The Case of the Indian Curse (Andrew Tillet, Sara Wiggins & Inspector Wyatt Book 8) Read online

  The Case of the Indian Curse

  Andrew Tillet, Sara Wiggins & Inspector Wyatt, Book Eight

  Robert Newman

  For JOHN BENNETT SHAW,

  Dean of Holmesians, Canon of the Canon

  and Most Irregular of the Irregulars

  &

  For JON LELLENBERG,

  Warden of the Word and Guardian of the Gate.

  Vivat clamor: Ludus Es Pes!

  1

  Beasley

  As soon as he saw Sara, Andrew knew that something was wrong. Not because she was there at the station waiting for him. She had started her own spring vacation a few days before, so she was able to be there. And not because of the way she looked, which was quite composed—actually more composed than a girl her age had a right to look when Paddington was surging with boys of every size and shape, coming home from school as Andrew was.

  How did he know then? He couldn’t have told you. All he would have said was that he had known Sara for some time, that they had been through a great many things together, and he did know. The only questions in his mind were exactly what was wrong and how serious it was.

  Carrying his own bag so as not to have to wait for a porter, he worked his way through the crowd, surrendered his ticket at the barrier, and went on to where Sara and Fred, the Tillett coachman, were waiting.

  “Hello, you two,” he said.

  “Hello, yourself,” said Fred. “I’ll take your bag.”

  “Thanks, Fred.” Then, turning to Sara, “All right. What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Coo!” said Fred. “He’s not just the original boy detective. He’s a blooming mind reader. How’d you know something was wrong?”

  “You just guessed how. Because I’m a mind reader.” He didn’t mind Fred’s manner, for Fred was by no means an ordinary coachman, as Sara’s mother was by no means merely the Tilletts’ housekeeper. She and Sara were, as a matter of fact, virtually members of the family. “Just tell me if it has anything to do with my mother.”

  “Why on earth should it have anything to do with your mother?”

  “Well, after all, she is away.”

  She was more than away. She had recently married Inspector Peter Wyatt of the Metropolitan Police, and the two were on the continent on their honeymoon. Sara realized that she should have expected that this would be very much on Andrew’s mind.

  “No, Andrew,” she said. “As far as I know, she and Peter are fine. If there’s something wrong—and I’m not really sure there is—it’s with Beasley.”

  Beasley was an old friend of theirs, a strange and interesting dealer in odds and ends with a shop on Portobello Road. They had originally met him through Wyatt.

  “You must have some reason for thinking something’s wrong,” said Andrew reasonably.

  “Well, yes. You remember Sean?”

  “Who works with Beasley? Of course.”

  “Well, he came to the house this morning and wanted to know when Peter would be back. I said by the end of the week, and he looked upset, as if that wasn’t soon enough, and asked if I was sure. When I said I was, he said he’d been to Scotland Yard and asked Sergeant Tucker, and Tucker either didn’t know when they’d be back or wouldn’t tell him.”

  “Did you ask him why he wanted to know?”

  “Of course. But he didn’t answer, just thanked me and left, still looking worried.”

  “All right,” said Fred as they looked at one another. “I’m as much of a mind reader as anyone else. Let’s go.”

  “Where?” asked Andrew.

  “You know where—where you both want to go—Portobello Road.”

  Exchanging smiles, they followed him out to Praed Street where the Tilletts’ landau waited between a hansom and a four-wheeler. Fred thanked the cabman who had been holding the horses for him, opened the door for Sara and Andrew, climbed up into the box and, shaking the reins, started south and west over toward Bayswater Road. Traffic was light—it was getting on to teatime—and it didn’t take long to get to Portobello Road.

  It wasn’t one of the market days, so there were no carts lining the street or crowds moving up and down it, and they were able to stop directly in front of the shop.

  “Looks closed,” said Fred as Sara and Andrew got out of the carriage and went over to it.

  The shop did seem to be closed. They tried the door, and it was locked. The window contained most of the same oddments that had been there when they had first come to the shop and met Beasley: a brass samovar, some glass paperweights, a marble head of Napoleon, and a Turkish yataghan. They peered through the grimy glass, but there was no light or sign of movement inside.

  The door of the adjoining shop opened and a wispy, gray-haired man came out.

  “Looking for Beasley?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “He’s sick, hasn’t been here for a couple of days. But if you come around in the morning, you’ll likely catch Sean what works with him. He’ll tell you how he is and where you can find him.”

  They thanked the man, and he went back into his shop.

  “Well, there you are,” said Fred. “That should make you feel better. At least now you know why Sean was upset, what he was worrying about.”

