The Case of the Vanishing Corpse Read online

  “In a meeting with reporters at Scotland Yard, Miss Snyder’s mother, Mrs. Maggie Snyder, said, ‘Lily may have posed for artists, but she was a good girl. She never posed in the altogether.’”

  “What does that mean?” asked Sara. “‘In the altogether?’”

  “Without any clothes on.”

  “That’s what I thought,” said Sara. She went on with the story:

  “Mrs. Snyder was very critical of the police, saying, ‘If Lily wasn’t a working girl—if she came from Mayfair or Belgravia instead of Clerkenwell—the police would have stirred themselves a bit more to find her.’ Inspector Finch, in charge of the case, denied this, saying, ‘If she were a duchess’s daughter we couldn’t be trying harder to find her or discover what happened to her.’”

  “What do you think happened to her?” asked Sara, putting down the paper. “Kidnapped by white slavers?”

  “What do you know about white slavers?” asked Andrew.

  “Probably more than you do. Don’t forget I grew up in Dingell’s Court, and we had some pretty rough judies around there.”

  “Yes, I know you did.” He looked up as Matson came in and paused, waiting discreetly just inside the door. “Did you want me, Matson?”

  “Yes, Master Andrew. Your mother wished me to request you to join her upstairs after you’ve finished your breakfast. She’d like you to come up too, Miss Sara.”

  “Thank you, Matson. We’ll go right up.” Matson bowed and withdrew. “I didn’t think she was up yet. She doesn’t usually get up this early, does she?”

  “No,” said Sara. “But someone came to see her a little while ago. A man from Hunt and Roskell.”

  “The jewelers?”

  “I don’t know. I just heard him say who he was to Matson before Matson took him up.”

  They went up the stairs to Verna’s suite, which extended across the whole front of the house. As they reached the landing, the door of her sitting room opened and a dapper, middle-aged man in a morning coat came out.

  “Then I shall see you tomorrow at about noon,” he said to Verna.

  “Yes, Mr. Jenkins. Thank you.”

  “No, Miss Tillett. Thank you.”

  He bowed to her, to Andrew and Sara and then went down the stairs. Verna, wearing a pink silk robe with a marabou collar, was sitting at a small table near the window.

  “Come in, you two,” she said.

  “Good morning, Mother,” said Andrew. “I wasn’t sure …” He broke off, staring, and Sara, standing next to him, gasped. There was a morocco jewel case on the table, and in front of it was a glittering mound of jewels.

  “What’s that?” asked Andrew.

  “These?” said Verna. “They’re what Mr. Jenkins brought.” And she held up, first, a diamond and pearl tiara, then a diamond necklace with earrings to match.

  “Are they real?” asked Sara.

  “Yes, Sara. They’re the Denham diamonds and quite famous.”

  “And you bought them?” said Andrew.

  “Good heavens, no! They’re not my style at all. Why would I want them?”

  “Then I don’t understand …”

  “They’re for the play. There’s a scene where the young marquis insists that I try on the family jewels and, since Hunt and Roskell made the original settings for the Denham diamonds, Harrison had them make paste copies for me to use.”

  “But you said these were real,” said Sara.

  “They are. Harrison is giving a party at Claridge’s tonight after the opening, and he thought, for an occasion like that, I should wear the originals rather than copies.”

  “But isn’t it a little dangerous?” asked Andrew. “I mean, if anything happened to them …”

  “I know. And I didn’t like the idea, but Harrison insisted. He’s taken out special insurance to cover them and also hired a detective to keep his eye on them at the theatre and afterwards at the party.”

  “And in the meantime?” asked Sara.

  “In the meantime, as far as anyone except the two of you know, these are the copies that Mr. Jenkins brought me. I don’t think we’ll even tell your mother the truth, Sara, because it would worry her.”

  “It’s worrying me,” said Sara, her eyes large.

  “Well, I refuse to let it worry me,” said Verna. “If it’s that important to Harrison, he can worry about it. But that’s not why I asked the two of you to come up here. Did you have any plans for this afternoon?”

