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

by Robert Newman

  Fred told him that they had a new horse—a three-year-old hunter that Fred had picked out himself—which Andrew’s mother rode several mornings a week. Andrew could ride it when she didn’t and, if they wanted to ride together, Fred had arranged to borrow a gelding from the marchioness’s groom who, like almost everyone in the area, seemed to be a pal of Fred’s.

  They arrived at the theatre, which was on the Strand, at a few minutes before six. The marquee already said: Verna Tillett in THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER. This gave Andrew a queer feeling but did not affect him as much as the posters on either side of the theatre entrance that carried large pictures of his mother. Fred took him around to the stage door and introduced him to the watchman, who touched his cap and conducted him along the dusty corridor that smelled of paint to his mother’s dressing room. He knocked and when she responded, he opened the door and went in.

  She was sitting at her dressing table with her back to him, but she was looking up, waiting, and their eyes met in the mirror. Before this she had always been rather tentative, studying him to determine whether he would object before she kissed him. But their separation since the Christmas holidays had been the longest they’d had since they had found one another and this time she did not wait. She rose, turned and embraced him.

  “It’s good to see you again,” she said.

  “It’s good to see you.”

  She held him at arm’s length. “How are you?”

  “Fine. And you?”

  “Fine too. You’ve grown since I last saw you. You’re as tall as I am now.”

  “I think I am.”

  There was a discreet cough and they both looked at the man who stood in the corner of the room. He was grey-haired, but his face was young and he was slim and very elegant in his cape and evening clothes.

  “I’m sorry,” said Verna. “Darling, I don’t think you know Mr. Harrison, the theatre manager. My son, Andrew.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Andrew.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, sir.”

  “I’ve heard a great deal about you, and I’m delighted that you’ll be here for your mother’s opening.”

  “He’s not coming to the opening!” said Verna.

  “He’s not?”

  “Certainly not. He’s never seen me on stage and I’m going to be nervous enough tomorrow night without having him here. He and Sara can come some night next week if the play’s still running then.”

  “It’ll be running, not just next week and next month, but next year. Your mother’s absolutely splendid,” he said to Andrew. “I’m very proud to be presenting her.”

  “You can see why Lawrence is so successful,” said Verna to Andrew. Then to Harrison, “You’re sure about tonight?”

  “Positive. The few places I wasn’t entirely happy about involved Fanny and Rupert, but not you. I’m going in to talk to them now. You have your supper with Andrew, then go home and I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

  “One usually works until very late before an opening,” she explained to Andrew. “And I was determined to see you even if we had to have supper sent in. But the dress went well enough so that we can go out.”

  “It went so well that I’m worried,” said Harrison. “You know that a bad dress means a good performance and vice versa.”

  “Don’t be so superstitious,” said Verna.

  “Can’t help it. Where are you eating, by the way?”

  “I think Rule’s.”

  “Oh. I have an appointment at the Savoy. But then you probably want to be alone with Andrew.”

  “I certainly do.”

  “Until tomorrow then.”

  He said good night to them both and left. Verna glanced in the mirror, wiped a last trace of powder from her face and said, “Did you have tea?”

  “No.”

  “You must be starved. We’ll go right out.”

  Andrew helped her on with her cloak and they went out, saying good night to the watchman who opened the door for them. Fred saluted Verna as if she were royalty, drove them the short distance to the restaurant.

  Though Andrew had never been to Rule’s before, he knew it was the oldest theatrical restaurant in London, and it was obvious that Verna was known there, for the head waiter greeted her as deferentially as Fred had and showed them to a booth under a portrait of Mrs. Siddons as Lady Macbeth. They ordered prawns and grilled mutton chops with fresh strawberries to follow, then Verna said, “Now tell me everything that’s happened since I saw you last.”

  “Nothing very much happened. I’d rather hear about you.”

  “There’s plenty of time for that. Why do you say nothing happened? You had a good cricket season, didn’t you?”

  “Fairly good. We won five out of six matches.”

