The Case of the Indian Curse (Andrew Tillet, Sara Wiggins & Inspector Wyatt Book 8)

by Robert Newman

  “No. I thought it might come in useful some day, just like the things you’re wearing. And, as you see, it has.”

  “Yes. We’re not exactly disguised, but at least we won’t be as noticeable as we usually are if we’re going where I think we are.”

  “Which is where?”

  “Well, I thought we might begin by going to Portobello Road and talking to Sean. If he knows anything, and I think he does, he might just tell us about it.”

  “I doubt it. We agreed that Peter sent us ahead to the restaurant because he didn’t want us to hear what he was going to say to Sean, and he would have told Sean that. But I suppose it’s worth a try.”

  They took a bus to Baker Street, changed for one that took them west past the trees, grass, and fountains of Hyde Park and got to Portobello Road at about the time the shops were opening up. Not Beasley’s shop, however. There was no sign of Sean, and as they tried to decide whether to wait or go looking for him, there was a low, hoarse hoot, and Whispering Willie appeared further down the street. He came toward them, leading his swaybacked horse and blowing an occasional blast on his small horn. It was clearly just as effective as the traditional cry of “Dust ho!” or “Dust oy-eh!” for shopkeepers whose dustbins were not already out, brought them out now. Sara and Andrew watched as he came up the street toward them, dumping the dustbins into his basket, carrying the basket to the cart, climbing the ladder he had rested against the side of the cart, and emptying the basket.

  He raised a hand in salutation when he reached them, said “Wotcher, younkers,” in his hoarse, wheezing voice and plodded on up the street.

  “He’s working alone,” said Andrew, watching him. “Don’t dustmen usually work in pairs?”

  “Usually,” said Sara. “But it means more money for him if he works alone. Then he doesn’t have to divide what he gets with anyone else.”

  “But he has to work a lot harder if he does everything himself. If he took it a little easier, maybe he’d get rid of that sore throat of his.” He was silent for a minute, looking after Willie. “I’ve been thinking,” he said slowly. “Do you remember what he said the last time we saw him, when we told him Beasley had disappeared?”

  “He said … didn’t he say, don’t worry about the old something or other—that he was going to be all right?”

  “That’s right. And you said you had a feeling he meant it.”

  “Well, I did. I think he likes Beasley.”

  “I’m sure he does. The thing is, did he say Beasley was going to be all right because he hoped he would be, or did he know he was going to be because he knew where he was?”

  Sara whistled softly, thoughtfully.

  “Every once in a while you do get an interesting idea,” she said.

  “Thanks. Do you know anything about dustmen—where they go with their loads, what they do with them, where they live?”

  “I think they take what they collect to a place called a dust yard. But I don’t know what that means.”

  “Are you interested in finding out?”

  “You’ve made me interested.”

  “Let’s go then.”

  They had never actually shadowed anyone before, but they had heard enough talk about it from Peter Wyatt and Sergeant Tucker so that they understood the general theory, which was: be inconspicuous, but not conspicuously inconspicuous. In other words, don’t try so hard not to be noticed that everyone notices you.

  The first thing they did was separate, one walking on one side of the street, the other on the other side. And they took turns watching their quarry. Andrew would hang back, looking into a shop window, actually going into a shop or sitting down on a step to adjust the laces on his boot while Sara drifted along, keeping her eye on Willie. Then, when she had gone several blocks, Andrew would amble past her and take the lead in watching while she hung back. Of course, since Willie knew them, none of this would have done much good if he had been suspicious and looked around to see if he were being followed. But apparently he wasn’t the least bit suspicious and just kept on with his hard, dusty work.

  Willie continued with his collecting, going north and slightly west for well over an hour. Then, when his cart was full, he took his shaggy, shambling horse by the reins and led him a little faster in that same direction. Finally he came to some open, scrubby land and headed for a fenced-in area that was on the edge of the Grand Union Canal.

