The Case of the Threatened King

  The Case of the Threatened King

  Andrew Tillet, Sara Wiggins & Inspector Wyatt, Book Four

  Robert Newman

  For

  Jane & Peter Lyon

  with

  love & thanks

  1

  The Meetings at Lord’s

  It was, admittedly, a strange sight. Instead of the white-flanneled figures one usually saw poised on the smooth turf of Lord’s, home of the Marylebone Cricket club, there were nine men in the knickerbockers shirts with the team name on the front and colored stockings that Wyatt assured them was the accepted uniform of American baseball players.

  Leaning forward with his eyes on the wicket keeper, the Chicago bowler shook his head. After nine innings Andrew knew that he was called the pitcher, not the bowler, and that the player who crouched behind the batsman was called the catcher, not the wicket keeper, but he found it easier to follow and appreciate the game if he used cricket terminology.

  And, of course, he was not alone in this. There were probably not more than a dozen spectators in the large crowd who had ever seen a baseball game before, which was why—in spite of the description printed in the program—he heard people all around him speaking of the mid-on, rather than the shortstop, and of a point rather than a fielder. It was also why, when Wyatt—who had been to America and did understand the game—explained one of the plays, everyone within earshot listened.

  Now the pitcher nodded, raised his arms in the complicated maneuver that Wyatt had called his windup, and threw the ball. It came at the All-American batter with tremendous speed. The batter swung, there was a loud crack as he lined the ball in a long, hard drive well over the pitcher’s head. Almost as if he had expected it, the left fielder turned and raced for the boundary.

  It’s a good try, thought Andrew, who had always accounted himself a fairly good fielder, but he’ll never make it. He can’t possibly make it.

  But at the last moment, still at a dead run, the Chicago left fielder glanced over his shoulder, threw up his gloved hand and made the catch.

  There was a roar from the crowd, and a thunder of applause.

  “Oh, well played, sir! Well played indeed!” shouted someone behind Andrew. He turned to smile at the man, who looked like a retired stockbroker, then exchanged delighted glances with Wyatt and with Sara, who sat on the other side of Wyatt.

  “And that,” said Wyatt, rising, “as our American friends themselves say, is the ball game.”

  “Is it over?” asked Sara.

  Wyatt nodded. “That was the third out in the last half of the ninth inning. Chicago wins four to three. Did you enjoy it?”

  “Oh, yes!”

  “Andrew?”

  “Of course. They really are as keen as mustard, aren’t they? I’ve never seen such running, such smart throws or such brilliant catching.”

  “They are good; probably the two best teams in America,” said Wyatt. “I must say I was a little surprised at the size of the crowd here, but I suspect what the papers had to say about them when they played at the Kennington Oval had something to do with it.”

  “Tillett! Is that you, Tillett?”

  Andrew turned. A boy on the far side of the clubhouse terrace was looking at him.

  “Oh, hello, Chadwick,” he said.

  “I wasn’t sure it was you,” said Chadwick, threading his way toward him. “If it had been any pair of elevens in the empire, yes. But to come here to see two American baseball teams …”

  “I know. But you’ve got to admit that they were something to see.”

  “Oh, I do. The game’s nothing like cricket, but I must say they played jolly well.”

  “Yes, they did.” Sara and Wyatt had paused and were waiting for him. “This is Chadwick,” said Andrew. “He’s at school with me. Miss Sara Wiggins and Inspector Wyatt.”

  “How d’ya do?” said Chadwick, bowing to Sara. But his bow was as perfunctory as his glance, for his eyes had gone almost immediately to Wyatt. “Inspector Wyatt of the Yard?” he asked, his voice rising slightly.

  “I don’t know that it warrants the reading you’ve given it,” said Wyatt pleasantly, “but I am at Scotland Yard.”

  “Oh, I say! I know all about you. I mean … Well, it’s not as if Tillett talks about you—he won’t, even though several of us have asked him, but … Just a second. Father!” he called. “Would you come here a moment?”

