The Case of the Somerville Secret Page 2

  Fred, the coachman, brought the landau around and stopped under the porte-cochere.

  “Sara,” called Mrs. Wiggins.

  “All right,” she said, coming slowly down the stairs. She had left her costume at the school, but she carried her dancing shoes in a blue velvet bag.

  “I’m not supposed to wish you luck, am I?” said Mrs. Wiggins.

  “No.”

  “Then I won’t.” She kissed her. “I’ll see you later.”

  “Yes, Mum.”

  Andrew opened the door for Sara and followed her out. Fred, who seemed to know everything that was going on, not only in the house but everywhere in St. John’s Wood, glanced at her, then winked at Andrew. He waited till they were both seated in the rear of the landau, then chirruped to the horses and sent them down the driveway toward Rysdale Road.

  Silence. The brooding silence of a temporarily quiescent volcano. Andrew glanced at Sara. She looked straight ahead at the silver buttons on the back of Fred’s coat. They weren’t just friends—he and Sara—they were good friends, but nothing like this had ever come up before and he did not know how to handle it. In his uncertainty, he approached it head on.

  “Are you still angry?” he asked.

  “Who says I’m angry?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Well, if I am, don’t you think I have good reason to be?”

  “Why?”

  “Inspector Wyatt’s just as much my friend as yours. You had no right to go see him without me!”

  “I told you how that happened.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “Yes, I did. You just wouldn’t listen. I wrote to him, told him when I was coming in from school and said we’d like to see him.”

  “We?”

  “Yes, we. He wrote back saying we should come to the Yard the day after I got in. Well, when I got here I found you were going to be rehearsing then. I knew there was nothing you could do about that—you had to be at the school—so I thought I might as well keep the appointment.”

  “Why couldn’t you have changed it so we could go together?”

  “There wasn’t time. I suppose I could have sent him a telegram saying you couldn’t make it, but it seemed simpler to go and tell him. He was very sorry, said I should bring you there some other time.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “It depends on how busy he is. If not tomorrow, then Thursday or Friday.”

  “Is he busy? Is he on any cases?”

  “He’s on several—none as big as the diamond robbery. But, as he said, you never know what one will turn into.”

  “No. What was Scotland Yard like?”

  “Big. Busy. Interesting.” She seemed enough like herself now so that he dared ask, “Were you really angry at me for going there without you or are you worried about today?”

  “A little of both.”

  “Why are you worried?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. I have two solo dances—a Scottish sword dance and a sailor’s hornpipe. I’m the only one who has two.”

  “Well, Miss Fizdale wouldn’t have you doing two if she didn’t think you were good. You’re going to be fine.”

  “We’ll see.” There was a small crowd gathered in front of a villa ahead of them. “What do you think’s going on there?”

  “I don’t know.” As they drew abreast of the villa, Andrew saw that there was a policeman at the center of the crowd. And, frowning as he talked to him, was a soldierly-looking man with a closely cropped mustache. “Why, there’s Polk!”

  “Who’s Polk?”

  “Sergeant Major Polk—a friend of Wyatt’s. He’s the man talking to the policeman.”

  “I know him,” said Fred. “The copper, I mean. Want me to find out what’s up?”

  “Do we have time?”

  “Won’t take more than a few minutes to get to the school from here.”

  “Then … yes, we’d like to know.”

  “Righto.”

  Fred pulled up, tied the reins to a hitching post, then walked back to the small knot of people in front of the villa.

  “Where’d you meet Polk?” asked Sara.

  Andrew told her, told her how the sergeant had resisted telling Wyatt exactly what he did or where.

  “This must be either where he lives or where he’s caretaker,” said Sara. “He’s in his shirt sleeves and the door’s open.”

