The Case of the Threatened King Read online

  “I gather there’s been no word from her,” said Wyatt.

  “No,” said Verna. “Have you found out anything?”

  “No. Sergeant Tucker stopped by at the Wellington Road police station, and between us we made enquiries at the local hospitals. She’s not at any of them, and the local police don’t know anything.” Then, as Mrs. Wiggins covered her face and Verna put her arms around her, “I’m not going to say you mustn’t worry, Mrs. Wiggins. I don’t know how you can help it. But I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how I feel about Sara. If it’s humanly possible to find her, get her back safely, we’ll do it.”

  4

  Sara Alone

  Some time before that, at about six o’clock, Sara regained consciousness; not all at once, but slowly and painfully. Her head ached, her mouth was dry, and when she opened her eyes, everything was blurry. She blinked and gradually her vision cleared. She was in a strange room, one she had never seen before; and when she tried to sit up and study it, a wave of nausea came over her and she slumped back and closed her eyes again to keep from throwing up. The nausea passed, and opening her eyes, she sat up very slowly and carefully.

  The room she was in was small and bare. It was probably an attic room, for the ceiling pitched down sharply to two dormer windows. There were two iron cots in the room. She was lying on one of them. The other had an old mattress on it but no sheets or blanket. There was a door to her left. To her right was a window that looked out over some roofs. There was a chest of drawers next to the window with a looking glass on it and, in the corner of the room, a wash stand with a pitcher and basin. The only other piece of furniture in the room was a rickety wooden chair.

  From the looks of the furniture, all of which was old and decrepit, and from the fact that the room was in the attic, it was clear that it had once been a servant’s room. As to where it was and how she had gotten there, Sara had no idea. Sitting up a little straighter and covering her eyes with her hand, she tried to concentrate and see what she could remember.

  Dancing school—she could remember that, who had been there and what they had been doing, even the fact that Miss Caroline had had a coughing fit in the middle of the schottische. When she had left, she had started to walk back to Rysdale Road, following the same route she always did. As she went around the corner, a four-wheeler drew up, the driver knotted the reins around the whipsocket, got down from the box and came toward her. He was a big man, almost as big as Sergeant Tucker, and he was heavily bearded. He wore a coachman’s coat and top hat, but his boots and breeches looked military. Sara had a feeling that he was a foreigner before he said anything to her, and once he did, there was no question about it.

  “Excuse please, missy,” he said with a guttural voice and with a decided accent. “Where I find …” Whatever it was he wanted to find sounded like hobagob.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  The big man looked at her unhappily.

  “If you come here,” he said, nodding toward the four-wheeler,” he tell you.”

  Evidently whoever was in the four-wheeler spoke better English than he did.

  She walked over to it, the coachman opened the door, and as she leaned forward to talk to whoever was inside, a strong hand clutched her by the back of the neck and another clapped a damp cloth over her mouth and nose. As she drew in her breath to scream, she smelled something sweetish. The damp cloth muffled her scream, and at the same time, she realized that she shouldn’t breathe in whatever it was that saturated the cloth. But by then it was too late; her senses were starting to slip away.

  “No,” she remembered thinking, “this can’t be happening. It can’t.”

  But of course it had happened. She dropped the hand that had been covering her eyes. Her mouth was dry and had a vile taste in it. She wondered if there was any water in the pitcher on the washstand. As she started to get up and see, she heard footsteps coming up the stairs. She immediately closed her eyes and dropped flat again, as if she were still unconscious. The lock clicked, the door opened and closed, and footsteps came into the room.

  She opened her eyes cautiously, peered out through her long lashes. A man stood at the foot of the cot looking down at her, not the coachman, another man.

  “You,” he said, “wake up!” He spoke much better English than the coachman, but he had a decided accent, too.

  Sara did not move. Bending down, he took her by the shoulder and shook her, not roughly but firmly and decisively.

