The Case of the Murdered Players (Andrew Tillet, Sara Wiggins & Inspector Wyatt Book 7)

by Robert Newman

  Andrew heard Matson go to the door and open it. There was a brief exchange, then the door closed. Andrew was checking the board to make sure that the pieces were set out correctly when Sara came in.

  “I’m sorry I took so long,” she said. “Your mother wanted me to look at something.”

  “A new hat.”

  “How do you know?”

  “When you have spent a lifetime unraveling the secrets of the human soul, my dear,” he began in a cracked, old man’s voice.

  “Oh, poof! You saw the box!”

  “Right. Who came in? It’s not that newspaper man, is it?”

  “No. He’s not due here for a while yet. It was some flowers for your mother.”

  “From Peter?”

  “Who else would send her flowers now, when she’s not in a play? I mean, it’s different when she’s playing.”

  “I know what you mean.” Then, as Verna came in carrying a large bunch of flowers wrapped in colored tissue paper, “I see that you still have admirers.”

  “So it would seem,” said Verna, smiling and unwrapping them. “Aren’t they beautiful?”

  They were roses, some pink, some red, all dewy and fragrant.

  “Yes, they are,” said Sara. “From Peter?”

  “I assume so. Let’s see.” She found a small envelope, took out the card it contained and read it.

  “Mother!” said Andrew as she went pale and dropped the roses. “What is it?”

  She read the card again as if to make sure she was not mistaken, then held it out to Andrew with an unsteady hand. He had hurried to her and put an arm around her waist. Taking the card, he read it.

  “The wicked flee when no man pursueth,” it said, the writing clear, black and strong. “But there is no hiding place. Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.”

  Andrew glanced at Sara, who was reading it over his shoulder, then ran out into the entrance hall.

  “Matson, who brought those flowers—the ones that just came?”

  “A boy, Master Andrew. At least … Yes, I think you could call him a boy.”

  “Had you ever seen him before?”

  “No. But I’d know him if I saw him again. He was crippled, walked with a crutch.”

  “Happy Jack!” said Sara, who had followed him out.

  “If it is, I can probably catch him,” said Andrew and, without waiting to put on a coat, he pulled open the door and ran across the front garden to Rysdale Road. He looked to the right, and there, far up and almost at Wellington Road, he saw a familiar figure stumping along with a crutch. Andrew ran after him, knowing it was going to be a near thing. If an omnibus came along before he got to Wellington Road, Happy Jack would get away. Of course Andrew knew where he worked and where he lived and could always find him, but…

  “Yoicks! View halloo!” called a voice he knew. “What’s up, Andrew?”

  It was Wyatt, in a hansom, who had come up behind him, seen him run out of the house and followed him.

  “I’ve got to catch someone, that boy with the crutch up there!”

  Wyatt knew him too well to ask any questions.

  “Jump in,” he said, opening the waist-high leather apron. “Cabby…”

  “Gotcher, guv’ner,” said the cabby as Andrew jumped in. Cracking his whip, he sent the horse up the street at a fast trot.

  “What’s this about?” asked Wyatt.

  Andrew told him, gave him the card, which he had slipped into his pocket. Wyatt read it, and his face became grim.

  “You’re sure that that’s the boy who delivered it?”

  “Yes. As it happens, I know him. It’s the boy I told you about—the one we took home after the pantomime.”

  “The one whose grandfather Bolan came to see?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jack!” called Andrew, getting out of the hansom.

  Jack, his back to him, whirled and crouched, raising his crutch like a club.

  “Who’s yer?” he said savagely. “Stand back now! You come any closer, and … Why, Master Andrew!”

  “Sorry if I startled you.”

  “It’s all right,” said Jack, straightening up and tucking the crutch under his arm. “I’m just surprised to see you. I mean, I knew that was your house I was at, but…”

  “You brought the flowers there?” said Wyatt.

  “Yes, sir. I did.”

  “This is Inspector Wyatt of the Metropolitan Police, Jack,” said Andrew. “And this is Happy Jack Collins.”

  “An inspector? I ain’t never met an inspector from Scotland Yard before. Is anything wrong, sir?”

  “I’m interested in those flowers you just delivered to Miss Tillett. Where did they come from?”

  “Why, from Foljamb, the Covent Garden florist. I works for him. Master Andrew here knows I do.”

  “I believe you. Do you know who ordered the flowers? Who bought and sent them?”

  “No, sir. I don’t. I never knows. They just gives me the flowers and tells me where they’re to go, and sometimes, when it’s a long way like now, they give me sixpence to take a bus.”

  “I see. Well, of course Foljamb would know.”

  “Yes, sir. Likely he would. But you still haven’t told me what was wrong. I was very careful with the flowers, sir. I’m always careful, but I was particular careful with these because I’d met Master Andrew here, and besides I think Miss Tillett is wonderful—one of the most wonderful actresses in London.”

  “There was nothing wrong with the flowers, Jack,” said Andrew. “We just wanted to know who had sent them.”

  “Like I said, I don’t know. I never knows. But I’m sure Mr. Foljamb could tell you.”