  “Well, we had talked of going to the zoo,” said Andrew. “Why?”

  “You probably know what’s happening next door, the marchioness’s open house.” Andrew nodded. “Well, I’m going, and I’d like the two of you to go with me.”

  “But that would be another quid apiece!” said Sara. Then, as Verna smiled, “I mean a pound.”

  “Well, it is for charity. I don’t expect to stay long. I’ll just stop in for a while before I go to the theatre, and you can either leave when I do or soon after.”

  “Of course, Mother,” said Andrew. “What time did you plan to go?”

  “About three thirty.”

  “Fine.”

  It was a little later than that before they were settled in the landau; Verna in a lavender taffeta dress, wearing a large straw hat and carrying a parasol, Sara in her white muslin, and Andrew in a dark blue jacket and trousers. Fred drove down the driveway, turned left on Rysdale Road and along it to the entrance to Three Oaks. There was a policeman at the gate, who saluted as they turned in. They drove through the landscaped grounds, past the small lake, the formal gardens and the terraces to the large and imposing Italianate house. There was another policeman under the porte-cochere and a footman in a white wig, knee-breeches and a tailcoat with brass buttons. When the landau stopped, he opened the door and helped Verna and Sara out. As Andrew got out, he saw that the policeman was Constable Wyatt, who looked at him impassively as policemen generally do, then spoiled the effect by winking.

  Verna told Fred to come back for her at four thirty, and he touched his hat and drove off. As he did, a shiny double Victoria pulled in under the porte-cochere. Again the footman moved forward. Verna and Sara started into the house, and Andrew turned to smile at Wyatt before following them, then paused. The policeman had stiffened, color had come into his cheeks, and he was staring at the occupants of the carriage; a distinguished elderly gentleman with a bristling white mustache, a younger man in a military uniform and a young and attractive woman. The elderly man waved the footman aside impatiently, helped the young woman out of the carriage himself. Then he saw Wyatt.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” said Wyatt.

  “You!” said the elderly man. He drew himself up, and his face flushed crimson. “How dare you address me?”

  “I beg your pardon,” said Wyatt, his face wooden. He stepped back, and the elderly man and the officer walked past him, but the woman paused.

  “I don’t know what to say, Peter,” she said. “I wish—”

  “Harriet!” said the officer.

  “Yes, Francis,” she said. She touched Wyatt lightly on the arm, then went after the two men.

  Andrew followed them in. He found himself in an entrance hall with marble statues on two sides of it. At the far end was another footman, and standing next to him and waiting for Andrew were Verna and Sara. Murmuring an apology, Andrew brushed past the two men and the lady and joined Verna and Sara. To their left, at the entrance to a large salon, were two middle-aged and quite dissimilar ladies; one, in a long purple dress, was rather thin and blonde and had clearly been quite pretty once. The other was dark, taller and more vigorous looking.

  “Miss Verna Tillett,” announced the footman. “Miss Sara Wiggins. Master Andrew Tillett.”

  “You’re my neighbor, are you not?” said the blonde lady, apparently the marchioness. “How nice of you to come. I’ve been most anxious to meet you.”

  “And I to meet you,” said Verna.

  “May I present my friend and house guest, Mrs. Van
Gelder?” Then, to the tall, dark lady, “Miss Tillett is my nearest neighbor, and is also quite a well-known actress.”

  “Verna Tillett? I should say she is,” said Mrs. Van Gelder with a decided American accent. “Weren’t you in New York until about a year ago?”

  “Yes, I was,” said Verna.

  “I remember seeing you in The Dark Street. I thought you were splendid.”

  “Thank you,” said Verna.

  The white-mustached, elderly man, the army officer and the attractive young woman were now approaching.

  “General Wyatt,” announced the footman. “Colonel and Mrs. Francis Wyatt.”

  “General,” said the marchioness, extending a hand to the elderly man. “Delighted to see you again. You too, Colonel, and your lovely wife. May I present my friend and house guest, Mrs. Van Gelder, and my neighbor, Miss Verna Tillett?”

