“It’s more than a connection,” said Sara. “We’ve not only known him for some time, but just recently he married Andrew’s mother.”
“That was what I heard. They are away at the moment, are they not?”
“Yes,” said Andrew. “But they’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Late tomorrow?”
“No, tomorrow morning, around eleven.”
“Then may I ask a favor of you?” said Bannerji. “As you can tell, I am very concerned about Mr. Beasley. Will you tell the inspector of that concern and also tell him that I have information that makes it imperative that I see him as soon as possible.”
“We’ll tell him,” said Andrew. “How can he get in touch with you?”
“I am at present working with the East India Company,” said Bannerji. “He can reach me there. But since the matter is so urgent, what I will do is stop by at Scotland Yard. If he can see me when I get there, splendid. If not, perhaps he will be good enough to tell me when he can see me.”
“I’m sure he’ll do that,” said Sara. “We’ll tell him he’ll be hearing from you.”
“You are very good,” said Bannerji. “Good and brave and intelligent. With such friends, Beasley cannot possibly come to any harm.”
And, bowing to them, he left.
“So he does know something,” said Sean. “Why couldn’t he tell us what it is?”
“Because he doesn’t really know anything about us,” said Sara. “If it is anything important, he’d want to tell it to someone official.”
“I suppose that’s true,” said Sean. “Well, at least we know he’s on the square. I mean, if he works for the East India Company and wants to see the inspector, he must be all right.”
“He probably is,” said Andrew. “Though I don’t think we can take anything for granted. The question is, what do we do now?”
“It’s almost lunchtime,” said Sara. “Why don’t we have lunch here and then make one more royal try to find Beasley?”
“I’m for the lunch part,” said Sean. “I’m hungry. But where can we look that we haven’t looked already?”
“I think we should try looking where we have looked before—at his house and at the shop. He may have gone to one or the other because he knows we’ve been there already and he won’t expect us to come back.”
“That’s an idea,” said Andrew. “All right. We’ll give it a go.”
And so after lunch—some cold gammon left from last night’s supper—they sent word to Fred that if he felt up to it, they could use the carriage again. He came storming into the house to remind them that the madam—now Mrs. Wyatt—was coming home the next day and, after an absence of several weeks, had a right to expect her carriage to be looking like a royal coach. He had planned to put in the afternoon going over it, and here a pair of lolloping layabouts who could get around perfectly well on their own were expecting him to stop what he was doing, and so on. This was a scene that Sara and Andrew had often played before, and they knew their roles perfectly. So while Sean stared in surprise, the two young people apologized to Fred and told him that they’d take buses; and of course, when they left the house, the landau was waiting for them, looking if not royal, then at least ducal. And Fred’s only question was where they wanted to go first.
They said Beasley’s house, and he took them there. They went in, but there was no sign of Beasley. The people in the boarding house next door, however, appeared to have gotten over their fear and moved back in again.
They then asked Fred if he would take them to the shop, and he did. Sean unlocked the door, and they all went in. Again there was no sign of Beasley. Disappointed, they were just coming out when, with a creaking rumble, a dustman’s cart drew up and, gray with ashes, Whispering Willie came around from the far side of it and up to them.
“Afternoon, Sean,” he said in his hoarse, wheezing voice. “Afternoon, younkers. How goes?”
“Up and down like Tower Bridge,” said Sean in the accepted response.
Willie nodded. “And what about old Beasley? He was sick last time I seen you. How is he?”
“We don’t know. He’s disappeared.”
“What do you mean, disappeared?”
“I mean like took off, vanished, scarpered.”
“Since when?”
“Last night or early this morning. We’ve been looking for him ever since.”
“Why you doing that?” asked Willie, chuckling huskily. “The rozzers was probably after him, and he figured he’d better lie low for a bit.”
“I know you mean that as a joke,” Andrew said quietly. “But if the police are looking for him, it’s not because of anything he’s done but because they’re worried about him, too.”
“Well, spit in my eye and shut my box! You’re not codding me, and he really is gone?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly and sincerely.
“That’s all right, Willie,” said Sean. “I know it’s hard to believe. It makes no more sense to us than it does to you. But, look, you get around. Will you keep your eyes open and let us know if you see anything that might be useful?”
“I’ll do that all right. But look ’ee, I ain’t known Beasley for long, but I do know ’ow many blue beans make five, and I can tell you this—don’t you worry about the old chickaleary. He’s going to be all right!”
And nodding with great conviction, he went up the street with his horse and cart, blowing an occasional plaintive blast on his small horn.
“You know,” said Sara, “I think he meant that.”
“Oh, he meant it all right,” said Sean. “Old Beasley has a way of picking up with strange types, and Willie’s one of the strangest. But there’s no doubt that he likes Beasley.”
“Has he been around here for long?” asked Andrew.
“Willie? No, only for about three or four weeks. He took over from a pair of really tired old culls. But, as you know, it doesn’t take Beasley long to make a friend.”
9
The Travelers Return
The Wyatts’ train from Dover was due at Victoria Station at ten minutes of eleven. Andrew and Sara were there well before that and bought platform tickets so they could greet the returning travelers as soon as they arrived and not have to wait until they came through the barrier.
