The Case of the Etruscan Treasure (Andrew Tillet, Sara Wiggins & Inspector Wyatt Book 5)

by Robert Newman

  Cortland was quiet during the ride down to London, which didn’t surprise Andrew. He didn’t know Cortland well, but he’d run into him a few times walking in the hills above the school, something that Andrew liked to do and apparently Cortland enjoyed also. He had found him very quiet then, during their walks, but also very knowledgeable about any birds they saw or wildflowers they came across, and Andrew liked him.

  Chadwick, however, was not quiet; and after some general conversation he began talking about something that Andrew had always found a little embarrassing; Andrew’s friendship with Inspector Wyatt of Scotland Yard, whom Chadwick had once met and about whom he never tired of talking. Andrew was finally able to get him off that particular subject and on to something more neutral, and the rest of the trip passed quite pleasantly.

  Chadwick, Andrew knew, lived in Belgravia, which was nowhere near where he was going. But when he discovered that Cortland lived on Sherburne Square, which was on his way home, he offered to drop him. Cortland accepted his offer gratefully, and this led to his very startling requests, one that Andrew could not decide whether he should or should not take seriously.

  He was still thinking about it when the four-wheeler turned into the driveway of the house on Rysdale Road and drew up under the porte-cochere. Matson had either been waiting or, with a good butler’s sixth sense, had known when Andrew would be arriving, for the cab had barely stopped before he opened the door of the house and came out.

  “Welcome home, Master Andrew,” he said, taking his bag.

  “Thank you, Matson. I gather you knew I was coming.”

  “Your telegram arrived late this afternoon. Fred gave it to your mother when he called for her at the theatre.”

  “Is she home?”

  “She’s in the drawing room. And so is Miss Sara.”

  “Oh, good.”

  He paid the cab driver and went into the house. Verna must have been waiting too, for Matson had not yet closed the door behind them when she came hurrying out of the drawing room.

  “Hello, Mother.”

  She embraced him and, unlike most of the boys at school who acted as if they would rather be boiled in oil than have any female—especially a mother or a sister—show them any sign of affection, Andrew didn’t mind at all. There was good reason for this, of course. Verna’s feelings for him and his for her were not only deep and genuine, but they were always displayed with discretion.

  His behavior toward Sara, however, who was closer to his own age and who had followed Verna out into the entrance hall, was necessarily different.

  “Good evening, Miss Wiggins,” he said with exaggerated formality, noticing that she was wearing a new dress and looking very pretty.

  “Good evening, Andrew,” she said, following his lead and dipping in a deep curtsey, then ruining the effect by grinning impishly at him.

  “I promised Sara I wouldn’t comment on how much you’ve grown—though of course you have,” said Verna. “Or how well or tired you looked after your train trip down. But, late as it is, she did give me permission to ask whether you’d had dinner.”

  “No, I haven’t. They gave us a kind of scrappy tea before we caught the train, but—”

  “Say no more,” said Verna. Then, as Mrs. Wiggins came bustling in, “Well, you were right, Mrs. Wiggins.”

  “Of course I was,” she said, hugging Andrew. Since she had known him even before she became the Tillett’s housekeeper, she was not at all self-conscious about showing her affection for him. “I am glad to see you. Now if you’ll come into the breakfast room, I had cook fix a little something for you.”

  The little something turned out to be everything that Andrew had hoped it might be, including cold beef and ending with his favorite apple tart. And though he had to stop several times to say hello to Annie, the downstairs maid, and Fred, the coachman, he did well enough to satisfy even Mrs. Simmonds, the cook, who took any food that was not finished as a personal affront.

  “All right,” said Andrew when Annie had cleared the table. “Now tell me what’s been going on down here.”

  “No. You tell us why you’re down from school so early,” said Verna. “Fred insists that you were sent down for something nefarious like setting up a horse-racing pool.”

  “He would think that. Didn’t the school’s telegram say?”