  Andrew had meant what he said: he did not feel that anything particularly interesting had happened during the time that he had been away and he had not intended to talk about either cricket or school. But Verna’s questions were so pertinent and her responses so genuine that before he knew it he was telling her about both and a great many other things beside. They had just finished their chops and Verna was smiling at his account of a Latin class for which no one was prepared, when a striking-looking man entered the restaurant. He was tall and thin, with reddish hair and a short red beard, and he was wearing a tweed Norfolk jacket. He started toward the rear of the restaurant, saw Verna and paused at their table.

  “Miss Tillett,” he said with a slight Irish accent.

  “Good evening, Mr. Shaw.”

  “And who is my rival?” he asked, fixing Andrew with a bright blue eye.

  “My son, Andrew.”

  “Oh? Good evening, Andrew.”

  “Good evening, sir.”

  “I didn’t realize that you were married,” he said to Verna.

  “I’m not.”

  “Sorry. If you insist on being a purist, I didn’t realize that you had been married.”

  “I wasn’t being a purist. I was stating a fact—which is that I am neither a widow nor a divorcée.”

  The bearded man looked at her with quiet admiration, then turned to Andrew.

  “Are you aware, Andrew,” he said, “that your mother is one of the most interesting women in London?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good for you. It’s the kind of perception I would expect from her son. As for you, Miss Tillett, may I inform you that though the theatre is not my usual sphere of activity, I have asked to be allowed to review your play tomorrow night.”

  “I’m flattered, though I’m afraid your talent will be wasted. Mr. Howard, the playwright, is not exactly Ibsen.”

  “My talents will not be wasted because I expect yours to be conspicuous. As for the play, I doubt that you will find one worthy of you till I write it myself.”

  “And will that be soon?”

  “Now that I have found my heroine, a true ‘new woman,’ it may be. Good night—and good luck tomorrow night.” Bowing, he went on.

  “Do you have a good memory, Andrew?” asked Verna.

  “Fairly good.”

  “Then remember this moment. For you have just met the cleverest man in London, probably in England.”

  “Mr. Shaw?”

  “George Bernard Shaw.”

  “And he writes about the theatre?”

  “He hasn’t so far. He has written brilliant art and music criticism for the Star and the World, but we’ve talked about the theatre several times and I’m fascinated by the thought that he’s going to review my play. Because I’m convinced that it’s in the theatre that he’s going to make his name.”

  Andrew nodded. He had liked Mr. Shaw, who had treated him like an adult. But what he had liked most about him was his obvious and sincere admiration of Verna; admiration that Andrew shared. For how many women were there who, without explanation or embarrassment, would insist on making it clear that they were not and never had been married?

  Not that Andrew had always been so understanding.
When he had first heard the story of his father’s death, it had created serious problems for him and he had had even more serious difficulties in accepting the fact of his illegitimacy. But, in the end, he had accepted it, and that was one of the reasons he and his mother were now so close. However, that was also the reason he had no close friends at school. He not only felt he was different from most boys his age, he found that many of his ideas were different from theirs. For instance, he did not mind espousing unpopular causes and on most issues he sided with the underdog. If he had been less secure, less bright in his studies and less of a cricket player, all this would have made him seem like a very odd fish indeed. But, as it was, it made him all the more interesting to the other boys and to the masters.

  By the time they had finished their strawberries, the excitement and fatigue of the long day had begun to catch up with Andrew. Verna noticed it, called for the bill, and they left. Fred, waiting outside in Maiden Lane, drove them home, and Matson let them in. By that time Andrew had recovered somewhat and insisted that he would like to stay up and talk, but now Verna claimed that she was tired—she had a long and difficult day ahead of her—and so they said good night. Andrew fell asleep almost immediately. He woke once during the night, wondering what time it was, heard the grandfather clock out on the landing strike two and prepared to go to sleep again when he heard something else: a faint but clear whistle somewhere outside, probably near where the wall of Three Oaks abutted on their garden. He had a feeling that perhaps he should get up, see who was whistling and why, but before he could do so he fell asleep again.