Andrew had been afraid that Sara might hesitate about coming with him, claiming that it was a family affair and she did not belong at that first meeting. But apparently Andrew and his mother had finally convinced her that she had every right to consider herself a member of the family. For, as Verna had pointed out, if Mrs. Wiggins had acted as foster-mother to Andrew when he first came to London and she, Verna, was away, then Verna should have the right to act in that same capacity toward Sara, now that Verna was back. As for Verna’s relationship with Mrs. Wiggins, that was something else again, but equally strong. For it was based on mutual respect: Mrs. Wiggins’ admiration for Verna as an actress and a person and Verna’s appreciation of Mrs. Wiggins’ warmth, loyalty, and qualities as a housekeeper.
The train came in on schedule and stopped with a clanking of couplings and much hissing of steam. Porters had been gathering for some time; since it was a boat train, it was one of the most important arrivals of the day. They moved along the platform looking for passengers who might require their services as the compartment doors began opening.
“There they are!” said Sara. “Peter, anyway.”
Andrew had seen him, too, and together they hurried toward the first class compartment where Wyatt, casual but distinguished looking in a tweed coat and soft felt hat, was simultaneously signaling a porter and helping Verna down out of the compartment.
“Hello, Sara … Andrew,” he said. But before they could return his greeting, Verna had thrown her arms around both young people and was kissing them in turn.
“Hello, Mother,” said Andrew with sudden shyness.
“Hello yourself,” said Verna, smiling at him. “I must say you
look pretty well considering my absence.”
“And you look just marvelous!” said Sara, looking first at her radiant face and then at the green velvet traveling outfit she was wearing with a matching bag and hat.
“You mean this?” said Verna, doing a sweeping and exaggerated turn as if she were modeling the suit. “Just a little something I picked up in Paris. After all, what else can one do in Paris?”
“Eat,” said Wyatt. “Which we did also, to the point of satiation. And now, may I greet our welcoming committee also?” Bending down, he kissed Sara on both cheeks, then held out his hand to Andrew. “How are you?” he asked.
“Fine, sir.”
“All goes well?”
“Why, yes, sir,” said Andrew with just a suggestion of a pause between each of the words. Wyatt, skilled at noticing the faintest shades of expression, looked at him sharply.
“That’s good,” he said in a flat, neutral voice. “I take it that Fred’s here.”
“Outside,” said Sara. “And waiting very impatiently, if I know him.”
“Well, we can’t have that,” said Verna. “Are we ready?” she asked Wyatt, who glanced at the porter to make sure he had all their baggage on his barrow and nodded. “Forward, then.”
Fred, standing in front of the gleaming landau, greeted the travelers with a grin and a flourish and began supervising the placing of the luggage.
“Do you mind if I don’t come along with you, my dear?” said Wyatt as he helped Verna into the carriage. “I’d like to stop off at the Yard for a few minutes.”
“But you’re not due back until tomorrow.”
“I know. But I’d like to say hello to old Tucker, see if anything urgent’s come up while we were away.”
“All right. What about Andrew and Sara?”
“Why don’t I take them with me? They’d probably like to say hello to Tucker, too. I’ll give them lunch, and then we’ll all come home together?”
Verna looked at him as keenly as he had looked at Andrew; then, apparently deciding that a policeman’s wife does not ask any questions no matter what she suspects, she nodded.
“Very well. You realize, of course, that this is the first time we’ve been separated since we were married.”
“I do. But it won’t be for long.”
He kissed her, closed the carriage door and, as it moved off, signaled to a waiting four-wheeler. He told the cabby to take them to the Yard, saw Sara and Andrew in and only then, when he had gotten in himself, did he say, “All right. What is it? What’s wrong?”
“It’s Beasley,” said Andrew.
“What about him?”
“He’s gone, disappeared.”
“Tell me.”
They did, telling him everything that had happened from the beginning. They finished just as the growler drew up in front of the arched entrance to Scotland Yard. Wyatt had not said anything, asked a single question during their detailed account, and he did not say anything now. Getting out of the four-wheeler, he paid the cabby and led the way across the courtyard and into the large brick-and-stone building.
Wyatt nodded to the sergeant at the desk, who saluted and said, “I didn’t think you’d be in today, sir. But someone else thought you might and said he’d wait for you.” He nodded toward one of the benches off to the side where Sean sat.
“Hello, Sean,” said Wyatt, going over to him. “How did you know I’d be coming here today?”
“I didn’t. But I knew you were coming home, and I thought if by some chance you did come in, I’d like to see you, speak to you.”
“All right. Andrew and Sara told me what’s been happening, so I know why you’re here. Let’s go up to my office.”
He led the way up the stairs, along a corridor, and opened the door of his office without knocking. Sergeant Tucker, at his desk with a pen in his hand, looked up without surprise.
“Well, well,” he said. “The bridegroom has returned a day early. And,” looking at Sean and the two young people, “unlike the rolling stone, he seems to have gathered a good deal of moss.”
“There’s at least one thing around here that hasn’t changed,” said Wyatt, “and that’s the man who has a misquotation or a mixed metaphor for every occasion. How are you, sergeant?”