  An almost too-elegantly dressed man, who had been sauntering toward the clubhouse with an older man, hesitated, excused himself, and then came toward them as young Chadwick had done.

  “This is Andrew Tillet,” said Chadwick. “The chap at school I told you about. This is Miss Wiggins, and this is Inspector Wyatt of Scotland Yard.”

  Chadwick senior nodded politely to each of them. But when he came to Wyatt, his expression changed somewhat.

  “Wyatt,” he said. “Didn’t you play for Trinity some years ago?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “It was a bit after my time,” said Chadwick, “but a cousin of mine was on the eleven with you. Geoffrey Lovell.”

  “Yes, of course. A very aggressive batsman.”

  “Yes, he was. Hit a very long ball when he was in form. Trouble was, he wasn’t in form very often.” Then as Wyatt smiled, “You’re at the Yard?”

  “Yes.”

  “I didn’t know there were any university men in the Metropolitan Police.”

  “I don’t think there are any others at the moment, but I’m sure there will be in the future.”

  “I hope so. It would be a very good thing.” He looked thoughtfully at Wyatt. “I know that London is your chief bailiwick, but do you ever go outside it? To France, say?”

  “A C.I.D. man might go there to pick up a prisoner who was being extradited, but he couldn’t do anything else, become involved in a case, for instance. Why do you ask?”

  “I’m attached to the embassy in Paris, was called back here for consultation with Sir Roger. But we just got word of something very disturbing that happened there. A shooting.”

  “At the embassy?”

  “Yes.”

  “One of our people?”

  “No.”

  “Well, the French Sûreté is very good. I’m sure they can handle it.”

  “Probably. But it’s not the same thing as working with someone who speaks your language.”

  “I take it you don’t mean that literally.”

  “No. The fact is that there’s a good deal involved. Politically, I mean. And while the French are on our side in it …”

  “I understand.”

  “Well, we’d better run along. Nice to meet you, Wyatt. You too, Tillett. And of course you most of all, Miss Wiggins.”

  “Yes, indeed,” said young Chadwick. “Goodbye, sir … Miss Wiggins. See you in a few weeks, back at school,” he said to Andrew.

  “So that’s Chadwick,” said Sara as he and his father went off.

  “Yes,” said Andrew. “What did you think of him?”

  “He’s very nice-looking and has lovely manners, just like his father, but …”

  “But what?”

  “I wonder who was shot?” she said.

  “I imagine we’ll read about it in the papers tomorrow,” said Andrew.

  Sara nodded thoughtfully.

  Though they had spent some time talking to the Chadwicks, when they left the pavilion they found that there was still a fairly large crowd waiting for their carriages or for hansoms.

  “If you don’t mind the walk,” said Wyatt, “I think we’d have a better chance of picking up a cab on the Wellington Road.”

  “Of course we don’t mind,” said Sara. “In fact, I don’t know why
we need a cab. We can walk home in about fifteen minutes.”

  “Well,” began Wyatt.

  “Peter!” said a warm and pleasant voice behind them.

  Wyatt turned to face an attractive young woman in a large straw hat who was advancing through the crowd toward them.

  “Oh, Harriet. Hello.”

  “I thought it was you,” she said, holding out her hands to him, “but I couldn’t be sure until … Is that all the greeting I get?” she asked as he took her hands.

  “No, of course not,” he said, kissing her on both cheeks.

  “That’s better.” She glanced at Sara and Andrew. “Do I know your young friends?”

  “I’m not sure. Sara Wiggins and Andrew Tillett. My sister-in-law, Mrs. Francis Wyatt.”

  “How do you do, ma’am?” said Andrew, as Sara dipped in a curtsey.