  3

  The Denham Diamonds

  Andrew had breakfast alone the next morning, helping himself to bacon and eggs from the silver dishes on the buffet and eating at the round table that overlooked the garden. He was feeling very adult and worldly, for the morning paper, neatly folded, had been put next to his place, and though he never looked at it at other times, he was reading it when Sara came in.

  “Good morning,” he said. “Had breakfast?”

  “Hours ago with mum.” She didn’t come any closer, stood just inside the doorway, looking at him oddly.

  “Anything wrong?”

  “No. It’s just that I’ve only seen grown-ups read the paper before this. My father used to when he was still alive. And Matson and Fred do here.”

  “If Fred reads anything, it’s the racing results. But I’m sure my mother reads it, too.”

  “I guess she does. Mum puts The Times on the tray when Annie takes it up to her. But since she always has breakfast in her room”… She edged closer to the table. “Is there anything in it?”

  “Lot’s of things. But,” he nodded toward the article he had been reading, “this is particularly interesting.”

  “What is it?”

  “A story about that missing girl Constable Wyatt told us about yesterday.”

  “Read it to me.”

  “Come on, Sara. You can read it yourself. Mother tells me you’re doing very well in school.”

  “All right. Let’s see.”

  She took the paper and looked at the story he had indicated. It was captioned Missing Girl Traced to St. John’s Wood.

  “A spokesman for the Metropolitan Police has announced that Lily Snyder, missing since Monday, has been traced to St. John’s Wood. A cabman has been found who remembers taking her to Wellington Road and St. John’s Wood High Street at about six o’clock in the evening. It is possible that she made other visits to the vicinity for another cab driver has informed the police that he took a woman answering to her description to the same area about a week before. Miss Snyder, twenty-one years old, brown-haired and attractive, worked as a waitress at the Cafe de Paris in Leicester Square and also occasionally posed for artists as a model. Though most of London’s best known painters and sculptors live in Chelsea, a few live in St. John’s Wood.

  “In a meeting with reporters at Scotland Yard, Miss Snyder’s mother, Mrs. Maggie Snyder, said, ‘Lily may have posed for artists, but she was a good girl. She never posed in the altogether.’”

  “What does that mean?” asked Sara. “‘In the altogether?’”

  “Without any clothes on.”

  “That’s what I thought,” said Sara. She went on with the story:

  “Mrs. Snyder was very critical of the police, saying, ‘If Lily wasn’t a working girl—if she came from Mayfair or Belgravia instead of Clerkenwell—the police would have stirred themselves a bit more to find her.’ Inspector Finch, in charge of the case, denied this, saying, ‘If she were a duchess’s daughter we couldn’t be trying harder to find her or discover what happened to her.’”

  “What do you think happened to her?” asked Sara, putting down the paper. “Kidnapped by white slavers?”

  “What do you know about white slavers?” asked Andrew.

  “Probably more than you do. Don’t forget I grew up in Dingell’s Court, and we had some pretty rough judies around there.”

  “Yes, I know you did.” He looked up as Matson came in and paused, waiting discreetly just inside the door. “Did you want me, Matson?”

  “Yes, Master Andrew. Your mother wished me to request you to join her upstairs after you’ve finished your breakfast. She’d like you to come up too, Miss Sara.”

  “Thank you, Matson. We’ll go right up.” Matson bowed and withdrew. “I didn’t think she was up yet. She doesn’t usually get up this early, does she?”

  “No,” said Sara. “But someone came to see her a little while ago. A man from Hunt and Roskell.”

  “The jewelers?”

  “I don’t know. I just heard him say who he was to Matson before Matson took him up.”

  They went up the stairs to Verna’s suite, which extended across the whole front of the house. As they reached the landing, the door of her sitting room opened and a dapper, middle-aged man in a morning coat came out.

  “Then I shall see you tomorrow at about noon,” he said to Verna.

  “Yes, Mr. Jenkins. Thank you.”

