“Of course you should. What is it?”
“It’s about that statue that Sean talked about—the statue of Kali that Beasley had. I wondered if it might be in the house somewhere, and I started looking around and found something interesting.”
She led him to a large wardrobe in the middle of one of the parlor’s long walls. There were packing cases on both sides of it, but Sara pulled one aside and pointed down. There, in the dust on the floor, were two parallel scratches.
“That wardrobe’s been moved lately,” said Andrew.
“That’s what I thought. Do you think something—the statue, for instance—is hidden underneath it?”
“Let’s move it ourselves and see.”
Going to the side of the wardrobe, both of them pushed on it, and it slid to where the packing case had been. They looked down, and at first they couldn’t see anything. Then Andrew went into the kitchen and got a knife, pushed the point down between two of the floorboards, and levered up. One of the boards lifted, Andrew picked it up, and there, in a hollow under the floor, was the statue Sean had told them about.
It was everything he had said it was and more: more beautiful and much, much more frightening. It was a little over two feet tall, carved out of wood, and painted so that the blood on its four hands and its open mouth was unmistakable. The necklace of skulls was bone-white, and the robe that covered the graceful, dancing body was a dusty gray. Andrew had a feeling that it was quite old. But old or not, there was no question about the effect it had on them, for they were both shaken by it.
“Well,” said Andrew, his voice a little uncertain, “I know what Sean was talking about when he said it gave him the jimjams.”
Sara nodded. “I wish I hadn’t thought of looking for it. That I’d never seen it.”
“Well, there’s no harm done. We’ll put it away and forget about it.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever forget about it. I’m sure I’m going to dream about it, and—” she clutched Andrew’s arm. “What’s that?”
At first he did not know what she was talking about. Then he heard it too: a faint, musical chiming like the tinkling of tiny bells and, with it and over it, a kind of humming chant.
“Does it have something to do with this—the statue?” whispered Sara.
“I don’t know.”
They had not picked the statue up, but merely looked at it as it lay there in its hiding place under the floor. Now, working quickly, Andrew dropped the board down over it, covering it, and together they moved the wardrobe back so that it concealed the place where the statue was hidden. But the faint chiming continued, and so did the chanting, and as they stepped back, away from the wardrobe, they heard something else: a faint cry and the sound of movement upstairs.
“That’s Beasley!” said Andrew.
They hurried out of the parlor, up the stairs, and into Beasley’s bedroom. The first thing they saw when they burst into the room was that their old friend was no longer in bed, but crouched in the farthest corner of the room, his eyes dilated and glazed with fear. The next thing they saw was what had frightened him so, and—as was the case with the statue—they could understand the reason for his fear. For something very odd was taking place out in the foggy garden: strange shapes, glowing with an eerie blue light, were moving, apparently dancing, out there. It was they who were chanting, accompanying their movements with the silvery ringing of tiny temple bells.
“No,” whispered Beasley, huddled in the corner of the room in his long nightgown. “No, no!” And Sara and Andrew both knew that this was what he had been afraid of all along.
“Who are they?” asked Sara. “What do they want?”
As if in answer, the chanting broke off and a sibilant but curiously musical voice called out, drawing out the name.
“Beasley!” it said. “Bee.… eesley! You knew we were coming, and we are here. Come out to us now. Come out!”
“No!” said Beasley again. “No, no!”
“Don’t let them frighten you!” said Andrew. “We won’t let you go out there. And they can’t come in.”
“Yes,” said the voice outside. “Yes, yes, yes, Beasley. You know in whose name we speak—she who must be obeyed—and you must come out to us. You must!”
Like a sleepwalker, Beasley stood up, crossed the room, opened the bedroom door, and started down the stairs.
“Beasley, wait! Come back!” called Sara. “Where are you going?”
“You know where!” said Andrew. “Downstairs and out into the garden. And we’ve got to stop him! Beasley, no! Wait!”
