The Case of the Watching Boy (Andrew Tillet, Sara Wiggins & Inspector Wyatt Book 9)

by Robert Newman

  He continued to look at the house, particularly at the gate that led into the garden. If it wasn’t locked—and it seemed to have only a latch—that would be the best way in to get the boy. Someone would have to create a diversion, of course, get the nurse and anyone else who might be there away from the garden. But if that were done, then seizing the boy should be fairly easy.

  “May I have the glasses?” said Markham.

  Raising them, he looked toward the road beyond the house.

  “I think.…” he said. “Yes, here she comes.”

  Andrew turned. A brougham had come over the crest of the hill and was moving toward them.

  “Where are you supposed to meet her?”

  “Near those oaks,” said Markham, nodding toward a grove of scrub oaks that grew just off the road. “We’d better go down there.”

  Hanging the glasses around his neck, he led the way down off the tor and across the rolling terrain of the Downs, over the tough, wiry grass, past patches of heather and broad expanses of wild flowers: buttercups and Queen Anne’s lace, bird’s-eye, hawkweed, and wandering sailor.

  “What will you tell her about me?” asked Andrew.

  “I’ll tell her that you’re a friend of mine,” said Markham. “Can I say that?” he asked with a touch of shyness.

  “Of course. She’s going to assume then that you’ve told me what she’s planning to do.”

  “And of course I have.”

  Yes, you have, thought Andrew. But that doesn’t mean I approve of it.

  They trotted on, past a bank of golden broom. Then, coming around the stand of oaks, they saw the carriage. It had drawn up just off the dusty road, the coachman standing at the horses’ heads. He was a small man with a narrow face and dark eyes. He was wearing a squarish bowler and a brown whipcord jacket with matching breeches tucked into Newmarket boots. He looked less like a coachman than a groom, but that may have been what he was.

  At first Andrew did not see the woman who called herself Mrs. Grey, but then she stepped out from under the trees and he saw that she was very much as Markham had described her: a large straw hat and a gray dress with a wide sash and ruffles at her throat, not very tall but quite pretty. Her eyes widened when she saw Andrew.

  “Hello,” she said to Markham. “I was afraid something had happened when I found you weren’t here.”

  “We were up on the tor,” he said. “We waited there till we saw you come over the hill. This is my friend Tillett.”

  “How do you do?” she said, giving him her hand. “I take it you know why I’m here.”

  “Yes. Markham told me.”

  “I won’t ask if I can trust you. If you’re his friend, I know I can.” Her hand was soft, her eyes dark and warm. “What have you found out?” she asked Markham.

  “Well, besides the woman you told me about—either your husband’s woman friend or someone he’s engaged to be in charge of the place—there’s a nanny who does nothing but take care of the boy. There’s also a cook and a gardener. They both sleep there, and I think they’re husband and wife.”

  “I think so, too,” said Mrs. Grey. “At least, that’s what I was told. But I’ve found out something much more important than that. Tomorrow morning the woman will be going away, into London, and she will be gone all day. So tomorrow will be the ideal day to do what I’m planning to do.”

  “How do you know that?” asked Andrew. “That she won’t be there?”

  “I’d rather not tell you. I think the less you know, the better.”

  He nodded. It was of course true that if they were ever questioned about what was going on, it would be better if they could say they didn’t know.

  “Do you know when and how you’re going to do it?” asked Markham.

  “I know how. The when will depend on the two of you.”

  “On us?” said Andrew.

  “Yes. On when you can get away from school—so I suppose it will be about this same time. As to how, that depends on the two of you also—on how much you’ll be willing to help me.”

  “We’ll do anything!” said Markham impulsively. “Anything at all! At least—” He broke off. “What do you think, Tillett?”

  “I don’t know,” said Andrew.

  It was all happening much more quickly than he had thought and not at all in the way he had expected it would. He had been very smug in thinking he understood how and why Markham had become involved, and now here he was wanting to be a part of it too. Why? Because Mrs. Grey was pretty? Because it would make him feel manly to be able to help her? Perhaps. But, at the same time, if his mother were in similar difficulties, what would he think of anyone she asked to help her who wouldn’t?

  “I don’t know,” said Andrew again. “I’d like to know just how you’re planning to do it.”

  Mrs. Grey had been looking at him, studying him.

  “I’ll tell you,” she said simply, quietly.

  Andrew was silent after she had finished. He walked over to the road and looked up to where he knew the house was hidden in the shallow valley. He studied the Downs between there and where they stood, noting that it was mostly downhill. Then he came back to where Markham and Mrs. Grey were waiting, watching him.

  “It certainly sounds as if it should work,” he said. “All right. I’ll do it. We’ll do it.”

  3

  The Knights Errant

  “What time is it?” asked Markham.

  “Twenty minutes after four,” said Andrew.

  “They should be here soon, then.”

  “If they’re on time, yes.”

  “I think they will be. They were very prompt yesterday.”

  “They?”

  “Well, she—Mrs. Grey. Do you think we’ll ever find out what her real name is?”

  “We may.”

  “How?”

  “If it all comes off and there’s something about it in the newspapers.”

