“That’s what I think, too,” said Sara. “That he’s terribly worried, terribly afraid of something. But if that’s so, why is he against seeing a doctor?”
“Because if the doctor’s any good,” said Andrew, “he’ll know he’s not really sick. He’ll know that there’s something scaring him, and he’ll want to know what it is.”
“I think you’re right,” said Sean. “Was there a particular doctor you were thinking of bringing in?”
“Yes. Dr. Reeves of St. Mary’s Hospital. He’s a friend of Peter’s, and he’s heard about Beasley from Peter and from us.”
“Is he the doctor who took care of the old man we smuggled out of the house on Sherburne Square?”
“Yes.”
“From what I heard, he should be able to handle anything,” said Sean. “Even Beasley.”
“He will,” said Sara. “But he’s going to ask even more questions than we have. For instance, do you have any idea what he’s frightened of?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“You know?”
“I wouldn’t say I know, but I’ll lay you a Brummagem sixpence to all of Lombard Street that that statue had something to do with it!”
“What statue’s that?” asked Andrew.
“He had it in the shop about a month ago. It was an Indian statue of Kali. Do you know who that is?”
“Yes,” said Andrew. “She was the wife of Shiva and was known as the Destroyer.”
“And she looked it! Four arms she had. Blood on her mouth and hands, fangs like a tiger, and a necklace of skulls. Fair gave me the jimjams, she did, just to look at her.”
“Where did Beasley get it?” asked Sara.
“I don’t know. He wouldn’t say.”
“Is it still in the shop?”
“No.”
“Where is it then?” asked Andrew.
“I don’t know that either. He had it in the window for a while and suddenly it was gone. When I asked him what had happened to it, he told me to mind my own business.”
“Maybe he sold it,” said Andrew.
“No, no. I keep the books, and it would have been written down if he’d sold it. It just disappeared.”
“And you think the statue had something to do with his being sick?” said Sara.
“Well, it was after he got it that he started acting scared and funny.”
“Are you saying you think there was a curse on the statue?” said Sara, her eyes wide and a little frightened.
“Maybe,” said Sean. “Maybe it was stolen and the priests wanted it back.”
“But if it’s gone, why should Beasley still be frightened?” asked Andrew.
“I don’t know. Maybe he didn’t give it back to them. And, even if he did, maybe they’re still angry at him. All I know is that I’ll give you odds that that statue had something to do with what’s happening to him!”
3
Dr. Reeves
“Of course I remember you,” said Dr. Reeves. “You’re friends of Peter Wyatt. We met during that very strange affair with old Benedict Cortland. You went to school with his grandson, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” said Andrew. “And I still do.”
“I saw the old gentleman the other day at the club. I must say he seemed fine. And of course I heard some perfectly splendid news about Peter. Married your mother, didn’t he?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, that makes him a bit more than a friend of yours. Is he still away?”
“Yes, sir. On the continent. But they should be back very soon.”
“I’ve been meaning to write him a note of congratulation. About time he was married. And I gather your mother is not only beautiful and a fine actress, but a wonderful woman.”
“She is,” said Sara emphatically. “She’s the most wonderful woman I’ve ever known.”
“Well, I’m glad to have that confirmed by someone disinterested,” said Dr. Reeves, smiling. “Now, what can I do for you?”
“We wondered if you could come and look at a friend of Peter’s and ours. We’re very worried about him. His name’s Beasley, and he doesn’t live too far from here.”
“Beasley. Was he the chap who winkled old Mr. Cortland out of his daughter-in-law’s house by pretending it was on fire and brought him here to the hospital so I could treat him?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Smart piece of work that was. I always wanted to meet him. What seems to be his trouble?”
“Well, he claims it’s nothing—a touch of the Spanish influenza—and says he doesn’t want to see a doctor. But we think it’s a lot more than that.”
“From what I know of you, I’m sure you wouldn’t say that without reason. Yes, of course I’ll come to see him. I’ve finished rounds here. Just let me give these charts and some instructions to Sister Wingate and we’ll go.”
It was now late in the afternoon, almost four o’clock. They had gone over to Dr. Reeves’ surgery on Wimpole Street and found that he was not going to be there that day. He was out on calls, but he would be at St. Mary’s Hospital at two. Since they were not too far away, they stopped in at the British Museum, thinking they might find out something about the statue of Kali, but they discovered that there were almost no Indian artifacts there. They were all in the Indian Section of the Victoria and Albert Museum. So they had lunch in the museum’s refreshment room and then went over to St. Mary’s and were waiting on the second floor of the hospital when Dr. Reeves came down the corridor from the men’s ward.
“All right,” he said, rejoining them. “Now where is your friend Beasley?”
He nodded when they told him, led them downstairs to where his carriage was waiting, and a few minutes later they were at Beasley’s house.
Sean, looking even more worried than before, let them in.
“How is he?” asked Andrew after they had introduced him to Dr. Reeves.
“Not good. In fact, I think he’s even worse than he was.”
“In what way?” asked Dr. Reeves.
“He’s not making sense. I’m afraid he’s out of his head.”
“You mean he’s delirious?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Where is he?”
