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

by Robert Newman

  “What have they nobbled him for?”

  “All right, boys,” said the headmaster, who had remained at the open chapel door. “That will be all. In you go now.” And with nothing to hold them up, the boys began to pour past him into the chapel.

  “Coming?” asked Chadwick, starting up the chapel steps.

  “No,” said Andrew. And turning, he began walking quickly the other way, following Markham, the policeman, and the man in the tweed suit, who were crossing the quadrangle on their way to the headmaster’s quarters. He caught up with them just as Markham and the man in the tweed suit went in, but as he tried to follow them, the policeman stopped him.

  “Just a second, young fellow, me lad,” he said. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “In there.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes. I’ve got to go in!”

  “Oh, hello, Tillett,” said the headmaster, coming up behind him. “I thought it was you.”

  “Yes, sir. Something’s happened to Markham, hasn’t it?”

  “Yes, something very serious indeed.”

  “I gathered that. And while I don’t know what it is, if anything’s wrong I’m just as much to blame as Markham. In fact, I’m probably more to blame.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because you asked me to keep an eye on him, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I did.” His face still grave and troubled, he looked thoughtfully at Andrew. “All right. Perhaps you should come in.”

  Nodding to the policeman, he led Andrew through the entrance hall and into his study. Besides Markham, who was standing there pale and rigid, and the man in the tweed suit, who was leaning casually against the desk, there was a woman in the room, a woman Andrew had never seen before. She was probably in her middle twenties, quite fair and very attractive. She sat on a chair in a corner of the room wearing a checked cotton dress and a dark straw summer hat. And though she wasn’t weeping now, she clearly had been, for her face was drawn, her eyes red, and she held a damp handkerchief in her hands.

  “Before we go any further,” said the headmaster, “I think some introductions are in order. This is Mrs. George Vickery.” The troubled woman inclined her head in acknowledgment. “This,” he said, indicating the man in tweeds, “is Detective Inspector Gillian of the Somerset Police. And these two young men, students of this school, are Christopher Markham and Andrew Tillett.” Andrew and Markham both bowed. “I now turn the proceedings over to you, Detective Inspector.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Gillian. “I’d like to begin by asking Markham where he was yesterday afternoon at about four-thirty.”

  “I was out on the Downs,” said Markham.

  “Where on the Downs?”

  “On the top of the tor—Bodmin’s Tor.”

  “Did you stay there—on the tor?”

  “No, sir. I didn’t.”

  “May I ask why you want to know this, Detective Inspector?” asked Andrew.

  Gillian looked at him with an exaggerated show of patience.

  “You’re probably not familiar with police inquiries, Master Tillett—there’s no reason why you should be—but the fact is that I have a good reason for asking the questions that I am asking.”

  “I’m sure you have,” said Andrew. “But I’d like to know what that reason is.”

  “Now look here, Tillett,” said Gillian, his patience starting to slip.

  “Please don’t, Detective Inspector!” said Mrs. Vickery suddenly and emotionally. “Don’t get angry and formal and official. These are good boys. I can tell that just by looking at them. And I’m sure they’ll help us if they can. It’s my son,” she said, turning to Andrew. “My boy, Michael. He was taken away, kidnapped, yesterday afternoon at about four-thirty. If you know anything about it—anything that will help get him back—please, please tell us!”

  Andrew felt as if he had been kicked in the pit of the stomach. For as soon as she said it, he knew that what Mrs. Vickery had said was the truth. The boy they had helped steal was her son—not the son of the woman who had called herself Mrs. Grey. He glanced at Markham and saw that he, too, realized that they had been duped and had done a terrible thing. For though he had been pale, anxious and worried before, now he looked really ill, as if he might even faint.

  More to give himself time to think than for any other reason, Andrew asked another question.

  “What made you think that Markham—anyone here at school—knew anything about it?”

  Apparently quick and intelligent enough to recognize that he could now count on the boys’ support and did not need to trap them, Gillian held up a small gilt button.

  “We found this outside the garden after Mrs. Vickery came and told us the boy was missing. It had a lion rampant on it, which I knew was the school emblem, and I suspected that it might be a button off a school blazer. I came to see Dr. Bartram about it last night. He confirmed my suspicions, and though he did not know how or why any boy here could be involved in what had happened, he suggested that we examine the boys as they came to chapel this morning.”

  “I see,” said Andrew. He glanced at Markham, who was looking at the left sleeve of his blazer where there was now only one button instead of two. “Sir,” he said to the headmaster, “before we go any further into this—and of course we’ll tell you everything we know, do everything we can to get the boy back—may I have your permission to send a telegram?”

  “To whom?”

  “My stepfather.”

  “Ah. Yes. That might be a very good idea.”

  “Does this have anything to do with what we’re talking about?” asked Gillian.

  “If I read young Tillett correctly, it does,” said the headmaster. “His stepfather is Inspector Wyatt of the London Metropolitan Police.”

