“More than just friends. He’s Andrew’s stepfather now. But if Beasley’s sick, I don’t know why you want Peter to see him rather than a doctor.”
Sean looked at her sideways.
“I never said I wanted the inspector to see him instead of a doctor. I’d like both of them to see him.”
“Why?” asked Andrew.
“Why don’t we wait to talk about it until after you see him?”
Andrew glanced at Sara and then nodded.
They went several blocks up Portobello Road, then turned north and went several more. What dealers throughout London call “the Road” is far from elegant, with its littered streets and its shops crowded together, but as they went further north, the neighborhood became even less attractive. They passed street after street of houses all exactly alike, not really slums, but the next thing to it, for most of the buildings needed paint and repairs of one sort or another.
Finally Sean paused opposite a row of small, semidetached houses that, like most of those they had passed, had seen better days.
“Here we are,” he said, nodding to the first house on the corner. “That’s where old Beasley lives.”
There was a builder’s yard across the street with a board fence around it. Through the gate, you could see piles of lumber, sand, and bricks. The house next to Beasley’s was even more dilapidated than his, with many of its shutters missing and those that were left hanging crookedly. It was apparently a rooming house, for there was a sign in the window stating that there were rooms for rent.
Sean led the way across the street, produced a key, unlocked the door, and went in.
“Good morning, Mr. Beasley,” he called up the stairs. “It’s Sean, and I’ve brought you some company.”
Sara and Andrew followed him in. They were in a narrow, dark hallway with a flight of stairs in front of them. To their right was a parlor that looked like an annex to Beasley’s shop, for it was full of furniture of all kinds and all periods, with packing cases set down wherever there was room for them. The air was musty, as if a window hadn’t been opened anywhere in the house for some time.
Sean went up the stairs and opened the door of the rear bedroom.
“And how are you this morning?” he asked cheerfully.
“About the same,” grunted Beasley. He looked at Sara and Andrew, who had followed Sean into the room. “What are you two doing here?” he asked angrily.
“They came to the shop, and when they heard you weren’t well, they insisted on coming to see you,” said Sean.
“And don’t I have anything to say about that?” said Beasley. “I told you I didn’t want any visitors—didn’t want to see anyone at all!”
Sara and Andrew had been staring at Beasley, shocked at the way he looked. He was a big man and had always been on the heavy side, with good color and plump, pink cheeks. Now, lying there on the large, untidy bed, he looked like a shadow of himself, for he was pale, with lackluster eyes, and he had lost so much weight that he was almost thin.
“Since when have we been just anyone?” asked Sara, getting hold of herself.
“What do you think you are?”
“Friends. Andrew just came home from school yesterday, and when I asked him what he wanted to do this morning, he said he wanted to come and see you.”
“That’s true,” said Andrew. He had been studying Beasley also, and he suddenly realized that the sick man’s eyes weren’t just dull. They were evasive, fearful. Beasley—who had worked closely with Peter Wyatt on so many occasions and been strong, ingenious, and unshakable—was not just frightened of something. He was terrified!
“Have you had breakfast yet?” asked Sean.
“No. And I don’t want any.”
“Now you stop that! You’ve got to eat. If you’ll stay with him,” he said to Sara and Andrew, “I’ll go downstairs and fix something for him.”
“Just some tea,” said Beasley. “Don’t bring me anything else because I won’t eat it.”
“Not eating is something new for you,” said Andrew as Sean went downstairs. “I’ve eaten more interesting food with you in more unusual places than with anyone else I know. How long have you been sick?”
“I’m not sure. About a week, I think.”
“Have you had a doctor in?” asked Sara.
“What do I need a doctor for? I know what’s wrong with me.”
“Do you?”
“Of course. It’s the Spanish influenza. There’s a lot of it around.”
“I haven’t heard anything about it,” said Andrew. “Do you have a temperature?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t taken it. But I have a headache, and I’m always thirsty.”