“Seeing as how what you said is undoubtedly uncomplimentary, I’d rather not answer that. I won’t ask how you are because you look as blooming as a meadow in June, and I hope the new missus is the same?”
“She is, sergeant.” Then, at a knock, “Yes? Come in.” A constable opened the door and handed him a note. “Well,” he said when he read it, “here’s someone else who seemed to have a feeling that I might be coming in today.”
“Is it Mr. Bannerji?” asked Andrew.
“Yes.”
“He was very anxious to see you. He claims he has something important to tell you and said he’d stop by and, if you couldn’t see him, perhaps you’d tell him when you would be able to.”
“Well, if it’s important, we should make it as soon as possible—like now. But not in this office. It’s too crowded as it is. Is there any place else we can use, sergeant?” he asked Tucker.
“Superintendent Sawyer is away. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you used his office.”
“Fine. Would you bring Mr. Bannerji to the superintendent’s office?” he said to the constable. “You’d better come, too,” he said to Tucker. “And bring your notebook.”
“Dizzifying this is,” said Tucker, rising to his full and awe-inspiring height, “disturbing and discombobulating. Here I was expecting to have another day of rest before the hurricane struck, and instead—whisht! It’s on us and we’re off to the races without even having time to batten down the hatches.”
“Was it you who wanted to know what a mixed metaphor was?” Wyatt asked Sara.
“No.”
“Well, there, in any case, is a prime example of one. The hurricane is not upon us, sergeant. I am not yet back officially, but when someone says they have important information for us, I’d be derelict in my duty if I did not listen. Now let’s go to Sawyer’s office.”
They followed him along the corridor, and he opened a door into a large corner office with two desks in it. Wyatt went around and stood behind the larger desk, Tucker took the smaller one, and Sara, Andrew, and Sean sat down in some straight chairs that were set against the wall. The door opened, and the constable ushered in Mr. Bannerji, who was dressed as neatly as he always was. In addition to his umbrella, he carried a bulging leather briefcase.
“Mr. Bannerji?” said Wyatt.
“Yes. You are Inspector Wyatt?”
“I am.”
“I am more than pleased—I am honored to meet you,” said Bannerji, bowing. “Am I correct in thinking you know who I am?”
“Yes. My young friends here,” he nodded toward Andrew and Sara, “have told me about you.”
“And that is all?” said Bannerji, somewhat distressed. “Have you not also had advices about me from India?”
“I believe our commissioner had a note from the district commissioner in Benares that mentioned you.”
“Ah, good. He said he would write. In addition to all this, you can, if you wish, inquire at the East India Company about me. I am at present translating some of our sacred writing, the Vedas, for them.”
“Why are you making such a point of your references?”
“Because what I want to talk to you about is of great importance and I wanted to make certain that there was no question about my background or bona fides.”
“I see. And does what you wanted to talk to me about concern Mr. Beasley of Portobello Road?”
“It does.” He glanced at Tucker, Sean, and the two young people. “I had, of course, expected to talk to you privately.”
“Mr. O’Farrell, who works with Mr. Beasley, and my two young friends appear to have been involved with Mr. Beasley’s illness and disappearance from the beginning. And Sergeant Tucker is a valued and trusted ass
ociate, who has worked with me for some time. So I cannot think of anything you can say to me that they should not hear.”
“I must say I have been impressed by the intelligence and dedication of Mr. O’Farrell and your two young friends. And of course if that is the way you feel about it, then there is nothing more to be said. Shall I begin then?”
“Please do.”
10
The Stranglers
“I think,” said Bannerji, “that I had better begin with some background. Do you know who the dacoits are?”
“If they are, as I think, the same as the Thugs, I believe I do,” said Wyatt. “But since it’s probable that the others don’t know, I suggest that you tell us whatever you think is necessary about them.”
“Very well,” said Bannerji. “I will start with the etymology of the word thug, which comes from the Sanskrit word sthag, which means ‘to cover, conceal, deceive,’ and go on with the story of the supposed origin of the Thugs.”
“Supposed?”
“It is part of our Indian mythology, and whether it is true or not, it is firmly believed by many. It goes back to the days when Kali, the destroyer goddess and consort of Shiva, who was also known as Bhowani, was helping Shiva in his struggle against the demons who peopled the earth at that time. In a battle with one particular demon, Kali found that from every drop of his blood that was shed a new demon was born. In order to conquer, she created two disciples whom she instructed to kill her adversaries by strangling them so that no blood would be shed and no further demons arise. When the battle against the demons was finally won, in return for their help, she gave those disciples and their descendants the right to kill anyone they liked—as long as they did not spill any blood—and to keep the spoils they had gained from the murders.”
“I see why you wanted to tell that story,” said Wyatt. “You are giving us the religious basis for thuggee.”
“Exactly. The worship of Kali or Bhowani was used by this particular sect as an excuse for murder for profit. That is one of the reasons the sect has been so immensely powerful, why it has existed for so long, and why it still exists today.”
The Case of the Indian Curse (Andrew Tillet, Sara Wiggins & Inspector Wyatt Book 8) Page 7