  Sara and Andrew hung back until he had disappeared into the fenced-in area, then followed again, slowly and cautiously. When they reached the open gate through which Willie had gone, they peered in and realized that this must be a dust yard. In the center of the large, open area was a pile of ashes, cinders, and other things, onto which Willie was emptying the contents of his cart. Around this pile were eight or more men, women, and children—all as dirty as Willie—who took material from this center pile, sifted it through sieves and screens, and separated it into different piles. One of these contained broken bricks, cinders, and clinkers. Rags were placed on another pile; and bones, metals, bottles, old boots and shoes each had a separate pile. And finally, of course, there was one pile for the wet garbage. Evidently each of these categories of waste had its own use and could be sold.

  They watched as Willie finished emptying his cart onto the large central pile, then led his horse over to a group of sagging, dilapidated wooden buildings that stood on the far side of the dust yard near the edge of the canal. He filled a bucket of water from a hand pump, gave it to his horse, and went into one of the buildings.

  “Do you think that’s where he lives?” asked Sara.

  “Probably,” said Andrew.

  There was no doubt that people did live in the rundown houses, probably the people who worked in the dust yard. While Willie was emptying his cart, a woman carrying a baby had come out of one of the houses, called to the heavy, bearded man who seemed to be in charge, and he had nodded and waved to her.

  “If he does live there, he may not come out again,” said Sara.

  “I think he will. It’s still early. He could probably collect another load before lunchtime. Let’s wait awhile and see.”

  Sara nodded, and Andrew proved to be right for, about ten minutes later, Willie came out again, untied his horse and, saying something to the bearded man, came toward them. Sara and Andrew stepped behind some empty barrels and boxes piled up beside the dust-yard gate and watched as Willie left, leading his patient horse across the scrubby ground and back toward the paved streets.

  “It would be interesting to know what goes on in those buildings,” said Andrew thoughtfully. “He didn’t stay in there long enough to cook anything and eat or even to rest properly. But he was there long enough to talk to someone.”

  Sara looked at him sharply. “That’s not as dim as some of your ideas,” she said. “All right. You stay here. I’ll go look.”

  “Why you? It might be dangerous.”

  “How can it be in daylight with people around? And it’s got to be me because I can make myself look right and talk right and you couldn’t, not in a million years. Watch!”

  She kicked off her shoes—old by her standards, but still too good for what she had in mind—and scuffled her bare feet in the dirt so that they looked as if they hadn’t been washed in weeks. She moistened a finger, rubbed it in the dirt, and dabbed and streaked it judiciously on her face. Unbraiding her hair, she tangled and snarled it. Then, slumping a little so that her dress hung even more awkwardly, she thrust out her jaw aggressively and said in nasal, rasping Cockney, “Got your eye full, Nosey?”

  Those were the first words she had said to him when they had met some years before; she had been a street urchin then, living in Dingell’s Court on the fringe of the slums near Edgeware Road. Andrew shook his head in wonderment at the way she had changed herself back into that girl with no makeup or costume, but only with her natural dramatic talent and the skills she had learned in her brief experience on the stage.

  “All right,” he said. “
Go ahead. But if you’re not back in a reasonable time, I’m coming after you.”

  “Righty-ho, chum,” she said. “Ta-ta!”

  And she went in through the gate and started across the dust yard in a shambling walk, pausing occasionally to kick something out of her way or wipe her nose on her bare arm. The bearded man and the sievers and sifters working around the central dust pile barely glanced at her as she went around them and toward the houses near the canal. The blowsy woman who had come out carrying the baby, came out again carrying a bucket of soapy water that she emptied, then stood there as Sara went up to her and began asking something. Andrew didn’t know what she was saying but, whatever it was, the woman listened patiently but finally shook her head. Sara’s shoulders slumped. Even at a distance Andrew could sense her disappointment. Then she thanked the woman and moved off. She didn’t leave the yard, however. Instead, in typical childlike fashion, she drifted over to the bank of the canal, picked up a clinker and threw it into the muddy brown water, then went on along the canal bank until she disappeared behind the cluster of houses.