  “No, Miss Tillett. Thank you.”

  He bowed to her, to Andrew and Sara and then went down the stairs. Verna, wearing a pink silk robe with a marabou collar, was sitting at a small table near the window.

  “Come in, you two,” she said.

  “Good morning, Mother,” said Andrew. “I wasn’t sure …” He broke off, staring, and Sara, standing next to him, gasped. There was a morocco jewel case on the table, and in front of it was a glittering mound of jewels.

  “What’s that?” asked Andrew.

  “These?” said Verna. “They’re what Mr. Jenkins brought.” And she held up, first, a diamond and pearl tiara, then a diamond necklace with earrings to match.

  “Are they real?” asked Sara.

  “Yes, Sara. They’re the Denham diamonds and quite famous.”

  “And you bought them?” said Andrew.

  “Good heavens, no! They’re not my style at all. Why would I want them?”

  “Then I don’t understand …”

  “They’re for the play. There’s a scene where the young marquis insists that I try on the family jewels and, since Hunt and Roskell made the original settings for the Denham diamonds, Harrison had them make paste copies for me to use.”

  “But you said these were real,” said Sara.

  “They are. Harrison is giving a party at Claridge’s tonight after the opening, and he thought, for an occasion like that, I should wear the originals rather than copies.”

  “But isn’t it a little dangerous?” asked Andrew. “I mean, if anything happened to them …”

  “I know. And I didn’t like the idea, but Harrison insisted. He’s taken out special insurance to cover them and also hired a detective to keep his eye on them at the theatre and afterwards at the party.”

  “And in the meantime?” asked Sara.

  “In the meantime, as far as anyone except the two of you know, these are the copies that Mr. Jenkins brought me. I don’t think we’ll eve
n tell your mother the truth, Sara, because it would worry her.”

  “It’s worrying me,” said Sara, her eyes large.

  “Well, I refuse to let it worry me,” said Verna. “If it’s that important to Harrison, he can worry about it. But that’s not why I asked the two of you to come up here. Did you have any plans for this afternoon?”

  “Well, we had talked of going to the zoo,” said Andrew. “Why?”

  “You probably know what’s happening next door, the marchioness’s open house.” Andrew nodded. “Well, I’m going, and I’d like the two of you to go with me.”

  “But that would be another quid apiece!” said Sara. Then, as Verna smiled, “I mean a pound.”

  “Well, it is for charity. I don’t expect to stay long. I’ll just stop in for a while before I go to the theatre, and you can either leave when I do or soon after.”

  “Of course, Mother,” said Andrew. “What time did you plan to go?”

  “About three thirty.”

  “Fine.”

  It was a little later than that before they were settled in the landau; Verna in a lavender taffeta dress, wearing a large straw hat and carrying a parasol, Sara in her white muslin, and Andrew in a dark blue jacket and trousers. Fred drove down the driveway, turned left on Rysdale Road and along it to the entrance to Three Oaks. There was a policeman at the gate, who saluted as they turned in. They drove through the landscaped grounds, past the small lake, the formal gardens and the terraces to the large and imposing Italianate house. There was another policeman under the porte-cochere and a footman in a white wig, knee-breeches and a tailcoat with brass buttons. When the landau stopped, he opened the door and helped Verna and Sara out. As Andrew got out, he saw that the policeman was Constable Wyatt, who looked at him impassively as policemen generally do, then spoiled the effect by winking.

  Verna told Fred to come back for her at four thirty, and he touched his hat and drove off. As he did, a shiny double Victoria pulled in under the porte-cochere. Again the footman moved forward. Verna and Sara started into the house, and Andrew turned to smile at Wyatt before following them, then paused. The policeman had stiffened, color had come into his cheeks, and he was staring at the occupants of the carriage; a distinguished elderly gentleman with a bristling white mustache, a younger man in a military uniform and a young and attractive woman. The elderly man waved the footman aside impatiently, helped the young woman out of the carriage himself. Then he saw Wyatt.