“I’ll show you.”
Sean led the way upstairs, and Sara and Andrew followed behind Dr. Reeves. Beasley was hunched up in one corner of the bed, not exactly sitting up, but not lying down either.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Beasley,” said the doctor crisply. “I’m Dr. Reeves. We’ve never met, but I believe you’ve heard of me.”
Beasley looked at him with dull, sunken eyes and muttered something.
“I’m sorry. I’m afraid I didn’t hear you,” said Dr. Reeves. Beasley didn’t even mutter this time. He grunted.
“It would be helpful if you told me how you feel, Mr. Beasley. Do you have any particular pains? Do you have a headache, for instance?”
Beasley stared at him without saying anything. Dr. Reeves felt his forehead, bent down and looked at his eyes, then took out his stethoscope.
“I think the two of you should wait downstairs,” he said to Sara and Andrew. “I won’t be too long. But I’d like you to stay in case I need some help with him,” he said to Sean.
“Yes, doctor,” said Sean.
Dr. Reeves was listening to Beasley’s chest as Sara and Andrew went out and down the stairs. In spite of the fact that there were several chairs and sofas in the parlor, it was hard to find a place to sit because there were boxes and books piled on everything. Andrew lifted a bound set of the Proceedings of the Royal Society off an armchair so that Sara could sit and sat down on a packing case himself. They waited in silence, and Andrew knew that Sara was as upset at what was happening as he was—and for the same reason. Because nothing could be more unlike the buoyant, wryly humorous, self-sufficient Beasley than the weak and frightened man they had left upstairs.
When Dr. Reeves, followed by Sean, came into the room about fifteen minutes later, he loo
ked grave.
“What do you think, doctor?” asked Sara.
“I don’t know what to think—except that I’m quite sure it’s not influenza. He doesn’t really have a fever—not more than a degree or two—so he’s not delirious. But still he’s certainly not rational. In addition to that, he seems to be frightened of something.”
“That’s what we thought,” said Sean. “He fell asleep just before you came, and in his sleep he started saying, ‘No! No, I won’t! Never!’”
“He’s going to be all right though, isn’t he, doctor?” asked Andrew.
“I think so. I’d feel better if I could make a firm diagnosis, but it’s hard to do that when he’s not responsive, won’t talk to me and tell me some of the things I’d like to know. However, I’ve written a prescription for something I’d like him to start taking immediately. Is there a chemist near who can fill it?” he asked Sean. “Or would you like me to take you back to the hospital and have the pharmacist there make it up for you?”
“There’s one in Pembridge Road,” said Sean. “The thing is, old Beasley shouldn’t be left alone, should he?”
“No, he shouldn’t.”
“We’ll stay with him while you take care of the prescription,” said Sara. “We didn’t say what time we’d be home, and anyway mother never worries when I’m with Andrew.”
“That’s fine, then,” said Sean. “And while I’m at it, if you don’t mind, I’d like to take care of a few things at the shop. But I should be back here by five.”
“That will get us home in plenty of time,” said Andrew. “Have you any instructions for us in the meantime, sir?” he asked the doctor.
“No. Keep him quiet, give him all the liquids he wants, and I’ll stop by to see if he’s any better tomorrow.”
Sean and Dr. Reeves left together, and Sara and Andrew went back upstairs to Beasley’s room. The fog that had been moving in since morning was getting thicker, settling down over the city and gradually obscuring the garden outside the window. Beasley, sitting up in bed, was looking at the fog with a puzzled expression.
“Sean had to go out,” said Sara matter-of-factly, “but we’re going to stay with you. Is there anything you’d like while we’re waiting for him to get back—some tea, for instance?”
Beasley nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Tea.”
“I’ll go make it,” she said and went downstairs.
“Sean went to get you some medicine,” said Andrew. “But, in the meantime, how do you feel? Any better?”
“Maybe a little,” said Beasley.
“You look and sound better. Do you know who I am?”
“Of course. Andrew.”
“That’s good. That’s very good.”
“What’s good about it? Stop treating me like an invalid or a blooming idiot!”
Andrew smiled. It was the first sign they’d had of the old, normal Beasley, and it made him feel more hopeful than he’d been all day. He was still smiling when Sara came back to the room with the tea.
Sean finished printing the sign that said the shop would be closed until further notice and hung it in the window. Then, picking up the package that he had been wrapping, he closed the door and hurried off to the post office. It had been very much on his mind, for the customer to whom it was addressed was a very good customer and he was sure that Sara and Andrew would not mind if he took a few minutes to send it off to him.
As it happened, the post office was crowded and it took more than the few minutes he had thought it would. Then he went back to the chemist’s. Dr. Reeves’ prescription wasn’t quite ready, and he had to wait there, too, but it was still only ten to five and even though the fog had gotten quite thick—the kind they called a London Particular because you couldn’t find one like it anywhere else—he thought he should be back at the house by five as he had promised.
He hurried back up Portobello Road, avoiding the rare pedestrian more by instinct than sight, for by now he couldn’t see more than three or four feet ahead of him in the yellowish murk that obscured everything, turning the glow of the gaslights into faintly seen, watery moons.
