Pierre’s head, try to give him some hot soup or brandy. They decided that since the doctor would be there very soon, it might be best to wait.
Dr. Davison arrived about fifteen minutes later, carrying his black bag. He greeted Andrew, nodded to Mrs. Wiggins and Sara and asked them to wait outside, but let Andrew stay while he examined Pierre.
“How did the boy come here?” he asked, putting his stethoscope back in his bag. “Do you know him?”
“I certainly don’t know him well,” said Andrew. “I only talked to him once. But I don’t think he knows anyone else in London—at least, no one he considers a friend. He’s French, and he’s only been here a short time.”
“I see. Besides this wound on his head—and besides the fact that he seems to have been beaten and starved—I find curious burns and lesions on his hands, elbows and knees. Can you explain them?”
“I think so. He works for a chimney sweep.”
“Yes,” said the doctor. “That would account for them. By law, chimney sweeps are not supposed to use climbing boys. At least, they’re not supposed to send them up into the flues. But of course they do. I think I’ll have a word with the police about it.” He opened the door. “You can come in now,” he said to Sara and Mrs. Wiggins.
“How is he? asked Sara.
“I think he’ll be all right.”
“You mean you’re not sure about it?” asked Andrew.
“Well, he isn’t in very good shape. Besides malnutrition, he has a concussion—that’s why he’s unconscious—and it’s hard to say how long he’ll remain that way. The question is, can you take care of him here or should I put him in St. George’s?”
“You mean in hospital?”
“Yes.”
Andrew and Sara exchanged quick looks with Mrs. Wiggins.
“We’ll take care of him here,” she said.
“You’re sure you can manage?”
“If you’ll tell us what to do, quite sure.”
“Good. At the moment, just keep him warm and quiet. I’ll stop by again in the morning with some medication for him, and we’ll go over everything else.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“There’s one more thing,” said Andrew. “Inspector Wyatt should be told.”
“Yes, he should,” said Sara.
Andrew glanced out into the hall where Fred was waiting.
“If you’ll just give me a minute to put on some clothes, Doctor, I’ll come along with you.”
“Of course.”
“You want to go to the police station now?” said Fred after they had dropped the doctor at his house.
“Do you know what time it is?”
“About three-thirty.”
“Well, who do you expect to find there?”
“The desk sergeant. If I leave a message with him, the inspector will have it when he comes in tomorrow morning.”
“All right, me boyo. But a quid to a Brummagem sixpence, the sergeant won’t like it. Because he’ll be sleeping as sound as I wish I was.”
Andrew should have taken Fred’s bet because, when they got to the police station, there were more signs of activity there than there usually were during the day. A growler was standing in front of the door, the cabby walking up and down as he waited. There was a light on in the small office Wyatt used, and, when Andrew went into the station, there were two constables at the desk as well as the sergeant behind it. They all looked at Andrew but, before he could tell them what he wanted, the door of Wyatt’s office opened and Tucker came out.
“Oh, no,” he said. “Not you again. What did the inspector tell you?”
“It’s because of what he said that I’m here.”
Tucker looked at him sharply. “Half a sec.” He went back to the office door, said something and, a moment later, Wyatt appeared. He was frowning and clearly had something on his mind, for he said nothing about the lateness of the hour, but only, “What is it, Andrew?”
“You wanted us to let you know if we found Pierre or discovered where to reach him. Well, we have. He’s at the house.”
“At your house?”
“Yes. We’ve got him in bed.”
“Why in bed?”
“He showed up about an hour ago. He had been hit on the head and is unconscious now. The doctor says he’s not sure how long he’ll stay that way. But I thought you’d want to know anyway.”
“Yes. Thanks for letting me know. I’ll stop by and see how he is tomorrow.” He turned to the two constables. “All right, men.”
Tucker opened the station house door, and the two constables went out.
“Has anything happened?” asked Andrew as Wyatt buttoned up his coat and prepared to follow them.
“Yes. I think you can say something else has happened. There’s been another murder.”
Andrew stared at him for a moment. That was why Wyatt had shown so little interest in the news about Pierre.
“In the Somerville case?”
“Yes. In the Somerville case.”
8
The False Clue
Lord Somerville was at breakfast the next morning when the front doorbell jangled. Pushing aside the toast that he had barely touched, he looked up when the dining room door opened and Mrs. Severn came in.
“It’s Inspector Wyatt and Sergeant Tucker,” she said. “They’d like a word with you.”
“Oh?” He tried to read her expression but couldn’t. “Well, send them in.”
“Yes, m’lord.”
Somerville finished his tea and stood up as Wyatt and Tucker entered.
“Good morning, Inspector. Good morning, Sergeant. You’re up and about early.”
“Not too early for you, I hope,” said Wyatt.
“No, no. I’ve finished my breakfast. Can I offer you anything?”
“Thank you, no. We had our breakfast some hours ago.”
“Hours?”
“Yes.”
The Case of the Somerville Secret Page 7