“That doesn’t mean you have influenza.”
“What do you know about it? Are you a doctor?”
“No, but—”
“Then why don’t you mind your own blinking business?”
And pulling the blanket up, Beasley rolled over, turning his back on them. Andrew and Sara glanced at one another but didn’t say anything. Andrew went over to the window, wondering if he dared open it so as to let in some fresh air but decided he’d better not. A neglected garden outside held a single, forlorn tree in the far corner. There was a brick wall on the street side of the garden, the blank wall of the house next door on the other and, across the rear, a board fence with nails projecting from the top to discourage intruders. Beyond the rear fence was some scrubby waste land that ran north to a spur of the Great Western Railway.
Beasley didn’t move, but he clearly wasn’t asleep because he sat up again as soon as Sean came into the room, looked at the tray he was carrying, and said, “I said just tea! Take the rest of that stuff out of here!”
“It’s just toast, Mr. Beasley. And a pot of the kind of jam you’ve always liked.”
“Well, I don’t want it. Take it away!”
“No, don’t!” said Sara firmly. “If he doesn’t want to eat the toast, he can leave it.”
“Are you starting to give orders around here?” asked Beasley irascibly.
“Yes, I am. And about time, too. Why are you being so difficult when Sean’s doing everything he can to help you?”
“Did I ask him to?”
“No, you didn’t. And you didn’t have to because he’s worried about you—just as we are. He wanted to do anything he could for you. But if you go on this way.…”
“Then what? You’ll go away and leave me? Good!”
“I told you before, I’m not sure you have the influenza,” said Andrew. “But whether you have or you haven’t, I think we should get a doctor in to look at you.”
“Don’t you dare! I told you I don’t want a doctor! If you bring one here, I’ll throw things at him!”
“No, you won’t—not at this doctor! Come on, Sara, Sean.”
“Wait a minute!” shouted Beasley as they went out. “Come back here, you nosey, interfering brats! Sean! Sean!”
But Sean paid no attention to him and followed the two young people down the stairs.
“Well?” he said. “What do you think?”
“He may be sick,” said Andrew. “He certainly looks awful. But I think mostly he’s frightened—very frightened.”
“You think so, too?” said Sean. “That’s why I didn’t want to tell you what I thought was wrong with him. I wanted to see what you thought.”
“That’s what I think, too,” said Sara. “That he’s terribly worried, terribly afraid of something. But if that’s so, why is he against seeing a doctor?”
“Because if the doctor’s any good,” said Andrew, “he’ll know he’s not really sick. He’ll know that there’s something scaring him, and he’ll want to know what it is.”
“I think you’re right,” said Sean. “Was there a particular doctor you were thinking of bringing in?”
“Yes. Dr. Reeves of St. Mary’s Hospital. He’s a friend of Peter’s, and he’s heard about Beasley from Peter and from us.”
“Is he the
doctor who took care of the old man we smuggled out of the house on Sherburne Square?”
“Yes.”
“From what I heard, he should be able to handle anything,” said Sean. “Even Beasley.”
“He will,” said Sara. “But he’s going to ask even more questions than we have. For instance, do you have any idea what he’s frightened of?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“You know?”
“I wouldn’t say I know, but I’ll lay you a Brummagem sixpence to all of Lombard Street that that statue had something to do with it!”
“What statue’s that?” asked Andrew.
“He had it in the shop about a month ago. It was an Indian statue of Kali. Do you know who that is?”
“Yes,” said Andrew. “She was the wife of Shiva and was known as the Destroyer.”
“And she looked it! Four arms she had. Blood on her mouth and hands, fangs like a tiger, and a necklace of skulls. Fair gave me the jimjams, she did, just to look at her.”
“Where did Beasley get it?” asked Sara.
“I don’t know. He wouldn’t say.”
“Is it still in the shop?”
“No.”
“Where is it then?” asked Andrew.
“I don’t know that either. He had it in the window for a while and suddenly it was gone. When I asked him what had happened to it, he told me to mind my own business.”