  Slowly Sara opened her eyes. Though only of medium height, the man who looked down at her was, in his way, even more striking than the big coachman had been. Broad-shouldered and erect, he was well-dressed, wearing a frock coat and striped trousers. And while the coachman had been heavily bearded, he was not only clean-shaven, but his head was shaved as well, and he was studying Sara through a single eyeglass that was clamped in his left eye.

  “How do you feel?” he asked.

  Some deep-rooted instinct took over and, without being completely sure why she did it, Sara scrapped all the training Andrew’s mother had given her in proper speech and reverted to an earlier style, the speech she had learned and used in Dingell’s Court, off Edgeware Road.

  “I feels awful!” she said in her broadest Cockney. “‘Oo are you?”

  He stiffened. “I’m Colonel Kosta,” he said, frowning down at her. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Screamer.”

  “Who?”

  “That’s what they calls me. Me real name is Sara. Sara Wiggins.”

  “Wiggins?”

  “Yus. Where is this place? Why’d you bring me here? And—”

  “Never mind that. Where do you live?”

  “Rysdale Road.”

  “And your name is Wiggins?”

  “I told you it was.”

  He continued to stare down at her, scowling so fiercely that the top edge of his monocle disappeared under his eyebrow. Then, turning abruptly, he strode to the door and pulled it open.

  “Zerko!” he called.

  There were heavy footsteps on the stairs; the coachman came into the room, drew himself up and saluted the colonel.

  Looking at him with cold fury, Kosta jerked his head at Sara and asked him a question in a guttural language that seemed to be mostly consonants. Startled, the coachman looked at Sara, nodded and answered with a single word. Kosta asked him what sounded like another question, and this time the coachman’s answer was longer and more involved. Barking out a single phrase, the colonel slapped him across the face. The coachman did not blink or move. Then, when the colonel said something else that seemed to be an order, he saluted again, turned and left the room. His face still flushed and angry, Kosta said, “Why did you say you did not feel well?”

  “I feels sick. And me head hurts. And besides, I’m thirsty.”

  “There’s water in the pitcher. Zerko filled it a little while ago, so it’s fresh.” He walked to the door and opened it. “I’ll be back.”

  He closed and locked the door. Sara waited until she heard his footsteps going down the stairs, then she swung her feet over the side of the bed and stood up. Another wave of nausea came over her and she swayed dizzily, had to close her eyes. She kept them closed for a moment, then when she felt better, she went over to the washstand. There was a mug next to the basin. She filled it, drank and splashed some of the water on her face; then she began walking around the room, studying it while she tried to decide where she was and why she had been brought there.

  The setting sun was shining in through the window opposite the door. That meant it faced west. Bending down, she looked out the other, smaller dormer windows. Across a narrow alley was the blank brick wall of building that was taller than the one she was in. She looked down. The alley, some four stories below her, was cobbled and there was no sign of movement in it. If the single window to her right faced west, the dormer windows must face south. Over the distant sound of traffic—horses’ hoofs, the clatter of iron-rimmed wheels—she heard the chuf
fing of a boat engine and a hooting whistle. That and the faintly salty smell blended with the smell of sewage meant that the house was close to the Thames, some distance from St. John’s Wood and the part of London she knew best.

  She went back to the window that faced west. The roof it overlooked was only a few feet below it, but there were bars on the window so she could not get out that way. Beyond the roof, about twenty feet away, was a fairly wide street. Looking down and at an angle, she could see a good-sized section of it. The houses that lined it seemed neat and fashionable, and so did the man and woman who strolled by on the far side of it. If she screamed, Sara wondered, would they hear her? Probably not. And even if they did, it was not likely that they would be able to locate her, decide where she was, certainly not before Colonel Kosta or Zerko, the coachman, heard her and came back into the room to gag her or silence her more permanently.