  “No. It just said that, due to unforeseen circumstances, you’d be coming home tonight instead of on Friday.”

  “Oh. Well, it was measles.”

  “Measles?”

  He explained, trying hard to show the proper amount of sympathy for the two boys in the infirmary and at least a sign of regret for the missed days at school.

  “That is too bad,” said Verna, repressing a smile.

  “Yes, is it. How’s the play going?”

  The play was an adaptation of Jane Eyre that Verna had done in New York to great acclaim and, because it had been such a success there, was doing again here in London.

  “Oh, fine,” said Verna, exchanging a quick look with Sara. “We finally got a theatre—the Windsor on the Strand—and we just started rehearsals yesterday.”

  “What else?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There is something else—something you’re not telling me.” Then, when neither of them said anything, “How’s Peter? Have you seen him?”

  “Yes, late this afternoon,” said Sara. “He stopped by the theatre just as we were about to leave, and we told him you were coming home unexpectedly, and he said, if you wanted to, you could come to the Yard tomorrow and he’d take you out to lunch.”

  “Good-o! I was hoping I’d be able to see him and … Wait a minute. What were you doing at the theatre, Sara?”

  Again Verna and Sara exchanged glances.

  “You’re going to have to tell him sometime,” said Verna. “It might as well be now.”

  “I suppose so,” said Sara. “I was there because I may be in it. The play, I mean.”

  “In it?”

  “Yes. Playing Adele, Rochester’s ward. I was dying to play the part when we were in New York, and your mother said no. That she didn’t think my mum would like it. But I asked again when I heard that they were going to do the play here, and my mum said it would be all right if I kept on with school too; and your mother said she’d leave it to the director, and he liked me, so—”

  “But that’s wonderful!” said Andrew. “Why did you hesitate about telling me?”

  But he knew. She was afraid that he’d be hurt or angry that she was going to be busy and wouldn’t be able to spend time with him during the holiday as she usually did.

  “Well—” she began.

  “You think I haven’t got things to do by myself? There are dozens of things I can do, want to do and expect to do—starting with having lunch tomorrow with Peter Wyatt!”

  2

  Scotland Yard

  Because he was concerned—or at the very least puzzled—by what Cortland had said to him, Andrew would probably have done what he did sometime during his stay in London. But since it was more or less on his way to Scotland Yard, he did it the next morning.

  Leaving a bit early, he walked over to Wellington Road, continued on along Park Road and went west to the small and dignified square where he had dropped Cortland the night before. Like most of its neighbors, the house was of dark red brick with a railed off area way in front of it and an iron gate under the bridge of the front stairs for tradesmen. He went up the steps and tugged at the polished brass bell-pull. He heard it ring, but he had to wait several minutes before the door was opened by a rather unusual butler. For though his tailcoat and striped waistcoat fit him quite well, with his crooked nose, heavy shoulders and deep chest, he looked more like a member of the fancy—an ex-pugilist—than a colleague of Matson’s.

  “Yes?” he said in a voice that was, to say the least, unaccommodating.

  “My name’s Tillett,” said Andrew. “I’d like to see Benedict Cortland, Third.”


  “Not here,” said the butler.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said he’s not here. He’s at school.”

  “But he’s not,” said Andrew as the butler started to close the door. “I came down with him last night, and—”

  “Who is it, Hodge?” asked a female voice.

  “Someone for Master Benedict.”

  “Oh.” A rather attractive woman appeared. She was in her early thirties, blue-eyed and wore her blonde hair wound around her head in a coronet braid. “You’re a friend of Benedict’s?”

  “Yes. My name’s Tillett, and I came down from school with him yesterday. As a matter of fact, I dropped him off here on my way home. But your butler said—”

  “I heard what he said. What he meant is that Benedict is out at the moment. Your name’s Tillett?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Benedict’s stepmother.” She spoke with a slight accent that Andrew could not identify. “If you’re a friend—and I’m sure you are—Benedict will be sorry he missed you. But perhaps you can stop by again another time.”