  Andrew nodded. The way Polk stood in front of the partly open door gave a strong impression that he belonged there. Andrew looked at the villa again. He had a feeling that there was something odd about it, but it took him a moment to decide what it was. The villa, which was modest in size, was built close to the street. That meant that its grounds were behind it and to the side rather than in front of it. In most cases where this was true, the grounds would be surrounded by a hedge or a low wall. But here they were surrounded by a wall that was not only higher than any that Andrew had ever seen, but had formidable iron spikes on top of it.

  As Fred paused at the edge of the small crowd, Andrew saw someone else he had seen before; the tall chimney sweep in the top hat who had come looking for the scar-faced man at the pub. He was listening to what Polk had to say to the policeman, not just with casual interest, but with complete concentration.

  Sara, sitting next to Andrew, stiffened.

  “Look at that!” she said angrily.

  Andrew turned and saw that she wasn’t looking at the villa, but further up the street. There, his back to the wall, was the small boy who had been with the chimney sweep the previous night. A group of street urchins and delivery boys, some Andrew’s age and some older, surrounded him. And though most of them were grinning, the grins were not friendly. As Sara and Andrew watched, the biggest of them, a boy carrying a butcher’s basket, put it down and took hold of the small boy’s broom. The boy tried to hold on to it, but the butcher boy pushed him back against the wall, pulled the broom away from him and threw it out into the street.

  “The bullying sods!” said Sara. She jumped out of the carriage, a fury in white muslin, and ran up the street. “Stop that!” she said, her eyes blazing. “Leave him alone!”

  “Eh?” said the butcher’s boy. “Wotcher mean?”

  “I mean leave him alone! Why are you after him anyway?”

  “’Cause he’s a bleeding Frog, that’s why! Can’t even speak English.”

  “What of it?”

  “I don’t like Frogs!”

  “He probably doesn’t like you,” said Andrew who had joined Sara. “I don’t myself.”

  “What?” The butcher’s boy stared at him. “Who the devil are you two anyway?”

  “I know who they are,” said a hulking stable boy. “They live at twenty-three Rysdale Road. Her mum’s the housekeeper there and his is a actress.”

  “So,” said the butcher’s boy, “just because you think your ma’s something …”

  “My mother’s got nothing to do with it!” said Andrew angrily. “Sara told you to leave him alone. And now I’m telling you.

  “Think you can make me?”

  “I know I can,” said Andrew. He pulled off his jacket and handed it to Sara. “Hold this.”

  “You mean you want to fight?” He laughed. “That’s a good one!”

  “Bash him, Len!” said the stable boy. “Bash him proper!”

  “I’ll bash him all right,” said the butcher’s boy as he advanced, grinning.

  He was older than Andrew, probably around sixteen, taller and heavier, but from the way he put up his fists, Andrew did not think he was much of a boxer. Andrew, on the other hand, had learned old-style, bare-fisted fighting from a blacksmith in Cornwall and had continued at school.

  The butcher’s boy feinted two or three jabs with his left, then swung a clumsy but powerful right to Andrew’s head. Andrew ducked. He knew he should fight defensively for a while, tire his opponent out, but he was too angry for caution and besides, with that wild swing, the butcher’s boy had left himself wid
e open. Stepping in close, Andrew hit him a hard one-two just under the rib cage, knocking the wind out of him. He staggered, went down on one knee.

  “Why, you …” he gasped. He turned slightly, caught the stable boy’s eye and jerked his head.

  “Righto, Len,” said the stable boy. But as he started forward to join his pal, the butt end of a whip dropped down in front of his face.

  “Nah, nah,” said Fred. “Fair play’s a jewel. One at a time—either one of you—is sporting. But two to one, and I’ll take a hand.”

  The two boys looked at Andrew, then at Fred. He had been a jockey and he was a small man, no taller than Andrew, but he seemed very sure of himself as he stood there in his shiny boots and top hat, and he held the whip short and reversed as if he was anxious to use the loaded butt.

  “Yah!” said the butcher’s boy, getting to his feet. “Come on, Alf.”

  He picked up his basket and went off up the street, and the other boys followed him.

  “Thanks, Fred,” said Andrew.