  “How d’ya do?” said the general, nodding to Mrs. Van Gelder. Then, looking appreciatively at Verna, “Tillett. Familiar name. Related to Bobo Tillett of the Fusiliers?”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Verna with a smile. She introduced Sara and Andrew, and the general nodded to them, then turned his attention back to Verna.

  “Hear there’s champagne,” he said. “Can I get you some?”

  “That would be very kind of you,” she said. Sara had curtsied to the marchioness, Mrs. Van Gelder, and then the general—another recently acquired social grace—and was now looking at the general with considerable interest. As she did, she tugged sharply at Andrew’s jacket. Andrew looked at his mother and raised an inquiring eyebrow. She knew what he meant as he had known what Sara meant.

  “Why don’t the two of you look about by yourselves for a bit?” she said.

  “If you don’t mind, we will,” said Andrew. He bowed to the marchioness, to the others, and he and Sara moved off into the salon.

  “Did you get the general’s name?” asked Sara.

  “Wyatt. The same as the policeman’s.”

  “Yes. They couldn’t be related, could they?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because one’s a general and the other’s an ordinary bobby.”

  “It’s still possible. They certainly know one another.”

  “How do you know?”

  Andrew told her what had happened when the general arrived.

  “Oh,” said Sara. “Let’s go find him—Constable Wyatt, I mean. You wanted to talk to him anyway, didn’t you?”

  They went out through one of the french doors and back to the porte-cochere. Carriages were still arriving, and though the footman was still there, Wyatt wasn’t. They asked the footman where he was, and he told them Wyatt had gone down to relieve the constable at the gate.

  “What do you want to do?” asked Andrew.

  “See what’s happening in those big tents,” said Sara. “They’re probably serving things in there. Then, after that, we can walk down through the grounds.”

  “Right.”

  They went down the steps of the terraces to one of the marquees and found that they were indeed serving things there. They had some tea sandwiches and small cakes, and though Sara looked longingly at the buffet, where liveried attendants were pouring champagne, Andrew said she was too young for it and she could have either tea or lemonade, and she settled for lemonade.

  Afterwards they continued on down through the grounds, walking past the formal gardens and the lake. Near the lake was a grove of trees. In the middle of the grove, cut into the side of the hill and carefully landscaped, was a dark and rocky opening. Andrew had seen grottoes before, but they were usually ornamental and shallow. This one, however, seemed quite deep and had a door closing it off. As he and Sara paused, looking at it, a sibilant voice said, “Sorry. No.”

  They turned and saw a strange-looking man sitting cross-legged in the shadow of a large oak. He was quite thin and dark. His head was shaved, and he wore a long, loose white robe.

  “I beg your pardon?” said Andrew.

  “This private, not open to public,” he said with a curious, slurring accent.

  “Oh. Sorry,” said Andrew. To the left of the grove was a small, whitewashed cottage with a shingled roof.

  “That private, too,” said the man. “It where I live.”

  “I see,” said Andrew. “Sorry if we disturbed you.”

  “Salaam,” said the man. “The peace of Isis be with you.”

  “I wonder who he is,” said Andrew as they walked away from him and down toward the gate.

  “He has a funny name,” said Sara. “Not Abraham. Ibrahim?”

  “How do you know?”

  “The marchioness’s groom told Fred about him. About someone the marchioness brought back here from somewhere in the east. Could it be Egypt?”

  “Isis was an Egyptian goddess,” said Andrew. “But that was a long time ago. I didn’t think anyone talked about her anymore.” Then looking ahead, “There’s Constable Wyatt.”

  He was standing just outside the gates, stopping pedestrians and traffic when a carriage arrived or left.

  “Hello,” he said. “Leaving already?”

  “No,” said Andrew. “Looking for you. Why are you down here instead of up at the house?”

  “Finch pulled the other man off, so I had to take over on point duty.”

  “I see.”

  “Are you related to General Wyatt?” asked Sara.

  Wyatt looked sharply at her, then at Andrew, and Andrew dropped his eyes. Though he had wondered about it too, having witnessed the exchange between the constable and the elderly man, he would never have asked that question.