He hurried after their friend, caught up with him when he was halfway down the stairs and took hold of his nightgown; but he might as well have tried to hold back a team of oxen. Slowly and ponderously, Beasley went on down the stairs, turned at the bottom, and started toward the rear of the house and the door that led out into the garden.
Sara had now joined Andrew. Pushing past Beasley, she stood in front of him, hands upraised.
“Listen to me. Please listen to me!” she said earnestly. “You know who we are, don’t you? We’re Sara and Andrew, your friends, and—”
Putting out a large hand, Beasley pushed her aside and continued along the corridor and into the back pantry, where there was a door that led out into the garden.
“Andrew, what are we going to do? We can’t let him go out there!” wailed Sara.
“No,” he said. Now he pushed past the slowly moving Beasley. The key was in the lock of the back door. As Andrew grabbed for it, Beasley’s hand went out and took it away from him. He put it in the lock and turned it, unlocking the door. In addition to the lock, there was a heavy bolt on the door. As Andrew reached for that, determined to keep it bolted no matter what Beasley did, there was a sudden loud knock on the front door.
“Who’s that?” asked Sara.
“I don’t know.”
There was another, even louder knock.
“Hello there! Sean! Andrew! Someone! It’s Dr. Reeves. Open the door and let me in!”
“Dr. Reeves!” said Sara.
“Yes,” said Andrew, using both hands to keep the bolt on the back door closed. “Go let him in. And hurry!”
He fought the seemingly sleepwalking Beasley, pushing his hands away, shoving him back, while Sara flew down the hall and opened the front door. A moment later both the doctor and his coachman came running along the hall to the pantry.
“Well, what’s all this?” said Reeves sharply, taking hold of Beasley. “Shouldn’t be out of bed, old chap. Certainly shouldn’t be down here. You’re a sick man.”
“We tried to stop him,” said Andrew. “He wanted to go out there, into the garden. There’s something out there.”
“So Sara said.” Reeves glanced out into the garden, but the dancing shapes and the eerie lights were gone and all was quiet. “Whoever was there seems to be gone, but we’re not going to take any chances. Help me with him, Charles,” he said to his coachman. “Outside with him and into the carriage. We’re taking him to hospital.”
“Yes, doctor,” said the coachman, taking Beasley by the other arm.
“Doesn’t he need a robe or blanket or something?” asked Andrew.
“Yes. Get the blanket from the bed upstairs. In the meantime, you get both your coats,” he said to Sara. “After we take him to hospital, I’m going to take the two of you home.”
5
Mr. Bannerji
“A Mr. O’Farrell to see you, Master Andrew,” said Matson, coming into the breakfast room. It was late for Sara and Andrew to be eating breakfast—much later than usual—but after the excitement of the previous afternoon and evening, the explanation that was required when Dr. Reeves brought them home, they had gotten to bed very late.
“O’Farrell? I don’t know any Mr. O’Farrell.”
“I believe he is an associate of your friend, Mr. Beasley.”
Matson was a more orthodox butler than Fred was a coachman. He never said more than was absolute
ly necessary, but what he said was always thoughtful and usually correct.
“I’ll bet it’s Sean!” said Sara. “Has he got red hair?”
“Yes, he has, Miss Sara.”
“Then it is Sean. Please send him in, Matson.”
A moment later Sean came in, a little paler than usual and walking rather stiffly and carefully.
“Sean!” said Sara, running to him and throwing her arms around him. “We’ve been very worried about you. Are you all right?”
“Yes and no,” he said, wincing. “Please don’t joggle me. If you do, I’m afraid my head might fall off.”
“Why?” asked Andrew. “And what happened to you yesterday afternoon?”
“I was coshed.”
“Coshed?”
“Hit on the back of the head with a cosh or a neddie or a sock full of sand.”
“By whom?” asked Sara.
“I wish I knew. I was on my way to the house, just crossing the street from the builder’s yard, when someone came up behind me and bashed me.”
“And you don’t know who it was?” asked Andrew.