  “I never thought of that. I suspect there are lots of things I never thought of.” They were lying out on the tor again, the glasses between them. Andrew picked them up and looked toward the slate-roofed house in the combe.

  “Is the boy still in the garden?” asked Markham.

  “Yes,” said Andrew, trying to see exactly where he was. He could see the nanny, but not the boy. However, she was saying something to someone, so he must be there.

  “Hello,” said Markham. “Who’s that?”

  “Where?”

  Markham pointed to some figures that had come over the ridge that ran across the Downs just north of the valley. It took Andrew a moment to adjust the focus of the glasses, and by that time the figures had stopped moving.

  “They look like Gypsies,” said Markham.

  “They are,” said Andrew.

  There were two of them: one tall and dark with long mustachios, gold rings in his ears, and a red bandanna tied around his head, and the other shorter and wearing a high-crowned, wide-brimmed hat. They had been walking next to a brightly painted caravan, drawn by a dappled Clydesdale.

  “I wonder what they’re doing,” said Markham.

  “Looks as if they’re getting ready to set up camp,” said Andrew. For now the shorter of the Gypsies was unhitching the horse, while the taller, mustached one had strolled around to the rear of the caravan and was taking a black iron pot from a hook near the rear wheels. “Here,” he said, handing the glasses to Markham.

  “Yes, they do seem to be setting up camp,” said Markham. “Do you think there’ll be more of them?”

  “Hard to say. I don’t see any others, so they’re probably alone. Poor chaps. They may be in for a rather rough time.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Don’t people always suspect Gypsies of kidnapping children?”

  “Oh. Yes.” He swung the glasses toward the road. “There they are.” Even without the glasses, Andrew could see that the brougham had come over the crest of the hill and stopped there. Markham glanced at the long, striped muffler th
ey had tied to a bush next to them. “Do you think they’ve seen our signal?”

  “We’ll know in a minute.” Then, as the brougham’s driver took out a handkerchief and blew his nose, “Yes, they have.”

  The agreement had been that when they arrived at the tor they would tie a scarf or muffler to the bush to show that they were in place and that, when the driver saw it, he would take out his handkerchief and use it to indicate that he had.

  “All right,” said Andrew, jumping to his feet, pulling off the muffler, and tying it around his throat. “That’s it. We’ll have to move fast now.”

  He slid down the steep top part of the tor, then began running over the springy turf of the Downs toward the house. He paused when he came to the edge of the shallow combe in which the house was set and glanced around. Markham was close behind him, holding the glasses, so that they would not swing wildly as he ran.

  “All right?” asked Andrew.

  Looking a little worried, Markham nodded. Moving more carefully and quietly now, they worked their way down the side of the combe to the rear of the house. There they stopped again, hiding behind a hawthorn about ten feet from the gate that led into the walled garden. Andrew would have liked to crawl up to the gate and see if it was open, but he knew that was dangerous. He would wait, as they had agreed, for the diversion. If it was locked, he was sure that with a leg up from Markham, he could climb over it.

  Crouching there behind the hawthorn, they heard the carriage come in from the road and stop at the front door of the house. The knocker rattled, then the front door opened. They could hear voices, but not what was being said. The driver was supposedly asking directions. Then Mrs. Grey was to get out and join in the conversation and either say she felt faint or fall as if she had fainted.

  There was an exclamation from the front of the house, voices were raised, then a woman—probably the cook who had opened the door—called, “Mrs. Woolsey! Mrs. Woolsey, come quickly! The poor woman’s fainted!”

  A door closer at hand—the door that led from the garden into the house—opened and closed suddenly and vigorously.

  “Now!” said Andrew, jumping to his feet. He ran to the garden door and tried the latch. It lifted, and he opened the door. “You stand cavey,” he said quietly and urgently to Markham. “I’ll get the boy.”

  Nodding, Markham brushed past the rosebushes that edged the garden, hurried to the door that led into the house, and stood there listening to what was going on at the front door. Andrew, meanwhile, had gone the other way to where the little boy was standing, holding a stuffed woolly lamb.

  “Hello,” said Andrew. “You’re Michael, aren’t you?”

  Staring at him with eyes that were wide with attention but with no surprise, the boy nodded.

  “I’m Andrew. Your mother sent me. Would you like me to take you to her?”

  His face lighting up, the boy nodded again, more enthusiastically this time.

  “Good. Here we go, then.” Swinging the boy, still clutching the lamb, onto his back, he called to Markham. “We’re off. Get the garden door,” and he ran out through the door and along the combe to the point where the sides were the least steep and it was the easiest to climb back up to the Downs. Behind him he heard Markham close the door that led into the garden, then he was running alongside him.

  “Well done,” he said. “Need any help?”

  “No,” said Andrew. “We’re fine.”

  The boy, arms around Andrew’s neck and feet locked around his waist, was laughing with delight at the sudden and exciting ride. He cried out with dismay when he dropped his woolly lamb, but became quiet when Markham picked it up and showed it to him.

  “I’ll carry it for you,” he said, and the boy nodded.