“Maybe he sold it,” said Andrew.
“No, no. I keep the books, and it would have been written down if he’d sold it. It just disappeared.”
“And you think the statue had something to do with his being sick?” said Sara.
“Well, it was after he got it that he started acting scared and funny.”
“Are you saying you think there was a curse on the statue?” said Sara, her eyes wide and a little frightened.
“Maybe,” said Sean. “Maybe it was stolen and the priests wanted it back.”
“But if it’s gone, why should Beasley still be frightened?” asked Andrew.
“I don’t know. Maybe he didn’t give it back to them. And, even if he did, maybe they’re still angry at him. All I know is that I’ll give you odds that that statue had something to do with what’s happening to him!”
3
Dr. Reeves
“Of course I remember you,” said Dr. Reeves. “You’re friends of Peter Wyatt. We met during that very strange affair with old Benedict Cortland. You went to school with his grandson, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” said Andrew. “And I still do.”
“I saw the old gentleman the other day at the club. I must say he seemed fine. And of course I heard some perfectly splendid news about Peter. Married your mother, didn’t he?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, that makes him a bit more than a friend of yours. Is he still away?”
“Yes, sir. On the continent. But they should be back very soon.”
“I’ve been meaning to write him a note of congratulation. About time he was married. And I gather your mother is not only beautiful and a fine actress, but a wonderful woman.”
“She is,” said Sara emphatically. “She’s the most wonderful woman I’ve ever known.”
“Well, I’m glad to have that confirmed by someone disinterested,” said Dr. Reeves, smiling. “Now, what can I do for you?”
“We wondered if you could come and look at a friend of Peter’s and ours. We’re very worried about him. His name’s Beasley, and he doesn’t live too far from here.”
“Beasley. Was he the chap who winkled old Mr. Cortland out of his daughter-in-law’s house by pretending it was on fire and brought him here to the hospital so I could treat him?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Smart piece of work that was. I always wanted to meet him. What seems to be his trouble?”
“Well, he claims it’s nothing—a touch of the Spanish influenza—and says he doesn’t want to see a doctor. But we think it’s a lot more than that.”
“From what I know of you, I’m sure you wouldn’t say that without reason. Yes, of course I’ll come to see him. I’ve finished rounds here. Just let me give these charts and some instructions to Sister Wingate and we’ll go.”
It was now late in the afternoon, almost four o’clock. They had gone over to Dr. Reeves’ surgery on Wimpole Street and found that he was not going to be there that day. He was out on calls, but he would be at St. Mary’s Hospital at two. Since they were not too far away, they stopped in at the British Museum, thinking they might find out something about the statue of Kali, but they discovered that there were almost no Indian artifacts there. They were all in the Indian Section of the Victoria and Albert Museum. So they had lunch in the museum’s refreshment room and then went over to St. Mary’s and were waiting on the second floor of the hospital when Dr. Reeves came down the corridor from the men’s ward.
“All right,” he said, rejoining them. “Now where is your friend Beasley?”
He nodded when they told him, led them downstairs to where his carriage was waiting, and a few minutes later they were at Beasley’s house.
Sean, looking even more worried than before, let them in.
“How is he?” asked Andrew after they had introduced him to Dr. Reeves.
“Not good. In fact, I think he’s even worse than he was.”
“In what way?” asked Dr. Reeves.
“He’s not making sense. I’m afraid he’s out of his head.”
“You mean he’s delirious?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Where is he?”
“I’ll show you.”
Sean led the way upstairs, and Sara and Andrew followed behind Dr. Reeves. Beasley was hunched up in one corner of the bed, not exactly sitting up, but not lying down either.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Beasley,” said the doctor crisply. “I’m Dr. Reeves. We’ve never met, but I believe you’ve heard of me.”
Beasley looked at him with dull, sunken eyes and muttered something.