As he turned north and walked on, his footsteps echoing hollowly in the damp air, he marveled at how much better he felt than he had that morning, principally because of the arrival of Sara and Andrew. Until they came, he had been completely alone, not only for the physical care of Beasley, but alone in his concern about him, too. But now, that was all changed. Sara and Andrew were almost as fond of Beasley as he was. Not only that, but they had been able to do something he hadn’t—bring in a doctor who could tell them if what was wrong with Beasley was physical as Beasley claimed or something else.
Sean had reached the builder’s yard by now and was walking along the board fence that enclosed it. The yard was closed. It had been closed for several weeks; but as he reached the gate, he had the impression that it was slightly ajar. Had a watchman opened it? He didn’t recall having seen a watchman there before, but he hadn’t really paid much attention to it. He glanced across the street at the house, noticing that there was a light on in the parlor. He hoped that he wasn’t too late—that Sara and Andrew weren’t getting impatient—then, as he started across the street, he heard sudden light footsteps behind him. He turned, caught a glimpse of a crouching figure coming toward him out of the fog. As he peered at it, trying to make out who or what it was, footsteps approached him from the other side. Something struck the back of his head, his knees buckled, and he pitched forward and lay still, half on the pavement and half in the gutter.
4
Terror in the Garden
“What time is it?” asked Sara.
“A quarter after five,” said Andrew, looking at his watch.
“Oh. Sean’s late.”
“Yes, he is.” He walked over to the window and looked out into the street. “The fog’s gotten thicker. Maybe that held him up.”
“Maybe.”
They were downstairs in the cluttered parlor. Beasley had fallen asleep a short while before and they had come downstairs, afraid that their presence in the small bedroom might disturb him.
“I wonder if I should go out and look for him,” Andrew said.
“It’s not that late. If he gets here in the next half hour, we can still get home before Mum is likely to start worrying about us.”
“I know. But I’m getting a little worried myself. It’s not like Sean to say he’ll be back by five and not be here.”
“No, it’s not. If you want to go look for him, go ahead. But don’t stay out too long.”
Putting on his hat and mackintosh, Andrew went out. Something was happening at the rooming house next door—the door was open, and people were talking and coming out—but he paid no attention to it. The truth was that although Andrew was a bit worried about Sean, he had also been finding it difficult to remain in a stuffy house all afternoon doing nothing, and he was very anxious to get out. He walked as quickly as he could over to Portobello Road and along it to Beasley’s shop. It was closed, and there was a sign in the window that said it would remain closed until further notice. That meant Sean had been there. Had he been to the chemist’s, too? Andrew wasn’t sure exactly where that was and, remembering Sara’s request that he not stay out too long, he turned and went back. There was no traffic moving at all, and he only came across two pedestrians moving cautiously through the fog. That may have been why he paused when a stout woman wrapped in a shawl and carrying a carpetbag came out of the boardinghouse next door to Beasley’s. She stopped, too.
“You ain’t going in there, to old Beasley’s house, are you?” she asked.
“Yes, I am. Why?”
“Don’t you know what’s going on in there? Beasley’s got the cholera!”
“Cholera?”
“Yes. About the worst sickness you can get—once you get it, you’re sure to die. That’s why I’m getting out of here—me and everyone else here in the house!” and she pulled the door shut and locked it.
�
��Who told you that, that Beasley had cholera?”
“Why, the doctor. He knocked at my door and said even though we weren’t in the same house, it was still dangerous and we ought to leave and stay away until poor Mr. Beasley was taken away.”
“What doctor was that? What was his name?”
“I don’t know what his name was. He was dark and kind of foreign, and—” She broke off, peering at Andrew. “Wait a minute. Didn’t I see you coming out of Beasley’s house before?”
“Yes.”
“You was in there! You probably got the cholera, too! And I been standing here talking to you! Ow-ooh!” And with a cry that was half a moan and half a screech, she went waddling off into the fog.
Andrew stared after her, then knocked on Beasley’s door. Sara must have been waiting for him, for she let him in at once.
“Any sign of Sean?” she asked.
“No. He’d been at the shop—he put a notice in the window that it was closed—but he wasn’t there when I got there.”
“That’s strange.”
“That’s not all that’s strange,” he said, and he told her of his encounter with the woman, who was probably the landlady of the boardinghouse next door.
“Cholera!” she said. “Beasley doesn’t have cholera! If Dr. Reeves had the faintest suspicion he had anything like that, he never would have let us stay here.”
“Of course he wouldn’t. But the man who spoke to her wasn’t Dr. Reeves. We can’t even be sure that he was a doctor.”
“Who was he then? And why did he say it?”
“I don’t know who he was, but I can think of one reason why he said it. To get the people next door to leave.”
“But why?” Then, answering her own question, “You mean, because of something that’s going to happen here?”
“Isn’t that possible—that someone doesn’t want any witnesses, doesn’t want anyone to see or hear something?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “I think I figured something out while you were gone. But now … I’m not sure I ought to tell you about it.”
The Case of the Indian Curse (Andrew Tillet, Sara Wiggins & Inspector Wyatt Book 8) Page 2