  Andrew waited, and as time went by, the waiting became more and more difficult. He had not minded when he could watch Sara and see that she was safe. But he did not like it at all when she was out of sight. He had about made up his mind that he would go in and look for her when she reappeared on the other side of the clump of houses. Waving to the woman, who must have been looking out of one of the windows, she started across the dust yard toward the gate. Her progress seemed as casual and aimless as ever but, knowing her, Andrew sensed her hidden excitement. Just before she reached the open gate, he stepped out from behind the boxes where he’d been waiting and, eyes bright with excitement, she jerked her chin at him, indicating that he should start back toward town. He did, walking slowly across the open, scrubby wasteland while she pulled on her shoes and came hurrying after him.

  “We were right,” she said under her breath when she caught up with him. “He’s there!”

  “Beasley?”

  “Yes. I talked to that woman who came out, said I was looking for work for me mum. That she’d do anything, washing if that was needed, or what about helping out in the dust yard? But the woman said there was nothing. So I thanked her and went off to the edge of the canal and worked my way behind the houses.”

  “I saw you.”

  “The woman lived in the first house. The second was the one Whispering Willie went into. Pieces of canvas hung over the back windows, but I was able to peek through a hole in one of them and there, in a little room, was Beasley!”

  “What was he doing?”

  “He was stretched out on a bed, smoking one of those terrible cigars of his and reading a book.”

  “Did he look all right?”

  “He looked fine, better than any of the times we saw him since you came down from school.”

  Andrew whistled thoughtfully through his teeth.

  “What do you think we should do?” Sara asked.

  “Well, we should certainly tell Peter, though, as we agreed yesterday, he may very well know. But while we’re on our way, I think we should stop off at the shop and talk to Sean, see if we can find out if he knows. And, if he doesn’t, tell him we know Beasley’s all right without necessarily telling him how we know and where he is.”

  “That makes sense,” said Sara.

  As she walked, she combed her hair with her fingers and braided it again, then when they passed a horse trough, wet her handkerchief and cleaned her face. By the time they reached Beasley’s shop, she looked almost as clean as she had when she had first left the house.

  The shop seemed closed and, when they tried the door, they found it locked. As they stood there uncertainly, the wispy, gray-haired man from the shop next door stuck his head out and said, “Want Sean?”

  “Yes,” said Sara.

  “I’m pretty sure I saw him go in a while ago,” he said. “Who don’t you try knocking?”

  “Thanks,” said Andrew.

  He knocked, and the curtain in back of the shop window moved slightly as if someone were looking out at them; then the lock turned, and the door opened. Sara went in, and Andrew followed.

  As soon as he was inside, he knew something was wrong. The door slammed shut and was locked again. Strong hands seized him but before he could see whose they were, a cloth was wrapped around his face as a blindfold, then pushed into his mouth, gagging him. He was pushed to the floor, and his hands and feet were tied. From the scuffling sounds he heard, he knew that Sara was being treated the same way. Before he was really aware of what was happening to him—and of course before he had a chance to struggle—he was bound and helpless.

  13

  Captured

  Clearly they had walked into a trap. There was no point in trying to decide who their captors were or whether they should have expected capture and could have avoided it. The one thing Andrew felt he could do was keep his wits about him and try to determine where they were being taken so that, if they had a chance, they could escape.

  He was picked up by two people—one at his head and the other at his feet—and carried out the back way into the alley behind the shop. How did he know it was the back way and not the front? Because he felt the curtain that separated the back of the shop from the front brush against him as he was carried past it. Besides, no one would dare carry him bound and gagged into Portobello Road in broad daylight. The alley was different. It ran behind the shop and could not be seen from the street.

