The Case of the Baker Street Irregular (Andrew Tillet, Sara Wiggins & Inspector Wyatt Book 1)

by Robert Newman

  “None. Though you were quite a convincing American,” said Holmes. “But you still have not told me why you tried to deceive me.”

  “Because … because I had to,” she said. “Because my child’s life was at stake.”

  “Your child?”

  “Yes. I said that not everything I told you was a lie. That part was true. I do have a child but … I can’t … I don’t dare tell you any more.”

  “Because you were told that if you did—if you went to the police or told anyone about it—you would never see your child again?”

  “Yes.”

  “Miss Tillett, I am going to ask you a question I have had to ask others before this. Do you trust me?”

  She studied him, her blue eyes dark and troubled.

  “I don’t know. I think so.”

  “Then I can tell you that you no longer have anything to fear. If you will be completely open and honest with me, I can—and will—return your child to you.”

  She stiffened, looking at him with a mixture of hope and anxiety.

  “How can you say that? How can you be sure …?”

  “I say it because I know things that you do not. The man who threatened you, told you that you would not see your child again if you did not do what he said, did it for a specific purpose. To get me out of London.”

  “That’s true. He told me what I was to say to you—that story about my daughter in Paris—But I still don’t see how you can be sure …”

  “I can because he was arrested last night and is now in custody.”

  “Oh, no,” she whispered. “Is that true—really true?”

  “It is.”

  “Then … very well. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

  “Good. May I suggest that you sit down?” And he drew up a chair for her.

  “Thank you.”

  “Now begin at the beginning and tell us the whole story.”

  “Oh.” She hesitated. “It won’t be easy. Parts of it are very painful and …” She looked at Watson and Andrew.

  “I’m sure they are. But I still think you should tell it. You can rely on Watson’s discretion and that of our young friend here.”

  “Sam?” She smiled sadly at Andrew. “He’s a little young for such a tale, but … I am, as you guessed Verna Tillett. I was born in Lambeth, and my parents were street musicians. I began singing and dancing when I was quite small and—if I can be immodest—I was quite talented. By the time I was sixteen I was appearing in the music halls.”

  “I was not in London at the time,” said Holmes, “but I believe I heard of you.”

  “When I was seventeen, I met a man. He was older than I was, the younger son of a good family, and we fell in love. He was reading law and had no money, but that did not matter. I was doing quite well in the music halls and told him I would support us both until he became a barrister. Though we did not tell his parents, we were going to be married. Then he died.”

  “Died?”

  “Yes. It was very sudden, pneumonia. I was devastated. I had loved him very much. Then I discovered I was going to have a child.”

  “I see. What did you do?”

  “I didn’t know what to do. My father and mother were dead. I saw no point in telling Andrew’s parents about it …”

  “Andrew?”

  “That was his name. And I wanted his child. There was a woman I was very close to, my dresser. No, she was much more than my dresser. She had been with me for two years and was my friend, my confidant. Her name was Agnes Craigie.”

  Andrew stirred, started to push back his chair, then became still as Holmes frowned at him.

  “She was a Scot?”

  “Yes. I was supposed to leave on a European tour—my first one. Agnes and I went to Bath, and I had the child there. A boy.”

  “Whom you named Andrew after his father?”

  “Yes. Then we went south to a small fishing village in Cornwall, and I rented a house for Agnes. She was to say that the child was her brother’s and keep him until I could come back for him.”

  “After which you left for your European tour.”

  “Yes. Agnes had been in the theatre for years before she came to me, and she persuaded me that I should. I had a contract, engagements, and she convinced me that it would be very bad for my career if I did not fulfill them. So I went.”

  “How long were you gone?”

  “Two years. When I came back to London, I had begun to have an international reputation. I was offered engagements at the Tivoli and the Oxford and … well, I became afraid—afraid of what would happen if it became known that—though I had never been married—I had a child.”

  “So you continued to let Agnes take care of your son.”

  “Yes. I was still young—only twenty—and my career was very important to me. I sent Agnes money, went down to Cornwall to see the boy when I could. He was a wonderful boy, handsome, bright. Each time I saw him it was more difficult for me to leave him. Then I was offered an engagement in the United States. I was tempted to take him with me, but again Agnes persuaded me that it wasn’t wise.”

  “So you went without him.”

  “Yes. I thought I would only be gone for about six months, possibly a year.”

  “How long were you gone?”

  “Almost ten years.”

  “Ten years?”

  She clasped her hands. “Please don’t say it that way. I said that talking about it was difficult. I had been poor for so many years. Even when I was successful in the music halls, my life was uncertain. When I got to America, all that changed. After my first engagement, I was offered a dramatic part. I took it and began a new career as an actress. It was a completely different kind of life, and I revelled in it. There I was, a Cockney girl from Lambeth, being hailed, not for my singing and dancing, but for my acting. I didn’t just play in New York. I toured as far west as San Francisco. Each time I went into a new play, I said, “When this engagement is over, I’ll go back to England. Or I’ll have Agnes bring Andrew over here to me.”