  “I see,” said Gillian. “I would not be at all averse to some help from Scotland Yard in this. I’ll be glad to send any telegram you write, Tillett. And at the same time I’ll send one of my own, asking officially for any assistance the Yard can give us.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Andrew. “But in the meantime, while you’re waiting for an answer to your telegram, may I suggest that you start making inquiries about a black brougham hired from a livery stable somewhere in this area—probably in Bath—that was drawn by a bay mare and a bay gelding, the mare with a white blaze on her face and the gelding with a blaze on his chest.”

  “Oh?” said Gillian, looking at him sharply. “Yes, I can do that. Do you have any idea who can have hired it?”

  “I don’t know his name, but I can describe him. He was short, dark, narrow-faced, and wiry. He was wearing a brown, squarish bowler, whipcord jacket, and breeches tucked into Newmarket boots. He might be either a groom or an ex-jockey, but he’s some kind of professional who knows and can handle horses.”

  5

  Enter the Inspector

  Andrew’s stepfather arrived a little before noon the next day. He had answered Andrew’s telegram with one of his own announcing the time of his arrival. As a result, all those interested were waiting in the headmaster’s study: Mrs. Vickery, Inspector Gillian, Andrew, and Markham, as well as the headmaster himself.

  Andrew was a little surprised and more than a little disconcerted when the carriage drew up and, after his stepfather got out, he turned and helped Andrew’s mother out.

  As they came up the walk and the headmaster and Andrew went to the door to greet them, Andrew realized that he should have known she would come. After all, he had not been specific as to what was wrong, merely said that it was something serious and requested his stepfather’s help. And, that being so, his mother would naturally think it concerned something that involved the school and was therefore more her responsibility than her new husband’s.

  The headmaster, who had met her when Andrew first came to the school, greeted her warmly, and she introduced him to Wyatt. Then she turned to Andrew, looking searchingly into his eyes before she kissed him. Wyatt did the same
when they shook hands. Then they went into the study where the headmaster introduced them to the others.

  Wyatt raised an eyebrow when he was introduced to Inspector Gillian, responded modestly when Gillian said he had heard a good deal about him, and then they all sat down.

  The headmaster began by thanking Wyatt for coming so promptly and suggested that perhaps Inspector Gillian might be the best person to explain the problem.

  Gilliam nodded and, as simply and succinctly as possible, told of being summoned to Mrs. Vickery’s house, of being told that her son was missing, and joining in a hunt for him on the chance that he might have wandered away by himself. It was only after they had found no trace of him that they began searching the garden and found the button that led them, the next morning, to Markham.

  “I assume,” said Wyatt, looking at Markham, “that you can tell us how the button from your blazer was found outside the garden.”

  Markham nodded miserably, but at this point Andrew said, “Excuse me, sir, but I think I might be the best one to tell this part of it.”

  “Go ahead,” said Wyatt, who had clearly been waiting to hear what Andrew’s connection with all this had been.

  And so Andrew told them what had happened from his point of view, beginning with the headmaster’s concern about Markham and ending with the moment when they gave the boy to Mrs. Grey and she drove off with him.

  There was silence for several minutes when he finished. Though he had been sick with guilt ever since he had learned the truth, dreading his mother’s and stepfather’s reaction, he knew now that there was no reason to be concerned about that at least. There was nothing but sympathy and understanding in his mother’s eyes and gravity in his stepfather’s.

  “Well, I can see why you said the matter was serious and urgent,” said Wyatt.

  “Don’t be too hard on the boy,” said the headmaster. “I feel I’m very much to blame in the matter. If I hadn’t spoken to him about Markham, he never would have become involved.”

  “I don’t think we need be hard on anyone,” said Wyatt. “I don’t think anyone regrets what has happened more than Andrew and Markham. In any case, we’re not here to fix the blame for this tragic event, but to try to do something about it. So I would like to ask Mrs. Vickery a few questions.”

  “Of course,” said Mrs. Vickery. “I’ll be glad to tell you anything you want to know.”

  “How long have you been living in your present house?”

  “A little less than a year.”

  “And before that?”

  “We lived in Cambridge.”

  “Your husband was at the university?”

  “He had been. We met there while he was still an undergraduate, married when he finished his studies and took his tripos, and stayed on afterward because he was continuing his studies in some areas and doing some writing. Then, as I said, a little less than a year ago, when our son was about two years old, we moved here.”

  “Why was that?”

  “George, my husband, thought it would be healthier for Michael. Cambridge, as you know, is very damp. And it did seem to be better for him. We were very, very happy here—even more so than we’d been at Cambridge—and then—” Suddenly her voice broke and she began weeping. “Forgive me,” she said, sobbing. “I’ve been trying to be brave, but it’s all been too much for me. First there was the sudden, frightening word that something had happened to George—I still don’t know exactly what, where he is—and then this.…”

  At the first sign of distress, Andrew’s mother, Verna, went over, knelt down next to her and put her arms around her—not saying anything, just holding her.

  As they waited in silence for her to recover, there was a knock on the door. The headmaster went to it, opened it, and had a whispered conversation with one of the masters. Then, excusing himself, he went out. By that time Mrs. Vickery had stopped weeping and said, “I’m sorry. I’m all right now. Let’s go on.”