  A horse stamped and snorted. A carriage door was opened, he was lifted and set down on a seat. Someone was already sitting there, to his left. Was it Sara? At that moment, someone else was lifted into the carriage and set down on his right. This seemed like someone small and was probably Sara. But, if that were so, who was the third person to his left? Sean? That was possible. He’d have to wait and see not only who their captors were, but who their fellow captive was. Someone got into the carriage with them, sitting on the seat opposite. Someone outside said something in a language that was not English; the carriage door closed, and the carriage moved off.

  Andrew tried to determine their route, but it wasn’t easy. The alley ran north and south, but he wasn’t sure which way they were headed, and therefore which way they were traveling. They had left the alley and were out in the street now—he could tell that from the sound of the wheels on the cobbles—but again he couldn’t tell which way they were going.

  Sara, sitting next to him, was wiggling a little. If he knew her, she was trying to free her hands. And, given a little time, he was sure she could. But the man sitting opposite them must have noticed what she was doing, too.

  “No,” he said, shaking her. “Must not do.”

  He had a deep voice and spoke with a slight accent. Whoever he was, he was not English. By now Andrew had lost all track of where they might be. He would have to try to determine that from what he could see whenever they got to where they were going. They traveled for about another ten minutes, rumbled over a bridge, made a sharp left turn and, after another five minutes or so, stopped.

  The carriage door opened. First Sara and then he was lifted out. A knife sawed at the rope that tied his ankles.

  “Feet now free,” said the voice that had spoken before as the rope fell away. “Walk.”

  Someone held his elbow, guiding him, and he walked through a small garden—he heard leaves rustling and felt them brush against him—into a house, up a stair, and into a room that he felt was rather large. The knife now cut the rope that tied his hands behind him. The cloth that covered his eyes was removed and so was his gag. He blinked and looked around. He was in, as he had thought, a large room that was quite bare. Sara was with him. The third captive, rubbing his wrists and scowling angrily, was not Sean but Mr. Bannerji.

  His eyes widened when he saw them.

  “My dear young friends!” he said. “I hope you don’t mind if I call you that. Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” said Sara. �
��Who are these people?”

  Andrew turned and looked at them, too. There were five men in the room, all Indians. Three of them seemed to be seamen. Their tightly twisted turbans were somewhat soiled. They wore dark jerseys and patched canvas trousers. One of the others, shorter and slighter than Bannerji, was dressed in European clothes, but clothes of a distinctly foreign cut. The last man, older, taller, and more imposing than the others, wore a white turban and a long, white robe.

  “I don’t know who they are,” said Bannerji, “but I think I can guess.”

  “I am sure you can,” said the man in the European clothes. “I am Chunder Das and this is Ananda Lal.”

  He did not bother to introduce the three seamen—clearly they were of no importance—but Ananda Lal, the tall man in the white robe, bowed gravely to them.

  “Why have they brought us here?” asked Andrew.

  “That is the next thing we must find out,” said Bannerji. And speaking in a firm, clear voice, he asked a question in what was probably Hindustani. Chunder Das answered him in the same tongue.

  “They say they are sorry and not sorry that they kidnapped you,” said Bannerji. “They were waiting in the shop because they wanted Mr. Beasley’s assistant, Sean. Which of course is why I went there, and I imagine why you went there, too.”

  “Why did you want Sean?” asked Andrew.

  “I suspect for the same reason you did. To find out if he had any word from our friend, Mr. Beasley. When I knocked on the door, they opened it, gagged me, and tied me up. A few minutes later, you knocked, and they served you the same way.”

  “Are they Thugs?” asked Sara. “Members of the gang you told us about at Scotland Yard?”

  “You have been to Scotland Yard?” said Chunder Das.

  “Yes, I have,” said Bannerji defiantly.

  Chunder Das said something in Hindustani to his white-robed companion, then turned his attention to Bannerji again, speaking to him with angry passion. Bannerji answered him, and Chunder Das said, “That is no concern of yours! Speak to them and tell them what they must do. And remember that I speak English, too. Not as well as you, but well enough to know if you are saying what we have told you to say.”