  They were up on the Downs now, and though they had some distance to go, it was, as Andrew had noted before, all downhill. Twice Markham offered to take the boy, and both times Andrew shook his head. He did not want to take the time to make the change, and he did not know how the boy would react to it—he was still quiet and seemed happy.

  On they ran, over the springy turf, circling around so that they reached the road on the far side of the trees. By that time Andrew was panting a little and had a stitch in his side.

  “Mummy?” said the boy as Andrew disengaged his arms from around his neck and set him down.

  “She’ll be here soon,” said Andrew.

  “I think I hear the carriage,” said Markham, giving the boy his woolly lamb.

  A moment later the brougham drew up, the door opened, and Mrs. Grey jumped out, followed by an older, rather severe-looking woman in a nurse’s uniform. Without a word, Mrs. Grey picked up the boy and handed him to the nurse, who—also without a word—got back into the carriage. Then she turned to the boys.

  “You were wonderful!” she said to them. “I’ll never forget you. Never!”

  She threw her arms around Andrew and kissed him on both cheeks. He was very conscious of the softness of her lips and of something else. The scent she had on? It may have been. In any case, there was something familiar about the embrace, something he could not identify.

  She kissed Markham as she had Andrew, then followed the nurse into the carriage. The door slammed, the sharp-faced coachman with the square bowler hat cracked his whip, and the brougham went rattling off down the chalky road in a cloud of white dust.

  Andrew and Markham stood there staring after it, and Andrew, for one, had some curiously mixed feelings. He was moved by the woman’s kisses and what she had said. At the same time, there was something a little odd about her behavior, something he could not quite put his finger on.

  “Well, that’s that,” he said. “You were very good all through that. In fact, top-hole.”

  “Thank you,” said Markham, pleased.

  He had been good, doing everything that needed to be done with the speed and precision of the other half of a pair of good Rugby backs. And it was only then that Andrew realized how skillfully the whole thing had been planned. As far as he knew, no one had seen him or Markham, and there was no one who could connect them with Mrs. Grey. At the same time, no matter what anyone might suspect, who could blame Mrs. Grey for the kidnapping when she had been with the people in the house the whole time until she drove away?

  4

  Disaster!

  Andrew was not sure when he first began to feel uneasy about their exploit. He and Markham had to hurry to get back to school in time for tea call-over. Then there was prep and he had a great deal of reading to do for English and didn’t have a chance to think about anything else.

  The next morning, though, when he started going back over what had happened, he realized that one of the things that had been bothering him was Mrs. Grey’s behavior toward the boy. If she loved him as much as she claimed and hadn’t seen him for as long as she said, how was it that she hadn’t made more of a fuss over him, hugged him and kissed him before she handed him over to the nurse? On the other hand, she was clearly anxious to get away—as she should have been—and she may have decided to hold off on the emotional part of her reunion with the boy until she was sure they were really out of danger.

  He had something much more important to worry about, however, and that was what he was going to say to the headmaster. For while he could now assure him and Mr. Slyke that there was no longer any reason to be concerned about Markham, he could not tell them why.

  As a result of all this, he was fairly sober when he left the house on his way to chapel. Chadwick, who was his best friend at school, walked with him, chattering about a New Zealander who would be playing for Oxford in that year’s varsity match and who was supposed to be as great a batsman as the incomparable W.G.

  The absolute knowledge that something was wrong came to Andrew as they approached the chapel and saw the crowd in front of it. For some reason the boys were going in much more slowly than usual—in fact, only one or two at a time.

  “Hello!” said Chadwick. “Here’s a go. What’s up?”<
br />
  “I don’t know,” said Andrew.

  “Why, there’s old Bartram and a copper,” said Chadwick, seeing the headmaster standing at the chapel door with a constable. “Who’s the other cove?”

  As soon as Andrew saw the other man—a sharp-eyed, middle-aged man in pepper-and-salt tweeds—he knew that he was a police officer, too, and a very senior one. But remaining discreet, he said, “I don’t know.”

  They were now close enough so that they could see precisely what was happening. As each boy reached the open chapel door, he was halted and his gray school blazer was examined quickly but carefully by either the constable or the plainclothes police officer, who stood one on each side of the door. Then he was waved on into the chapel. Though the headmaster took no part in the actual search, it was clear from the expression on his face and the way he looked at each boy as he approached the door, that he was very much involved in the proceedings.

  “Well, if that doesn’t beat Banagher!” said Chadwick, who had a weakness for colorful slang. “What are they looking for, blood?”

  Before Andrew could answer, there was a sudden flurry of excitement at the door. With an exclamation, the constable reached out, picked up the arm of the boy who had just come abreast of him and said something to the man in the tweed suit. He examined the boy’s sleeve, too, and called the headmaster’s attention to it. The headmaster glanced at it, at the boy’s face, and his face became grim. He said something to the boy and the two men, and the three of them turned and started to come down the steps through the crowd of waiting boys. When Andrew saw the boy’s face, his worst fears were confirmed. For of course it was Markham. His face pale, Markham looked at Andrew and then away, walking past him without saying anything to him.

  “Isn’t that Markham?” said Chadwick.

  “Yes.”