  “I hope he can,” said Wyatt. “All right, Jack. Thanks.” And he got back into the waiting hansom.

  “You mean I can go now?” said Jack.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Oh, thank you, sir. Happen I’ll see you again around the Strand one day, Master Andrew.”

  “It’s very likely, Jack,” said Andrew, getting into the hansom with Wyatt. “Goodbye.”

  Jack waved to him, then went stumping up the street toward Wellington Road to get a bus back to Covent Garden.

  The hansom took them back to the house, where Wyatt paid the cabby. Matson was waiting for them and took Wyatt’s coat. Verna and Sara were still in the sitting room. The roses had been picked up and were lying on a table against the wall. Verna had regained her color, but her face still looked strained.

  “Hello, Peter,” she said, forcing a smile.

  “My darling,” he said, going to her. She held out her hands to him and he put his arms around her and embraced her, kissing her on the forehead.

  “How are you?” he asked, holding her away from him so he could look at her.

  “A bit shaken, but all right. I gather you heard what happened.”

  “I saw Andrew running up the street, picked him up and he showed me the card.”

  “Was it Happy Jack?” asked Sara.

  “Yes,” said Andrew. “We talked to him, but he didn’t know who the flowers were from. They were just given to him to deliver.”

  “I’ll look into it,” said Wyatt. “I’ll talk to Foljamb myself, though I’m afraid he won’t be able to tell us much. If he can, it will be the first real lead we’ve had.”

  “What about the card?” asked Verna as he took it out and studied it. “Can you tell anything from that?”

  “Not really. The card seems fairly ordinary, the kind florists usually use. The handwriting is undoubtedly disguised. I’ll show it to our handwriting expert at the Yard, but I doubt if he’ll be able to tell us much about it.”

  “But what’s the point of it?” asked Sara. “Why was the card sent to her?”

  “To worry her, upset her.”

  “If that was someone’s intention, they’ve certainly succeeded,” said Verna. “Do you want the flowers for any reason?”

  “No. They must be from Foljamb’s regular stock, and they won’t tell
us anything either.”

  “Well, I don’t want them around. They give me the creeps. Matson!” she called.

  “Yes, madam?” he said, coming in.

  “Would you get rid of these flowers for me, please?”

  “Yes, madam.” And picking them up, by some subtle alchemy—the expression on his face, or the way he carried them—he transformed them from a fragrant tribute to something unpleasant that was worthy only of the dust bin.

  “What about what the card said?” asked Andrew.

  “That doesn’t tell us very much either,” said Wyatt. “Two of the phrases are from the Bible, phrases that anyone would be familiar with. However, judging by the handwriting as well as the way the phrases were put together, I get the impression that whoever wrote the note was not illiterate.”

  “That was my feeling, too,” said Andrew.

  “And mine,” said Verna. “Which I somehow find more frightening than if it had been written by some ignorant fanatic.” Her hand went to her bosom as the front door bell rang. “Who’s that?” she whispered.

  “Probably that newspaperman, Fulton of the Journal,” said Sara.

  “That’s right. I’d forgotten about him.”

  “You don’t have to see him,” said Wyatt. “If you’re still upset about that note—and you have a right to be—then Matson can tell him you’re indisposed and you can talk to him some other time.”

  “No. The note he wrote me was a very nice one, and I’m sure I can manage. I gather you intend to stay while he talks to me.”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  “I know. And of course I don’t mind. But I’m not sure how he’ll feel about it.”

  “I don’t much care. I’ve been wanting to see him for some time.”

  “Mr. Edward Fulton,” said Matson, opening the door and then standing aside.

  Fulton had clearly made an effort to dress for the occasion and did not look nearly as raffish as he had when he talked to Sara and Andrew on Regent Street.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Tillett,” he began. “It was very good of you …” Then, seeing Wyatt, he lost his smile. “Oh, Inspector. I didn’t expect to find you here.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t,” said Wyatt grimly. “I left several notes for you at the Journal, asking you to come and see me at the Yard, but you never did.”

  “I meant to. I started to come over two or three times, but each time something came up.”

  “Strange how difficult you found it as opposed to the times when you wanted to ask me about a case. I’m sure you know what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “I wanted to know how you knew about the Meg Morrissey murder, where you got the facts on that.”

  Fulton shook his head, trying to look apologetic, but somehow looked smug.

  “I’m sorry, Inspector. I can’t tell you that.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Can’t. If a journalist doesn’t protect his sources—if he reveals where he got his information—he’s finished. Because no one will ever trust him again.”

  “I see,” said Wyatt coldly. “All right, Fulton. I’ll remember that.”

  Fulton waited a moment, not sure whether Wyatt was going to say anything else. Then he nodded to Sara, looked at Andrew and turned to Verna.

  “As I said, it was very good of you to agree to see me. Though, I must confess, I thought I’d be seeing you alone.”

  “Inspector Wyatt is an old friend,” said Verna in a neutral voice. “I wouldn’t dream of asking him to leave.”

  “I see. Of course I know Miss Wiggins. I saw her just the other day on Regent Street. But I’m afraid I don’t know this young man.”