“I’m sorry. I’m afraid I didn’t hear you,” said Dr. Reeves. Beasley didn’t even mutter this time. He grunted.
“It would be helpful if you told me how you feel, Mr. Beasley. Do you have any particular pains? Do you have a headache, for instance?”
Beasley stared at him without saying anything. Dr. Reeves felt his forehead, bent down and looked at his eyes, then took out his stethoscope.
“I think the two of you should wait downstairs,” he said to Sara and Andrew. “I won’t be too long. But I’d like you to stay in case I need some help with him,” he said to Sean.
“Yes, doctor,” said Sean.
Dr. Reeves was listening to Beasley’s chest as Sara and Andrew went out and down the stairs. In spite of the fact that there were several chairs and sofas in the parlor, it was hard to find a place to sit because there were boxes and books piled on everything. Andrew lifted a bound set of the Proceedings of the Royal Society off an armchair so that Sara could sit and sat down on a packing case himself. They waited in silence, and Andrew knew that Sara was as upset at what was happening as he was—and for the same reason. Because nothing could be more unlike the buoyant, wryly humorous, self-sufficient Beasley than the weak and frightened man they had left upstairs.
When Dr. Reeves, followed by Sean, came into the room about fifteen minutes later, he looked grave.
“What do you think, doctor?” asked Sara.
“I don’t know what to think—except that I’m quite sure it’s not influenza. He doesn’t really have a fever—not more than a degree or two—so he’s not delirious. But still he’s certainly not rational. In addition to that, he seems to be frightened of something.”
“That’s what we thought,” said Sean. “He fell asleep just before you came, and in his sleep he started saying, ‘No! No, I won’t! Never!’”
“He’s going to be all right though, isn’t he, doctor?” asked Andrew.
“I think so. I’d feel better if I cou
ld make a firm diagnosis, but it’s hard to do that when he’s not responsive, won’t talk to me and tell me some of the things I’d like to know. However, I’ve written a prescription for something I’d like him to start taking immediately. Is there a chemist near who can fill it?” he asked Sean. “Or would you like me to take you back to the hospital and have the pharmacist there make it up for you?”
“There’s one in Pembridge Road,” said Sean. “The thing is, old Beasley shouldn’t be left alone, should he?”
“No, he shouldn’t.”
“We’ll stay with him while you take care of the prescription,” said Sara. “We didn’t say what time we’d be home, and anyway mother never worries when I’m with Andrew.”
“That’s fine, then,” said Sean. “And while I’m at it, if you don’t mind, I’d like to take care of a few things at the shop. But I should be back here by five.”
“That will get us home in plenty of time,” said Andrew. “Have you any instructions for us in the meantime, sir?” he asked the doctor.
“No. Keep him quiet, give him all the liquids he wants, and I’ll stop by to see if he’s any better tomorrow.”
Sean and Dr. Reeves left together, and Sara and Andrew went back upstairs to Beasley’s room. The fog that had been moving in since morning was getting thicker, settling down over the city and gradually obscuring the garden outside the window. Beasley, sitting up in bed, was looking at the fog with a puzzled expression.
“Sean had to go out,” said Sara matter-of-factly, “but we’re going to stay with you. Is there anything you’d like while we’re waiting for him to get back—some tea, for instance?”
Beasley nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Tea.”
“I’ll go make it,” she said and went downstairs.
“Sean went to get you some medicine,” said Andrew. “But, in the meantime, how do you feel? Any better?”
“Maybe a little,” said Beasley.
“You look and sound better. Do you know who I am?”
“Of course. Andrew.”
“That’s good. That’s very good.”
“What’s good about it? Stop treating me like an invalid or a blooming idiot!”
Andrew smiled. It was the first sign they’d had of the old, normal Beasley, and it made him feel more hopeful than he’d been all day. He was still smiling when Sara came back to the room with the tea.
The Case of the Murdered Players (Andrew Tillet, Sara Wiggins & Inspector Wyatt Book 7) Page 13