  She stepped back from the window. The looking glass on the chest of drawers was mounted on a stand with a side pivot and she adjusted it so that she could look at herself. Was it likely that they might silence her permanently, in other words, kill her? She studied herself thoughtfully. She couldn’t say, ‘No, that’s impossible.’ That’s what she had said when Zerko or someone had clapped the wet pad to her mouth and nose, and look at where she was. What happened would depend on why they had kidnapped her and brought her here, and so far she didn’t know why.

  She walked back to the cot that had a blanket and pillow on it and stretched out.

  Well, I’m in something up to my khyber this time, she thought. Sara alone, in durance vile. She wasn’t sure where she’d gotten that phrase or even exactly what it meant (Andrew would know: he knew almost everything), but she was pretty sure it meant that you were a prisoner. And that’s what she was, all right. Or was she a captive? What was the difference between a prisoner and a captive?

  A much more important question was, why? Why had she been kidnapped and brought here? Was it for money, ransom? She suddenly realized why, without really thinking about it, she had decided to play the role of a not very bright—and certainly not very well-educated—Cockney girl. If she were not very bright, they’d be less likely to watch her carefully, which meant she’d have a better chance of getting help or escaping. And of course, if she were no one special, they couldn’t expect anyone to come up with any whacking big ransom to get her back.

  This brought up another interesting question—or rather the original and most important one in another form. Did they know who she was? From the way Colonel Kosta had reacted—and the way he had questioned Zerko—she had a feeling that perhaps they didn’t. She’d have to wait and see. But in the meantime, what she wasn’t going to do was worry. Because so far the colonel had no idea of how smart she was, and one way or another, she was sure she was going to get out of the predicament she was in.

  Lying there on the cot, she must have fallen asleep, for when she heard voices and footsteps on the stairs again, the room was dark. She sat up when the door was unlocked and opened. Zerko came in carrying an oil lamp. He was followed by Colonel Kosta and another man and woman. Kosta remained at the door, but the man and woman advanced to the foot of the cot and looked down at Sara. The woman, in her own way, was just as striking as Zerko or the colonel. It was difficult to tell her age for, though by no means young, her face was so heavily powdered that it looked like a white mask. Her hair, piled high on her head, was bright red and was so elaborately curled that Sara was convinced it was a wig. Her eyes were dark and glittering, she wore a mulberry velvet dress and carried a silver-headed ebony cane.

  She jerked her head, and the man, who had been standing a little behind her, took the lamp from Zerko and set it on the table between the two cots. As he did, Sara got her first good look at him. He was shorter and slighter than the woman, wore a nondescript dark suit with a kingsman, a brightly colored scarf, around his neck instead of a collar and tie. There was something rodent-like about him, for his face was narrow and his eyes dark and set close together. Though he seemed to be smiling, his eyes were as cold and hard as jet beads.

  “All right, duck,” said the woman in a flat, rasping voice. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Screamer.”

  “Screamer?”

  “That’s what they calls me. Who are you?”

  “Never mind who I am or what they calls you. What’s your name?”

  “Sara. Sara Wiggins.”

  “And where do you live?”

  “Twenty-three Rysdale Road.”

  “Come off it! What’d a bit of fluff like you be doing living on Rysdale Road?”

  “Who’s a bit of fluff? I’m a good gel, I am!”

  “Are you?”

  “Yes, I am!”

  “But you know what a bit of fluff is.”

  “Sure I do. I used to live over at Dingell’s Court, off Edgeware Road.”

  “That’s more like it. What are you doing on Rysdale Road?”

  “I told you, living there. Me mum’s the housekeeper.”

  “Oh? Is that where you got the duds you’re wearing?”

  “Yes. They’re hand-me-downs the lady we work for gets from her friends.”

  “So you work there, too?”

  “Yes. I’m the tweenie.”

  “What about this dancing school over near the Wellington Road—Miss Fizdale’s?”

  “What about it?”

  “Do you go there?”