  “But you didn’t do either one.”

  “No. I sent her money, and she wrote to me, told me what a fine boy Andrew was becoming. When he was about ten, I decided he should go to a good public school, and she found someone to tutor him, prepare him for it. Then she became ill and finally died. I was on tour at the time, didn’t know it until I got back to New York.”

  “How did you find out about this?”

  “The solicitors who had been taking care of my affairs—to whom I sent the money for Agnes and Andrew—wrote me and told me. They said the man who had been tutoring Andrew—a man named Dennison—had offered to look after him until I returned. I took the next boat back, went down to Cornwall … and found that Andrew and Dennison were gone!”

  “This was just before you came to see me as Mrs. Harker?”

  “Yes. I was desperate, consumed with guilt. If I had sent for Andrew and Agnes or come back before, it wouldn’t have happened. I returned to London, went to see my solicitors … and that evening I got a message telling me that if I wanted word of my son I should be at the foot of Blackfriars Bridge at midnight.”

  “You went?”

  “Of course. A four-wheeler pulled up. There was a man in it. He didn’t get out and I never saw him, but he told me enough about Andrew and Agnes to convince me that he knew all about them and said that if I wanted Andrew back I must do exactly what he said.”

  “Which was to come to me with the story you did.”

  “Yes.”

  “I can fill in some background here. The man, Dennison, was not a particularly savory character. Though quite a good scholar, he had been sent down from Oxford, became involved in criminal activities here in London and then went into hiding in Cornwall. When he began tutoring Andrew, he sensed that there was something there that he could turn to his advantage.”

  “How?”

  “Someone, he decided, was paying Agnes to keep Andrew there—someone with mon
ey. If he could find out who that person was—and what the story behind it was—he could probably blackmail that person. He tried questioning Agnes but got nowhere. However, when she became ill, she told him the names of your solicitors, Stroud and Dexter here on Baker Street, and he went to see them, offered to take care of Andrew until the absent parent, whom of course he didn’t know, returned.”

  “But then why did he leave Cornwall? And where did he go?”

  “He came here to London with Andrew. His plan was to keep him concealed, claim he had disappeared. This would enable him to find out who the missing parent was because, when he reported that Andrew was gone to the solicitors, they would undoubtedly bring him together with the father or the mother. Then he would either blackmail that person or—through some third party—claim that Andrew had been kidnapped and offer to return him for a large ransom.”

  “But he never did anything like that—never got in touch with me.”

  “He didn’t have a chance to because his past caught up with him. Immediately after he got here—and before you arrived in England—he was seen by a man he had betrayed, a much cleverer and more dangerous man than Mr. Dennison. That man kidnapped him, found out what his plan was, and decided to use it for his own purposes.”

  “Was this the man in the four-wheeler? The man who made me come to you as Mrs. Harker?”

  “It was.”

  “Then he has Andrew?”

  “No. He tried to kidnap him as he had Dennison, but Andrew got away. He’s a very intelligent and resourceful boy. Nevertheless, knowing that you did not know where Andrew was, he pretended that he was keeping him prisoner.”

  “I’m not sure I understand this, but it’s not important. The only thing that is important is Andrew. You said if I told you everything, you would help me find him.”

  “Yes, I did,” said Holmes. “But there’s something else that’s even more important. How do you think Andrew is going to feel about you after what you’ve told me? After you left him alone for all these years?”

  “Please!” she said, her eyes becoming misty. “Don’t you think I’ve thought about that? Looking back now, I believe one of the reasons I didn’t return before this was that I was afraid—afraid of what he might say. And when I did come back and discovered that he was gone, I thought I’d go mad. I know now that he means more to me than anyone or anything in the world, and I can only hope that if I explain, tell him what I’ve told you, he may understand and forgive me.”

  “Yes, I suppose he might,” said Holmes slowly. He turned and looked at Andrew. “What do you say, Andrew?”

  “Andrew?” She looked at Holmes and then at Andrew. “But he … he said his name was Sam. Sam Wiggins.”

  “I’m afraid I told him to say that, just as I told him to sit there quietly no matter what was said. But, though he did not know it until a few minutes ago, he is your son.”

  She became rigid. Her face, pale before, became even paler and her eyes widened and then became dark with anxiety.

  “Andrew …” she whispered.

  Andrew remained where he was. Once, swimming after a storm in Gorlyn, he had been caught by a huge wave and buffeted, tossed head over heels, drawn down into watery darkness and finally thrown breathless on the beach. He felt that same way now—so shaken by conflicting emotions that he dared not move. So much that he had not understood was clear now. So much that he had longed for was here within his reach. And yet the years of resentment and loneliness were still with him, too, bitter as salt in his mouth.

  How did he feel about this woman who sat there with her eyes fixed on him? He did not know. Then suddenly, not with his brain—for thought has nothing to do with such matters—but with his whole body, he did know. The many things he felt became one, and he got to his feet and, moving awkwardly, went to her.

  “Mother …” he said.

  “Andrew … my darling boy!”

  Then her tears came and, sobbing, she embraced him.