  “Do we?” said Sara.

  “Well, of course. It’s because old Beasley’s sick.”

  “I can see him calling in a doctor if that’s so,” said Andrew. “But what has being sick got to do with Scotland Yard and wanting to get hold of Peter?”

  2

  The Face of the Destroyer

  They went back to Portobello Road the next morning. Fred would have been happy to take them—he had little enough to do with Andrew’s mother away—but Andrew and Sara preferred to go by themselves; so they left him grumbling about youngsters who think they know everything and can do anything they want and took a bus, a light-green Bayswater bus.

  It was a raw, overcast day that so clearly meant rain or a heavy fog that Sara wore a cape and Andrew a mackintosh. But since at the moment it was merely threatening, they sat on top and up front, right over the horses. They got off at Notting Hill Gate and walked up Pembridge Road and over to the shop.

  Saturdays and Sundays were Portobello’s big market days, so again there wasn’t much traffic along the street—no carts and only a few stalls in front of the shops. They peered in through the glass of Beasley’s shop and saw a light on in back. They tried the door, found it open, and went in.

  Sean appeared as soon as he heard the door. Though he was as nicely dressed as usual, his suit was a little wrinkled, as if he had not had it off in some time, and his red hair was disheveled.

  “Hello, Sara. Oh, hello, Andrew,” he said, shaking hands with him. “Nice to see you again.”

  “How’s Beasley?” asked Andrew.

  “How’d you know he was sick?”

  They told him.

  “Well, he’s no better. Not at all good, as a matter of fact.”

  “How long has he been sick?” asked Sara.

  “I’m not sure. I’d say about a week. I only noticed it four or five days ago. And it’s only three days now that I’ve been able to get him to stay home.”

  “What’s wrong with him?” asked Andrew.

  “I don’t really know. I just know he’s sick, won’t eat, can’t seem to sleep. I’ve been with him most of the time, taking care of him. That’s why I look this way.” He indicated his wrinkled suit with distaste. “I only came into the shop for a while this morning to make sure everything wa
s all right here.”

  “Have you had a doctor in?” asked Sara.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “He didn’t want one, said there was nothing wrong with him.”

  “But that’s ridiculous!” said Sara. “If he’s as sick as you say he is—sick enough to stay home … Can we see him?”

  Sean hesitated a moment, then nodded.

  “Yes. Why not? Actually the person I’d most like to have see him is Inspector Wyatt. But since he’s not here, you’re probably the next best thing. Let me just take care of a few items in back, and we’ll go.”

  As he disappeared into the back of the shop, there was a light tapping on the window. Sara and Andrew turned. A dustman’s cart, heavily built and with high sides, stood at the curb, the horse waiting patiently, head down between the shafts. The dustman himself was peering inquiringly in at the window.

  “There’s a dustman here who seems to want you, Sean,” called Andrew.

  “Is it Willie?” asked Sean from the back room.

  “Willie?”

  “Whispering Willie.” He came out. “Yes, it is. Tell him I forgot about the bins yesterday, but they’re out in the alley now.”

  Andrew went out and gave Sean’s message to the dustman, who wore the dustman’s usual costume of knee breeches with a smock and a coarse gray jacket over them. His leather fantail hat covered his head and a back flap hung down over his shoulders. He was so dusty with ashes that it was impossible to tell his age, but he was probably in his late thirties or early forties.

  “Right, guv’ner,” he said in a rasping, whispering voice. “I hear old Beasley’s not well. True?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “I know about that.” He touched his throat, which was wrapped from the chin down in a dirty bandage. “Had this quinsy for months now and can’t seem to shake it. Tell him Willie was asking for him, will you?”

  “I’ll do that,” said Andrew.

  He watched him take his basket from the cart and go down the alley. After pouring the ashes and rubbish from the bin into the basket, Willie lifted the basket to his shoulder, came back up the alley, and emptied it into the cart. Then, hanging the basket back on the cart, he sent the horse up the street. As he did, he raised a small horn that hung around his neck on a lanyard and blew a low, plaintive blast on it.

  “Why the horn?” Andrew asked Sean, who had come out of the shop and was locking up.

  “What?” Sean glanced after Willie. “Oh, because of his voice. Because he can’t sing out like other dustmen. If he didn’t have the horn—I think it’s a boat foghorn—no one would know he was there.”

  That made sense to Andrew, and he nodded.

  “Why did you say that if Peter Wyatt couldn’t see Beasley, we were the next best thing?” asked Sara, as Sean led the way up Portobello Road.

  “Well, you’re friends of the inspector’s, aren’t you?”

  “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 ove
r 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.”