  “How do you do?” Then, frowning, “Tillett. Aren’t you Verna Tillett’s son?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Then we did meet about a year ago at that charity thing of the Marchioness of Medford’s. I remember your mother. And I remember Miss Wiggins looking as if she’d stepped out of a Gainsborough.”

  “And I remember you,” said Sara. “You were wearing a fuchsia dress and one of the most beautiful hats I’ve ever seen.”

  “Why, thank you, my dear. You’re quite right. I still have the dress and hat—they’re among my favorites.” She turned to Wyatt. “How are you, Peter?”

  “Quite well.”

  “You look well. I heard you’d come up in the world. Or at least in the police hierarchy. Is it true that you’re now an inspector at Scotland Yard?”

  “Quite true.”

  “I’m glad. And I must say I like you better in mufti than I did in uniform.”

  “But not as much as you might in another kind of uniform.”

  “Now, now! Don’t confuse me with certain people who shall be nameless!”

  “All right,” he said, smiling. “How is Francis?”

  “Fine. At least, he says he is. You know he’s in India?”

  “Yes. I saw it in the Gazette. He was posted to the Twelfth Lancers, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “When will you be joining him?”

  “In about three weeks. I have some things to take care of here.”

  “I’m sure you have.” He hesitated. “And father, how’s he?”

  “Fair.”

  “Only fair? Is he ill?”

  “No, no. He’s fine physically. It’s just … Well, I’ve been staying with him till I leave. And while he’s very pleased about Francis. And about Hal too—he’s in Belfast with the Fusiliers, you know—I think he realizes he’s going to be quite lonesome after I go.”

  “I see.” He smiled wryly. “Well, c’est la vie or la guerre or some similar phrase that doesn’t sound quite as trite in French as it does in English.”

  “I know.” She sighed. “I wish …”

  “Don’t. Nothing can be done about it.”

  “I’m not absolutely certain about that. In fact …”

  She broke off as a shiny black double victoria drew up next to them. The door opened, and a square-shouldered, elderly man with a close-cropped mustache got out.

  “All right, my dear,” he said to Harriet. “Come along.” Then, seeing Wyatt, “You!”

  “Hello, father.”

  “Don’t you dare call me that!”

  “I’m afraid we’re dealing with a biological fact that even an order from you won’t change.”

  “It’s a fact I refuse to recognize!”

  “Father, this is ridiculous!” said Harriet. “As I tried to point out the other day …”

  “I told you that it had nothing to do with you. That it was a family affair!”

  “Are you saying that though I’m married to your son, your family is not mine?” she asked quietly but firmly.

  “I’m saying that I don’t want you to interfere in this particular matter.” Then, opening the carriage door, “Now are you coming?”

  “Go ahead, Harriet,” said Wyatt.

  “Very well.” She kissed him deliberately on the cheek. “It was wonderful to see you again, Peter. I was delighted to hear about your promotion, and now to find you looking so well. Perhaps I’ll see you again before I leave for India.”

  “A nice thought. But under the circumstances …”

  “Circumstances change.” She looked at him levelly and intently for a moment, then smiled. “Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye, Harriet.”

  She got into the carriage. The white-mustached gentleman got in after her, slammed the door, and the carriage moved off. Wyatt watched it go, a strange expression on his face. Then he looked down at Sara and Andrew.

  “All right, youngsters,” he said quietly. “Let’s go.”

  2

  The First Disappearance

  That Sunday, Wyatt came to the house on Rysdale Road for tea at the express invitation of Andrew’s mother. It was not, Verna explained in her note, a quid pro quo—how could you compare even the highest of high teas to an afternoon at Lord’s? But she didn’t see why she should be denied the pleasure of his company merely because she had been busy when he had extended his invitation to Sara and Andrew.

  Wyatt had accepted immediately. “I accept with Alacrity,” he wrote, “which happens to be my cousin’s name. However he has a bad cold, and I am not sure he can come.” And Andrew knew the reason Verna had invited him—and the reason Wyatt had accepted so quickly—was that Sunday was the day when he felt most cut-off from his family and friends and therefore most lonesome.