“No. Couldn’t see ’em because of the fog, but I suspect there was more than one of them, at least two and maybe three. When I came to, I was lying in a shed in the yard with the grandfather of all headaches. The door had been braced shut, and by the time I got it open and went over to Mr. Beasley’s house, you and he were gone, but I found your note saying the doctor was taking him to hospital.”
“Two or three of them,” said Sara. “They were probably the same gang that gave us such a scare later on.”
“What do you mean?”
They told him everything that had happened, and he whistled softly.
“I told you it had something to do with that statue,” he said.
“You can’t be sure of that,” said Andrew.
He gave Sean a pax sign, indicating he should mind what he said as Sara’s mother bustled in. For of course they had told her very little of what had happened, just enough to explain their lateness. They introduced Sean, and she said she was happy to meet him and was sorry to hear about Mr. Beasley’s illness and hoped he’d be better soon. She asked Sean if he’d had breakfast, and when he said he had, she insisted that he have some tea or coffee anyway and, as a result, it was about twenty minutes before they could get away.
They had arranged for Fred to take them to the hospital. Now, of course, Sean would go with them. He asked if they could stop at the shop on their way as he had suddenly realized that he had left a good deal of money in the till and he was a little worried about it; and they said they did not mind at all.
Fred stopped in front of the shop, and Sara and Andrew got out of the landau with Sean but waited outside while he went into the shop. They were looking in the window of the shop next door—a window that was full of china and old silver—when Whispering Willie, the dustman, drew up in his cart.
“Wotcher, mate,” said Fred. “Am I in your way?”
“Ta, but nix, cully,” wheezed Willie. “I ain’t collecting here today. I just stopped by to see if there was any word on me old chum, Beasley.”
“We’re not sure,” said Sara. “We’re on our way to see him now at St. Mary’s.”
“The ’orspital?”
“That’s right.”
“When’d he go there?”
“Last night.”
“Does that mean he’s worse’n what he was?”
“Not necessarily,” said Andrew. “It just means the doctor wanted him there.”
“I ’opes he knows what he’s doing—the doc, I mean. I don’t ’old with ’orspitals meself. You sometimes gets sicker there than you was when you come in. But will you tell him what I told you yesterday—that old Whispering Willie was asking for him?”
“We certainly will.”
“Ta, then.” He turned to go back to his cart and bumped into a dark, heavyset gentleman who was coming up the street. “Oops-a-daisy! Sorry, guv’ner.”
“You should be sorry!” said the man, flushing angrily. “You dirty, smelly lout!”
“Who’re you calling a dirty louse?” said Willie just as angrily.
“Never mind,” said the man, drawing back as if the very sight of the dustman was offensive. “Please.” And he stood aside to let Willie climb up on to his cart.
“Bloomin’ toff!” muttered Willie. “Our own is bad enough. But furrin ones.…” He spat, shook the reins, and sent the shaggy, slow-moving horse on up the street.
Sean had come out of the shop and joined Sara and Andrew. The three of them were looking at the dark gentleman, and he in turn was looking at them. He was wearing a loosely fitting, sober suit of foreign cut with a cape over it. He carried a whangee-handled umbrella and his hat was black, broad-brimmed, and flat-crowned.
“Excuse me,” the man said to Sean. “You are an associate of Mr. Beasley?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Allow me to introduce myself,” he said in correct but somewhat stilted English. “My name is Bannerji. Gopal Bannerji, formerly of Benares University, presently with the East India Company.” He took out a card case, extracted a card from it, and presented it with a bow to Sean.
Sean read it, then introduced himself. “Sean O’Farrell. And this is Miss Sara Wiggins and Mr. Andrew Tillett, both old friends of Mr. Beasley.”
“There is nothing nicer than old friends,” said Mr. Bannerji, smiling. “Especially when they are so young. Before we go any further, may I apologize to you?”
“For what?” asked Sean.