  “If I may, I’d like to. Thank you, Mrs. Cortland.”

  “Not at all. Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye.” And bowing, he turned and went down the steps.

  As he walked over toward Baker Street where he planned to pick up an omnibus, he was even more puzzled—and more concerned—than he had been before. He was convinced that if Mrs. Cortland had not intervened, the butler would have shut the door in his face, insisting that Cortland was not there. That made it look as if they didn’t want him to see Cortland, which in turn made it look as if Cortland had had good reason to be anxious and act the way he had.

  He got off the bus at Westminster Bridge and walked up the Embankment to the Yard. He stood there for a moment, looking up at the steep-roofed, turreted building that was the most famous police headquarters in the world. Then he went through the gate, crossed the courtyard and gave his name to the sergeant at the desk inside, saying he wanted to see Inspector Wyatt. The sergeant gave a note to a constable, who went upstairs and came down a few moments later, nodding to the sergeant who asked Andrew if he knew where the inspector’s office was. Andrew said he did, climbed two flights of stairs and knocked at the familiar door.

  Wyatt, sitting at his desk in the small and crowded office, looked up when he came in.

  “So what the jungle drums told me was true,” he said. “Were you rusticated for bashing a master or possibly an old boy?”

  “Fred thought I’d been sent down because I’d set up a horse-racing pool, but it was nothing so imaginative or heroic. It was because of measles.”

  “Measles?”

  “Yes.”

  “I hope you’re not contagious,” he said when Andrew explained.

  “I don’t think I am. I didn’t mention it, but I think I had measles a few years ago, and I don’t think you can get it again.”

  “We’ll pretend that’s so anyway. Outside of that, how are you?”

  “Fine.”

  The door opened, and Sergeant Tucker came in. Well over six feet tall and proportionately broad, he immediately made the office seem too small.

  “Well, well,” he said. “‘The school-boy with his satchel and shining morning face, creeping like a snail unwillingly to school.’”

  “What’s this?” Andrew asked Wyatt.

  “It’s known as secondary education,” said Wyatt.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “His daughter’s studying As You Like It in school, and when he helps her memorize an assignment, some of it sticks.”

  “Does one have to be a varsity graduate or go to an expensive public school to be able to appreciate Shakespeare?” asked Tucker with wounded dignity.

  “Heaven forbid!” said Wyatt. “I think the groundlings at the Globe Theatre probably appreciated him more than a good many of the nobs in the boxes.”

  “Is that what I am, a groundling?”

  “What you would have been. But that’s enough of that. What news on the Rialto?”

  “Is that Shakespeare, too?”

  “Merchant of Venice. Well?”

  “Three more last night,” said Tucker, handing him a report.

  “That’s nice,” said Wyatt dryly.

  “Nice as a pennysworth of silver spoons,” agreed Tucker.

  “Three what?” asked Andrew.

  “Never mind!” said Wyatt. “I’ve had enough of your getting involved in our cases.” He finished reading the report. “All right,” he said to Tucker. “I’ll stop by again later and see if I can come up with any new ideas.” Then to Andrew, “Ready for lunch?”

  “If you are.”

  “You’ll hold down the fort, Tucker?”

  “Sir!” said Tucker with a heel-clicking, exaggerated salute.

  They walked up Whitehall to a pub near Charing Cross where Andrew established his claim to a table while Wyatt collected sandwiches, beer and ginger beer for their lunch.

  “Well,” said Wyatt while they were eating, “what news on your Rialto?”

  “Nothing very much at school besides the measles. And you probably know more about what’s going on here than I do.”

  “The play, you mean. And the fact that Sara’s going to be in it.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you mind?”

  “She seemed to be worried about that, too. Why on earth should I mind? She’s mad about the theatre, would love to be an actress and was dying to play that particular part when the play was on in New York. So I think it’s wonderful.”

  “So do I. It’s like your mother to be giving her this chance. Not that she would have if she didn’t think she was good. Nothing else?”