  “Nothing to thank me for. You were doing fine. But what was it about?”

  “They were after him,” said Sara, nodding toward the small, dirty-faced boy who had run out into the street to retrieve his broom.

  “Why?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Andrew. He turned to the boy who had come back and was looking at him with large, dark eyes. “Êtes-vous Français?”

  The boy’s face lit up. “Oui. Vous parlez Français?”

  “Un petit peu.”

  “Puis je vous remercie mille fois. Vous êtes mes chères amis!”

  “What’s he saying?” asked Sara.

  “He is French. That’s why they were going for him,” he explained to Fred. “They said he couldn’t speak English—as if that was a crime. He thanked us and said we were his friends.”

  “Well, we are,” said Sara, looking at him with sympathy and interest. “What’s his name and what’s he doing here?”

  “My name ees Pierre,” said the boy with a decided French accent.

  “Then you do speak English,” said Andrew.

  “A leetle. Not so much as you spik French. How I come here est vraiment une histoire.”

  “A long story,” said Andrew.

  “Oui. I come from Marseilles. You know Marseilles?”

  “So there you are, ye limb,” said a harsh voice. “What were you trying to do, sneak off?”

  They turned. It was the cadaverous chimney sweep in the battered top hat.

  “No, m’sieu,” said Pierre anxiously. “No, no.”

  “Well, you better not.” He looked suspiciously at Sara, Andrew and Fred. “Come on, now. We got work to do.”

  “Oui, m’sieu.” He picked up the large broom and the heavy bag with tools and brushes sticking out of it. “Vous demeurez à vingt-trois Rysdale Road?” he said under his breath to Andrew.

  “Oui.”

  “What are you saying, you little devil?” asked the sweep.

  “Nothing, m’sieu.”

  “You’re a liar, but come on.” And taking him by the neck, he pulled him away and started driving him up the street, a small, slight figure with the broom over his shoulder, stooping under the weight of the heavy bag.

  “Now there’s someone I’d like to take the butt end of my whip to,” said Fred, looking after the sweep. “What did the little tyke say?”

  “He wanted to know if we did live at twenty-three Rysdale Road, and I said yes.”

  “He’d probably like to see us again,” said Sara. “And I’d like to see him, find out how he got here.”

  “Well, there’s not much chance of that,” said Fred. “Not if that scabby sweep’s got anything to say about it. Now do you want to know what I found out or not?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Andrew.

  “Well, first of all, the house belongs to a real nob, Lord Somerville. He’s not here right now because he’s a Syri-something, a bloke who goes around digging up tombs and things.”

  “An Egyptologist?” asked Andrew.

  “I didn’t say Egypt. I said Syri-something. Anyway, like I said, he’s not here now. He’s somewhere in the East, like Bagdad.”

  “But why was the copper there?” asked Sara.

  “Because their dog was killed last night.”

  “Whose dog?” asked Andrew.

  “I guess Lord Somerville’s,” said Fred. “Your friend Polk said it had come from his country place in Ansley Cross.”

  “Was it a valuable dog?” asked Sara.

  “It must have been. The constable said that Polk and the housekeeper here were real upset about it.”

  “How was it killed?” asked Andrew.

  “The constable wasn’t sure, but he thinks it was poisoned. He only got a quick look at it, but he said it was a real brute—as big as a pony.”

  “In other words, a watchdog,” said Andrew.

  “I suppose. Now if you’re through protecting the weak and detecting crime, shall we proceed to the dancing school?”

  “Oh, my aunt, I almost forgot about that,” said Sara. “Yes, we’d better.”

  3

  The First Murder

  In spite of Andrew’s best efforts, Sara did not get to Scotland Yard until the following week. He wrote to Wyatt immediately, telling him how disappointed Sara had been and how anxious she was to see him again but, as Wyatt explained later, there had been some important developments on one of his cases and it was not until the following Monday that he sent Andrew a telegram telling him to bring Sara to the Yard on Tuesday and he would take them both out to lunch.