  “Sometimes. The missis we work for don’t know it, but I wants to learn, not just how to dance, but how to talk and act like a lydy and they teaches you that there. So when we’ve a bit put by, I goes there.”

  The woman with the red wig stared at her fixedly for a moment.

  “Well, Sam?” she asked finally. The rat-faced man nodded once. “I think so, too. She’s what she says she is,” she said to the colonel. “You’ve nabbed the wrong girl.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Sure as water’s wet.” Then as he swore vehemently in his unknown foreign tongue, “Well, it serves you right. I told you that I wanted to do the whole job, and you thought it was too much, thought you could do it yourself. Well, now that you’ve mucked this part of it, I want what I said and another two hundred quid.”

  “Two hundred more?”

  “Yes.”

  He studied her, frowning, then nodded. “All right.”

  “Good-oh. Come on, Sam.” And she started for the door, limping a little and leaning on her ebony stick.

  “‘arf a mo’!” said Sara. “What about me?”

  “What about you?”

  “What’s going to happen to me?”

  “Nothing, ducky. We’ll have to keep you here for a few days, but you’ll be all right.”

  “Oh, I will, will I? Well, thanks for nothing! In the meantime, don’t I even get anything to eat?”

  “Of course you do. The sergeant here,” she jerked her head at Zerko, “will bring you something.”

  “Besides being hungry, I’m scared of the dark. How about leaving the lamp?”

  “All right, ducky. We’ll do that too. Nighty-night and pleasant dreams.” And she went out, followed by her companion, Sam, by Zerko and the colonel.

  5

  The Ransom Note

  The church clock began striking the hour, and when it had struck four times, the grandfather clock in the upstairs hall began striking. Andrew, sitting in the front parlor with his mother and Mrs. Wiggins, did not have to count the strokes to know that it was ten o’clock. He had been very much aware of the time after Inspector Wyatt and Sergeant Tucker had left the night before and even more aware of it since he had gotten up that morning.

  He glanced at Mrs. Wiggins. Sitting well forward in her chair, she had stiffened when the church clock began striking, listening intently, as she had to every sound that they had heard since Andrew and his mother had come down early that morning. And since her bed had not been slept in, it was very likely that she had been sitting there, reacting to every
sound, for most of the night.

  Though her face was calm, there were new lines in it, and Andrew had some sense of how she must feel from the way he felt. In the beginning, though it was clear that something was wrong, he had hoped that it was nothing serious; that there would be a knock on the door and Sara would come in with some explanation as to where she had been. When Wyatt and Tucker had told them that she was not at any of the likely hospitals, that hope had disappeared. Something definitely had happened to Sara, and it was now a matter of finding out exactly what. (Was it possible that they never would find out? That she was just gone, gone forever?)

  Andrew got up, went to the window and looked out. No, that wasn’t possible! Even though he knew that that sort of thing did happen, it wasn’t going to happen to Sara. It couldn’t. Too many people cared too much about her.

  “How about something to eat now, Mrs. Wiggins?” asked Verna. When they had first come downstairs, she had talked with Matson and determined that Mrs. Wiggins had not had any breakfast.

  “Thank you, ma’am, but not right now.”

  “If you’re waiting until we hear something, it may be quite a while, and you’ve got to keep your strength up as well as your spirits.”

  “I know that, but I couldn’t manage anything just yet.”

  “All right, Mrs. Wiggins.”

  Andrew turned and looked at her, exchanged glances with his mother, then looked out of the window again.

  Though their house was set well back from Rysdale Road, the parlor windows were high enough that Andrew could see over the hedge, see most of the street. No one was walking up or down it, and no carriage, hansom or four-wheeler had gone by for several minutes. The only movement anywhere was by the mason on the scaffolding in front of the Fulton house across the street. He had been there when Andrew had first looked out of the window that morning, standing on the scaffolding with his back to the street and chipping away at the flaking and discolored stucco with a hammer and chisel.