  “No,” said Andrew. Then, after a pause. “Well, maybe there is. Something I’d like to ask your advice about, anyway.”

  When Wyatt nodded, he told him about Cortland: first, the little he knew about him personally, then what he had said when Andrew had dropped him off the night before and finally what had just happened with the butler.

  Wyatt sat quietly for a moment, making overlapping rings on the scrubbed wooden table with the wet bottom of his beer mug.

  “I know you don’t know him well, but … Does this seem like him? Would he be likely to say what he did to you just to be melodramatic, make himself important?

  “No. It’s very unlike him. I heard from one of the chaps in his house that he’s an orphan. But he never said so. He never talks about himself at all.”

  “And you, of course, wouldn’t blow it all up, make a mountain out of a molehill, just to give yourself something interesting to do over the holiday, would you?”

  Andrew looked at him without saying anything, and Wyatt nodded.

  “All right. I apologize, but the point had to be made. And there’s another one I should make. Or at least mention. If you remember your fairy tales, you’ll recall that stepmothers are not very popular figures. As a matter of fact, they’re usually the villain of the piece. And for reasons that go quite deep.”

  “I know. You think that Cortland wanted to build up a case against her?”

  “I never met either of them, so I can’t say. And let’s remember that it was the butler who tried to keep you from seeing him, said he wasn’t there, not the stepmother. What I’d suggest is that you try again to see him. If you can’t, then we’ll consider what can be done about it. And if you do see him, then perhaps he’ll tell you why he said what he did.”

  “That makes sense. Thank you.”

  “Not at all. What are you going to do now? How are you planning to spend the rest of the afternoon.”

  “I’ve no real plans. I thought I might walk over to the theatre and say hello to Mother and Sara.”

  “I’d like to do that myself. I’ll go with you.”

  They went over to the Strand and then up it to the theatre, which was almost opposite the Savoy. The theatre had been dark for some months, and there was nothing on the marquee to
indicate what the last play there had been. Wyatt, who had been there before, took Andrew down the alley that led to the stage door. The pavement in front of the theatre had not been particularly clean, and the alley was even worse. Andrew stumbled over half bricks, empty bottle and pieces of wood that had probably broken off old, discarded theatre sets.

  Wyatt pulled open the heavy iron door. Inside, sitting in a small booth, was a grey-haired, elderly man in a shiny dark suit. He was tall, lean and seemed to have some kind of throat complaint for when he talked his voice was hoarse and a little wheezy.

  “Yes, gentlemen?” he said. “What can I do for you?”

  “We’ve come to see Miss Tillett. This is her son, Andrew. And my name is Wyatt.”

  “How do you do?” said the man, bobbing his head. “Sorry I had to ask, but that’s part of my job. I’ll know you next time.”

  “You’re new here, aren’t you?” said Wyatt.

  “Yes, sir. Just started this morning. Name of Burke. Tim Burke.”

  “Is my mother here?” asked Andrew.

  “She is. And Mr. Harrison, the manager, and several of the others. They’re out front. Best way to get to them is along here, across the stage and down.”

  They thanked him and went along into the wings. The backstage was lit by unshaded gas jets, whose yellow fan-shaped flames did little to relieve the darkness. They walked past a row of ropes that raised and lowered the heavy curtains and the sets that had been pulled up to the flies overhead. The footlights had not been lit, and the bare, dusty stage was illuminated by a pair of Veritas oil lamps—one on each side of the proscenium—whose circular wicks gave off almost as much light as limelights.

  “Oh, Andrew,” called Verna from somewhere in the shadowy auditorium. “And Peter. Come on down here.”

  They could not see her till they had crossed the stage and gone down the temporary steps that led to the orchestra. She was sitting just off the central aisle with Sara, Mr. Harrison and several men and women Andrew did not know.

  Andrew did know Mr. Harrison, the manager, and apparently Wyatt did, too, for they greeted one another and Verna introduced both of them to Richards, the director, and to the other members of the company who were there.