  Sara was in a very good mood—she had been ever since the dance recital at the school where she had done splendidly, as Andrew had known she would—and she enjoyed the tour of the Yard thoroughly. She was a little disappointed in the Black Museum—she had apparently expected to find wax effigies of famous criminals there like those Madame Tussaud’s—but this was more than compensated for when they saw a villainous looking man with handcuffs on being brought in by two constables.

  Wyatt took them to a chop house on the Strand for lunch, and it was not until they were having dessert that Andrew had a chance to bring up something that had been on his mind.

  “By the way,” he said, “I can tell you where you can reach your friend, Sergeant Polk.”

  “Where?”

  “At Lord Somerville’s, sixty-two Alder Road. That’s apparently where he’s caretaker.”

  “How do you know?”

  Andrew told him how they had seen Polk talking to the constable on the day of Sara’s recital.

  “That’s interesting,” said Wyatt. “Is that Somerville the Assyriologist?”

  “I think so,” said Andrew. “Fred said he was a Syrisomething.”

  “What’s an Assyriologist?” asked Sara.

  “He studies the civilizations of Assyria, Babylonia and Chaldea the way an Egyptologist studies the civilization of ancient Egypt. What was Polk talking to the constable about?”

  “Their dog had been killed the night before.”

  “Their dog?”

  “Yes. Apparently a watchdog that had been brought in from Somerville’s country place.”

  “How was it killed?”

  “The constable hadn’t had a chance to go into it when Fred talked to him, but he thought it had been poisoned.”

  “I see.”

  Andrew hadn’t told Sara he was going to tell Wyatt about seeing Polk—as a matter of fact, he hadn’t really thought about it until that morning. But now, after a quick glance at him, Sara said, “Who do you think could have killed the dog? And why?”

  “I’ve no idea,” said Wyatt. “Maybe he howled or barked at night and that annoyed someone.”

  “In other words, you think one of the neighbors did it,” said Andrew.

  “I said I had no idea who had done it or why,” said Wyatt. He looked first at Andrew then at Sara. “What are you trying to do, get me involved in another case?”

&
nbsp; “Of course not,” said Andrew, coloring guiltily. “I just thought you’d be interested because of your friend Polk.”

  “I am interested. And I think killing a dog is a dastardly crime. But I also think it’s something the local police can handle without the assistance of the C.I.D.”

  “Probably,” said Andrew. “You’re right.”

  Wyatt may have been right at the time he made the statement, but by the next morning the situation had changed completely. Andrew heard about the new development just as he was finishing breakfast. He was putting some jam on his toast when, without even a perfunctory knock, the dining room door opened and Sara came in.

  “Good morning,” he said. Then, taking note of her seriousness, “What’s up?”

  “I don’t know. Fred’s got some kind of news but he wouldn’t tell me what it was until he could tell you too.”

  “Oh.” Then as the coachman came in, trying to look offhand, “What is it, Fred?”

  “You and your holidays,” said Fred. “Things are nice and quiet around here while you’re away. But the minute you come back, there’s trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “Murder.”

  “What?” Andrew’s reaction was all that Fred could have hoped for. “Who was murdered, where and when?”

  “I just heard about it, but it must have happened late last night or early this morning. And it happened at that place we stopped at the other day, Lord Somerville’s on Alder Road.”

  “Who was murdered?” asked Sara.

  “I’m not sure but I think that chap Master Andrew said he knew, that feisty caretaker.”

  “Polk?”

  “I think so.”

  Murder, a frightening word and a frightening idea. But, in this case, it was not something abstract. He had met the man who had been killed, talked to him, liked him. That made it more real and more shocking. And if he—Andrew—felt that way about it, how would Wyatt, who was an old and good friend of Polk, feel?

  “How did you hear about it?” he asked Fred.

  “Saw the crowd when I went out to order some feed for the horses and asked the constable on point duty, the chap I know. He said Scotland Yard was coming in on it.”