  His reception at the house could not have been warmer, for Andrew’s mother was almost as fond of him as the two young people, but in addition he was greatly admired by everyone else there: Sara’s mother, Fred the coachman, and even that pillar of propriety, Matson, the butler.

  It was Matson who sounded the afternoon’s first discordant note. Since it was a warm, sunny day, they were having tea in the garden. The talk had come round to the baseball game they had seen several days before and, leaving the table briefly, Wyatt was demonstrating the complicated contortions of the Chicago pitcher during his windup, when Matson came out of the house.

  “I beg your pardon, madam,” he said. “General Wyatt is here.”

  Frowning, Verna looked from him to Wyatt, who had become very still, then back to Matson again.

  “General Wyatt?”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “Does he want me or Inspector Wyatt?”

  “I believe he’d like to speak to the inspector. The first thing he asked me was whether he was here.”

  “Ask him to come out here.”

  Bowing, Matson went back into the house. Again Verna glanced at Wyatt, who had dropped the croquet ball he was holding. Though his face was expressionless, it was clear that he was surprised—which was no surprise to Sara and Andrew, for they had long been aware of the strained relations between him and his father. As a matter of fact, they had been present at another encounter between the two some time before when Wyatt was still a constable. He had, at that time, explained the reasons for his father’s attitude; the general was outraged because Wyatt had become an ordinary policeman instead of going into the army as his two older brothers had done. And apparently the fact that he was no longer a constable but an inspector in the C.I.D. made no difference to the general.

  When Matson returned, it was clear that the general was under considerable strain. Though as carefully dressed as he had been at Lord’s, his face had lost a good deal of its color and his eyes much of their challenge.

  “I apologize for this intrusion, Miss Tillett,” he said, bowing to Verna. “I’m not sure if you remember me …”

  “Of course I do,” said Verna. “We met at the Marchioness of Medford’s about a year ago. Miss Wiggins here and my son Andrew were with me at the time.”

  “I remember them,” said the general. “And I believe I saw them
again the other day with my son Peter at Lord’s.”

  “You did. Can I offer you some tea?”

  “You’re very kind, but no thank you. The fact is that I would like to talk to Peter about a matter of some urgency.”

  “By all means,” said Verna. “Inspector, why don’t you take the general to the sitting room? Matson will see that you’re not disturbed.”

  “Thank you,” said Wyatt. “This way, sir.”

  He led the general into the house, held the door of the sitting room open for him, followed him in and shut the door after them.

  “First of all, how did you know where I was?” he asked.

  “I stopped by at your rooms. Your landlady told me you were here.”

  Wyatt nodded. “I always leave word where I can be reached in case the Yard wants me. You said you wanted to see me about something urgent?”

  “If it weren’t urgent, you know very well I wouldn’t have approached you—especially on a Sunday. It’s your sister-in-law, Harriet. She’s disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?”

  “Yes.”

  “When was this?”

  “I’m not sure whether she left late last night or early this morning. She’s been staying with me since Francis went to India. She went to the opera last night with a friend, said good night to me when she got home and went into her room. When she didn’t appear at breakfast this morning, I thought she must be tired or not feeling well. By noon I became a little concerned, knocked at her door. When there was no answer, I went in and found this.”

  He gave Wyatt an envelope. Wyatt opened it, took out the note inside and read it.

  Dear General, (it said)

  The fact that I call you that and not Father should tell you something about the way I feel. If it does not, perhaps the fact that I am going away will. Don’t try to find me, for you won’t be able to; I doubt if all of Scotland Yard could. As to what you should tell Francis or anyone else who might be interested, say merely that I became tired of sitting like Patience on a monument, smiling at grief.

  Harriet

  Wyatt read it through a second time, then asked, “What did she mean about the way she felt? How did she feel?”