“My momentary lapse in behavior toward that dustman. Miss Wiggins and Mr. Tillett both frowned during my exchange with him, and I felt I should explain. I am, of course, an Indian. As you probably know, we have a caste system in which the Brahmans are the highest caste and the Untouchables are the lowest. I am a Brahman, and a dustman is an Untouchable. If an Untouchable even comes close to me, I am thought to be defiled. Of course, you here in England have no such beliefs. Did not the Scottish poet, Robert Burns, write a poem that states that a man’s a man for all that? However, the habits of a lifetime are strong. And so, when I was brought into sudden and unexpected contact with the dustman, I reacted as I did. Will you forgive me?”
“I suppose so,” said Sean. “Were you looking for Mr. Beasley?”
“I was. A most intelligent man. I’ve had several interesting chats with him. Is he here?”
“No, he’s not. He’s been sick for several days, and he’s now in St. Mary’s Hospital.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that—very sorry. What’s wrong with him?”
“Well, Beasley himself kept saying it was influenza or some kind of fever, but the doctor wasn’t sure about that. We’re just going over there to see what the word is.”
“Oh, may I come with you? I am not, of course, an associate of his as you are or an old friend as the two young people here are. But as I said I admire him, and I am concerned about him.”
Sean glanced at Sara and Andrew.
“Why, yes,” said Andrew. “I can’t guarantee that you’ll be able to see him. I’m not sure that we’ll be able to ourselves. But you’re welcome to come with us.”
“Thank you,” said Bannerji. “Thank you very much.”
He helped Sara into the carriage, insisted on getting in last himself, and chatted pleasantly all the way to the hospital about how much he liked London and about his work at the East India Company. When they got to the hospital, he made a point of hanging back while Andrew inquired at the admission desk and then led the way upstairs to the ward where they had seen Dr. Reeves the day before. The sister on duty remembered Andrew and Sara, told them to wait, and a few minutes later Dr. Reeves came out. He greeted Sara, Andrew, and Sean and bowed to Mr. Bannerji when he was introduced.
“It’s hard to say how he is,” he said when they asked about Beasley. “On the whole he’s better—quite a bit better—but he’s not completely well yet by any means, and I’m still not sure wha
t’s wrong with him.”
“You’ve no idea at all?” asked Andrew.
“I didn’t say that. I said I wasn’t sure.” He looked at Andrew for a moment, then at Sara and Sean. “I’d like to try something. He doesn’t know me, but he does know the three of you. Come on into the room with me.”
“He knows me, also,” said Mr. Bannerji. “Not well, but slightly. May I come, too?”
“Yes, of course,” said Dr. Reeves.
He led the way down the corridor, opened a door, and ushered them into a small, typical hospital room. Beasley, looking better than he had the day before—and far less anxious—was sitting propped up in bed.
“Well, here’s a sight worth seeing,” said Sean, pretending to be casual but unable to hide either his affection for Beasley or his concern.
“Oh, hello, Sean,” said Beasley in a flat, rather weak voice. “Hello, Sara, Andrew.”
“Then you know these people,” said Dr. Reeves.
“Of course I know them,” said Beasley testily. “Why shouldn’t I know them?”
“There were times yesterday when you didn’t know anything.”
“And do you remember me also, Mr. Beasley?” asked Bannerji.
“Yes, I think so,” said Beasley, studying him. “You’re the Indian who talked to me about the statue of Kali that I had in the window.”
“Kali or Bhowani, yes. When I was there this morning, I noticed it was no longer there.”
“No, I got rid of it.”
“How?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Perhaps that is best.”
“I’d like to ask you about something else,” said Dr. Reeves. “I’d like you to tell me what happened yesterday.”
“You asked me that before,” said Beasley. “And I told you I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember anything at all about it?”
“No.”
“When did you first start feeling ill?”
“Oh, about a week ago.”
“Can you tell me anything significant that happened between that time and yesterday?”
“I don’t know what you mean by significant.”
“Well, Mr. O’Farrell and your two young friends, Sara and Andrew, all claimed that during most of yesterday you seemed very anxious, afraid of something.”
The Case of the Indian Curse (Andrew Tillet, Sara Wiggins & Inspector Wyatt Book 8) Page 3