  Wyatt glanced at Verna, who nodded, moved her chair over, and sat down next to Mrs. Vickery.

  “I’d like to know a little more about your husband,” he said. “He’s a writer?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. He does some writing on economics and history, but not a great deal.”

  “What does he do then? It’s difficult to put this without seeming to pry, but … where do you get the money to live on?”

  “He has a private income. Not large, but sufficient for us to manage.”

  “Do you know the source of that income?”

  “Yes. A family company, based somewhere on the Continent—I think in Paris—that does importing and exporting. His parents are both dead, so he gets the major part of the income.”

  “Does he have anything to do with the company?”

  “Yes. Not a great deal, but something. He goes over once or twice a year to see how things are going. He’s over there now. At least, he was when—” She broke off again.

  “You got word that something had happened to him.”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you tell me exactly what that word was—where it came from?”

  “It was a telegram from Bucharest in Rumania. It said George had had a serious accident and was feared lost; it was signed Vadja.”

  “Who is Vadja?”

  “The man in charge of the family business. At least, that’s what George has always said.”

  “Did you get in touch with this Vadja, ask him for details?”

  “No. I don’t know exactly where the company is based, so I don’t know where to reach him. But I went to London—to the Rumanian Embassy—to see what they knew—and they said they didn’t know anything about it.”

  “About either your husband or this Vadja?”

  “That’s right. But they said they’d inquire. Then, the day before yesterday, I got a telegram from a solicitor in London named Jessup saying he had word for me about my husband. I went hurrying in, found Mr. Jessup in Gray’s Inn, but he didn’t know what I was talking about, said he hadn’t sent the telegram, didn’t know my husband or anything about him. When I got home, I found that my boy was gone.”

  “Sounds like a trick to get you away so the boy could be taken,” said Wyatt, looking at Inspector Gillian.

  “That’s what I thought,” said Gillian. “But it would have to be someone who knew that her husband was missing.”

  “Yes,” said Wyatt. “Now has there been any word from the kidnappers? Any demand for ransom?”

  “No,” said Mrs. Vickery. “Not a word.”

  “Have you any idea why the boy was taken? If it’s for money, you don’t seem to be a particularly good choice. I mean, unless you’re mistaken about your husband’s finances, you’re not rich.”

  “We aren’t,” said Mrs. Vickery. “We’re comfortable, but certainly not rich. On the other hand, I’ll give anything I have to get my boy back!”

  “Of course,” said Wyatt. “We’ll wait and see if we hear from the kidnappers. And when I get back to London, I’ll look into your husband’s disappearance. But in the meantime, I’d like to see if I can develop any leads here—which means going over the boys’ testimony again.”

  “Excuse me, Inspector,” said Gillian. “There are also the Gypsies.”

  “You mean the ones the boys saw setting up camp when they were on top of the tor.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Have you talked to them?”

  “No. One of my constables did right after the boy was reported gone. He asked them if they’d seen anything, and they said they hadn’t. But I thought it was rather strange that they should have appeared up here at the very moment the boy was stolen. So I sent the same constable up there to bring them to the local police station. They should be there now.”

  “You haven’t charged them?”

  “No. I just said there were a few questions I’d like to ask.”

  “There are a few I’d like to ask also. Perhaps we can talk to them together. But first, as I said, I�
�d like to go over what the boys told us again.” He had taken out a notebook when he first began talking to Mrs. Vickery and had made several notes in it. Now he turned to Markham. “You saw this woman who called herself Mrs. Grey three times. Andrew saw her twice, and the last time doesn’t really count. Could you give us as accurate a description of her as you can?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Markham. “I’m not good at ladies’ ages, but Tillett thought she was in her middle or late twenties—medium height—quite pretty, with dark brown eyes, and wearing this rather ruffly light gray dress.”

  “Complexion? Color of hair?”

  “She was very pale—that was one of the reasons I believed her when she told me how upset she was, what desperate straits she was in. As for her hair, it was black.”

  “Forget the black hair,” said Verna abruptly and unexpectedly. “It was probably a wig.”

  “Why do you say that?” asked Wyatt with a good deal of interest.

  “It’s just a feeling I have,” said Verna. “May I ask a few questions?”

  “By all means, my dear.”

  “Did she really say she was in desperate straits?” Verna asked Markham. “I mean, did she use those exact words?”

  “Yes, she did.”

  “Now tell me about the dress she was wearing. You said it was gray—light gray—with ruffles?”

  “Yes, the ruffles were around her throat. And it had a wide sash.”

  “What sort of material was it made of?”

  “I don’t know. I’m afraid I don’t know anything about that sort of thing. Something very soft and a little crinkly.”

  “Andrew?”

  “I may be a little better at it than Markham, but not much. Georgette?”

  “That’s possible.”

  “Excuse me,” said Wyatt. “But is the fabric important?”

  “It may be,” said Verna, undisturbed. “Especially when it’s combined with some other things. Now she wore that dress when you saw her for the first time—when she told you about the desperate straits that she was in.”

  “Yes,” said Markham.

  “And she wore it the second and third times you saw her also.”

  “Yes.”