  “How do you know about General Wyatt?” he asked.

  “He came in right after we did and we were introduced,” said Sara.

  “Oh. Yes, I’m related to him. He’s my father.”

  “I knew you were a toff,” said Sara. “But then why are you a copper?”

  “That,” said Wyatt, “seems to be a universal question, and one I’ve gotten a bit tired of answering.”

  “I guess I shouldn’t have asked it then.”

  “I don’t mind giving it another whirl. If your family had been Army for generations—if your father was a general, one brother a colonel and another a captain—wouldn’t you be tempted to try something else?”

  “Maybe. But why the police?”

  “Why not? Is it more important—and more honorable—to fight Afghans, Abyssinians, Zulus and other spear-carrying natives than to fight against criminals here in London?”

  “Well, no. But doesn’t your family hate it?”

  “Of course they do,” said Andrew. “And that’s the real reason he did it.”

  “What?” said Wyatt, turning toward him. “Why do you say that?”

  “Sorry,” said Andrew uncomfortably. “I shouldn’t have.”

  “But you did. Now tell me why.”

  “I was there when your father and brother arrived and I saw how you looked at them and they looked at you.”

  “I see,” said Wyatt. “I’m beginning to understand why Holmes said the things he did about you. It took me a little while to realize why I had done it myself.”

  “Become a policeman?”

  “Yes. My father and I haven’t always seen eye-to-eye, but I admire him. My brothers, on the other hand, are a pair of appalling snobs. They looked down their respective noses at me when I went to Cambridge instead of Sandhurst. And when they heard I was joining the Metropolitan Police, they became absolutely apoplectic. Which, as Holmes pointed out to me, was exactly what I wanted.”

  “But why aren’t you at least a detective?” asked Sara.

  “I must say you make a rare team,” said Wyatt, smiling. “You ask the questions that Andrew is too much of a gentleman to ask—and he supplies the insights. Do you know how one becomes a detective in our Police Department as presently constituted?”

  “No.”

  “After serving in the uniformed branch for two years—which I have done—a Divisi
onal Detective Inspector can recommend that you be transferred to the C.I.D.”

  “Well?” said Sara.

  “You mean, why haven’t I been recommended?” asked Wyatt, still smiling. “I suppose you could say I haven’t impressed anyone sufficiently with my intelligence, probity and reliability. But I’m not sure that’s true because I’ve been noted and commended several times. I suspect that what I’m facing is the reverse of the attitude I face with my family. They’re furious at me, consider me a traitor to my class because I’m a policeman … and the police dislike, distrust and resent me because I’m what you call a toff.”

  “Then you’d like to become a detective?” asked Andrew.

  “Of course. Because, while I admit I liked the idea of thumbing my nose at my family, showing them up for a pack of snobs, that’s the real reason I joined the police; because I wanted to become a detective.”

  “But you don’t have to stay in the police to become one, do you?” asked Sara. “Mr. Holmes isn’t in the police, doesn’t even like them.”

  “That’s true. And that’s something he suggested too when I discussed the matter with him: that I quit and set up as a private investigator or consultant like him. However, there’s a major difference between us: Holmes is a genius, and I’m not. And although I studied a great many things at Cambridge and after that I thought might be useful, I still felt I had a great deal to learn. And the place to learn was with the police.”

  “Well, maybe you’ll still get your recommendation,” said Andrew.

  “Maybe. But I doubt it.”

  “How is Mr. Holmes, by the way?”

  “He was quite well when I last saw him. But that was about a month ago. And of course, he’s away now.”

  “Away?”

  “Yes. He’s on the continent somewhere. Even his friend, Dr. Watson, isn’t sure where or how long he’ll be gone.”

  “That’s too bad. I was hoping to see him while I was in London and—”

  He broke off as a four-wheeler came slowly down Rysdale Road. Inspector Finch, bowler hat tipped well forward, sat in the rear seat. Next to him was an elderly lady whose shawl was pulled up over her head so that you could barely see her tired, careworn face.