  Watson cleared his throat.

  “I think …” he began.

  “So do I,” said Holmes.

  Rising, they took their hats and coats and went out.

  “I must say, Holmes,” said Watson when the door closed behind them, “I do think that was a little melodramatic.”

  “Do you? That’s a strange remark for you to make after the drama you have always injected into your accounts of my cases.”

  “But that’s a very different thing. In this instance …”

  “I saw no point in forcing Miss Tillett to go through the whole painful story twice, so I arranged to have Andrew there when she first told it.”

  “Hmm. I must admit that it did work out well. Though I can’t help wondering what will happen now.”

  “In what respect?”

  “Well, as far as the Wigginses are concerned, for instance. It’s clear that Andrew means a great deal to Screamer.”

  “And she to him. What will happen lies more in your province—that of the novelist—than mine. But I think I can predict that they will continue to see one another. When Andrew’s mother hears the whole story of his adventures, I’m certain she will recognize the debt she owes Screamer and the Wigginses.”

  “I think you’re probably right.”

  “I’m sure I am. Which leaves us with only one problem.”

  “What is that?”

  “The fact that I have no problem, nothing to occupy my mind until another case comes along.” He glanced at his companion. “May I ask what it is that you are humming?”

  “If you were anything of a Savoyard, you would recognize it.”

  “I suspect you intend it to be the Policemen’s chorus from The Pirates of Penzance.”

  “Exactly. And, with apologies to Mr. Gilbert, I was thinking … ‘When constabulary duty has been done, has been done, a detective’s life is not a happy one’.”

  “I have remarked before on what I suppose can be called your sense of humor, Watson. But I hope you are not under the illusion that humor and wit are the same thing.”

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Andrew Tillet, Sara Wiggins & Inspector Wyatt series

  1

  The Surprising Constable

  Andrew’s train arrived at Paddington at a little after two. The first person he saw when he looked out of the compartment window was Sara, better known as Screamer. She was halfway down the platform, near the barrier. He waved to her, she waved back, then people came between them and he lost sight of her. He was travelling with two other boys from school and it took a few minutes before they all got porters. As they started along the platform towards the luggage van, he looked for Sara again, but she was gone.

  “Will you be wanting a cab?” the porter asked Andrew as he put his trunk on a barrow.

  “I’m not sure,” said Andrew. He glanced toward the barrier, and there was Fred, looking taller than he actually was in his uniform. “No, I’m being met.”

  Fred came up as Andrew surrendered his ticket.

  “Good afternoon, Master Andrew,” he said, touching the cockade on his shiny top hat.

  “Good afternoon, Fred.” He turned to the boys who had travelled down with him. “Can I take you anywhere?”

  “You’re for St. John’s Wood, aren’t you?” said Bragaw, the older of the two.

  “Yes.”

  “We’re going the other way, Belgravia and Kensington. Thanks, but we’ll take a growler.”

  “Right. See you in September.”

  Andrew watched them go off, then said to Fred, “Didn’t I see Sara out on the platform?”

  “Probably. She was out there.”

  “Well, where did she go?”

  “I don’t know. She must be around someplace.”

  Fred had been a jockey—and a good one—before he became a coachman. This gave him a fairly high opinion of himself. As a result, though he was respectful to Andrew’s mother, whom he admired enormously, he was very offhand with everyone else.

 
; “This way, mate,” he said to the porter.

  As they moved off towards the exit, Sara reappeared from behind a column.

  “There you are,” said Andrew. “What was the idea of disappearing that way?”

  “You were with someone.”

  “Two boys from school. What of it?”

  She shrugged.

  “That’s no answer. Did you feel shy about meeting them?”

  “I’m not shy about meeting anyone!” she said hotly. “I thought you might feel funny about introducing me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you told me how almost everyone at that precious school of yours felt about having anything to do with girls—even sisters. And sometimes even mothers.”

  “That’s true. I did say something about that. But I’m not almost everyone. I’m me.”

  “And so of course you wouldn’t have minded.” Her statement was intended to be crushingly ironic, but there was a note of uncertainty in it.

  “No, I wouldn’t.”

  When the train had pulled in under the iron and glass roof of the station, Andrew had found himself comparing that arrival with the one a little less than a year before when he had come to London for the first time. He had known no one then, and London had been a frightening place. Now it was home.

  But great as that change had been, the one that had taken place in Sara had been just as great and even more dramatic. When he had first met her, she had been a waiflike street urchin who spoke such broad Cockney that he could barely understand her. Now her speech was even more careful than his—that was Andrew’s mother’s doing—and in her straw hat and white muslin dress she looked as if she’d stepped out of a Gainsborough painting. Much as he liked the way she looked, however, he hoped she wasn’t too changed in other ways. For there were too many things about the old Sara—or rather Screamer—that he had admired.

  Flushing a little under his scrutiny, she said, “Got your eye full?”

  He grinned. Those were the first words she had said to him when he had stared at her in front of Sherlock Holmes’s lodgings on Baker Street—and she said them now as she had said them then—aggressively and nasally.