  “My son, Andrew.”

  “Oh.” Again Fulton hesitated, as if not sure whether Sara and Andrew were going to remain also, but when neither of them made a move to leave, he sighed, took a notebook from his pocket and gave Verna his full attention.

  “I wanted to talk to you about your new play, Thy Name Is Woman. That is the title, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “There was a good deal of talk about it until just the other day. I know there was a problem about getting a proper theatre, but that was supposedly settled and the word was that you were going into rehearsal, but … Are you in rehearsal?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “Will you be going into rehearsal within the next few days?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t say.”

  “In other words, no date’s been set.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Can you tell me why the production’s been delayed?”

  “Don’t you think that’s something you should discuss with Mr. Harrison?”

  “I tried to. He claimed it was because some work was being done on the play. Some rewriting.”

  “Why do you say ‘he claimed’,” said Verna, “as if you’re not sure he’s telling the truth.”

  “Because I’m not. He was supposedly very enthusiastic about the play. And so were you. That’s why I can’t help wondering whether there wasn’t another reason for delaying the production.”

  “What other reason?”

  “Well, we have had those murders—three of them, all involving actresses, within the last week or so. Murders that were exactly like a series that took place ten years ago and that were never solved. I couldn’t help wondering whether that had anything to do with it. Whether you had postponed going into rehearsal because you felt anxious.”

  “Why should I feel more anxious than any other actress in London?”

  “There’s no reason why you should. But since you do seem to be … Were you threatened?”

  Before Verna could answer—before she could do more than glance at Wyatt—he was on his feet and standing in front of Fulton.

  “What made you ask that?” he asked quietly but forcefully.

  “It was a natural assumption,” said Fulton.

  “It was not a natural assumption! That question was based on information! Wasn’t it?”

  “Perhaps,” said Fulton, shrinking back in his chair.

  “There’s no perhaps about it. It had to be based on information. And I want to know what that information was.”

  “I told you before…”

  “I know. You have to protect your source. Well, I have something much more important than that to protect—human lives. Not just Miss Tillett’s, but possibly others. I believe in a free press. I think that our newspapers are a valuable institution and that they play an important role when they act responsibly. But what you’re doing isn’t responsible. It’s cheap, sensational yellow journalism. You’re not interested in any large issue. You’re just interested in a story—theatrical tittle-tattle. So I ask you again: What made you come here today? What information brought you here? And if you don’t tell me, I’m going to charge you with willfully withholding information necessary to a police investigation. Well?”

  “You needn’t get so shirty,” said Fulton. “I know that it’s important. It’s particularly important because Miss Tillett’s involved, and I happen to think she’s one of the best actresses we’ve got. So … Here you are. This came to me at the Journal yesterday afternoon.” He took a note out of his notebook and handed it to Wyatt.

  Wyatt unfolded it, read it, then gave it to Verna. Sara and Andrew read it over her shoulder.

  It was written in the same strong hand as the note that accompanied the flowers, and it said, “The murdered players’ story was well done. If you’d like an interesting sequel, ask Verna Tillett why she’s keeping off the boards. Is she afraid she’ll be next? And if so, why? Has she been warned? Or do the wicked flee when no man pursueth?”

  “You say you got it yesterday at the Journal?” said Wyatt.

  “Yes.”

  “How did it get there? Had it been mailed?”

  “No. Someone brought it there, put it in my box.”

  “I don’t suppos
e anyone noticed who it was.”

  “No. Too many people go in and out.”

  “Was the note in an envelope?”

  “Yes. Addressed to me. But I didn’t keep it. I didn’t think it was important.”

  Wyatt nodded. “The way the reference to the murdered players is phrased, I get the impression that this isn’t the first communication you’ve had from this unknown person. Was it he or she who gave you the information about Meg Morrissey?”

  Fulton hesitated a moment, then nodded. “Yes. There was another note before this, put in my box just the way this one was. It mentioned that Meg Morrissey had been found dead under mysterious circumstances, said the police were keeping it quiet and suggested maybe they were afraid it might be the beginning of a series of murders like the ones of ten years ago.”

  “I don’t suppose you kept that note.”

  “No. We get a lot of tips, most of which turn out to be nothing. I threw the note away before I started looking into the Meg Morrissey murder, found there was something to it.”

  “Did you know about the other, old murders?”

  “I vaguely remembered them, but it never occurred to me to connect them with the present ones until I got the note.”

  “Why do you suppose the notes were sent to you as opposed to any other journalist in London?”

  “That’s an interesting question—one I’ve been asking myself.”

  “And?”

  “I don’t know. Of course I do cover murder stories as well as the theatre, so I’d be good on a story that involved both. But, besides that, I may have done a little talking in one of the pubs, complaining that things were slow and wishing that something big, like a new Jack the Ripper, would come along.”

  “And you think that whoever sent you the notes overheard you?”

  “Don’t you think it’s possible?”

  “I do. But I think there might be another reason. And that’s the fact that you’re on the Journal, a paper that’s not exactly known for its high ethical or journalistic standards.”