“I never met either of them, so I can’t say. And let’s remember that it was the butler who tried to keep you from seeing him, said he wasn’t there, not the stepmother. What I’d suggest is that you try again to see him. If you can’t, then we’ll consider what can be done about it. And if you do see him, then perhaps he’ll tell you why he said what he did.”
“That makes sense. Thank you.”
“Not at all. What are you going to do now? How are you planning to spend the rest of the afternoon.”
“I’ve no real plans. I thought I might walk over to the theatre and say hello to Mother and Sara.”
“I’d like to do that myself. I’ll go with you.”
They went over to the Strand and then up it to the theatre, which was almost opposite the Savoy. The theatre had been dark for some months, and there was nothing on the marquee to indicate what the last play there had been. Wyatt, who had been there before, took Andrew down the alley that led to the stage door. The pavement in front of the theatre had not been particularly clean, and the alley was even worse. Andrew stumbled over half bricks, empty bottle and pieces of wood that had probably broken off old, discarded theatre sets.
Wyatt pulled open the heavy iron door. Inside, sitting in a small booth, was a grey-haired, elderly man in a shiny dark suit. He was tall, lean and seemed to have some kind of throat complaint for when he talked his voice was hoarse and a little wheezy.
“Yes, gentlemen?” he said. “What can I do for you?”
“We’ve come to see Miss Tillett. This is her son, Andrew. And my name is Wyatt.”
“How do you do?” said the man, bobbing his head. “Sorry I had to ask, but that’s part of my job. I’ll know you next time.”
“You’re new here, aren’t you?” said Wyatt.
“Yes, sir. Just started this morning. Name of Burke. Tim Burke.”
“Is my mother here?” asked Andrew.
“She is. And Mr. Harrison, the manager, and several of the others. They’re out front. Best way to get to them is along here, across the stage and down.”
They thanked him and went along into the wings. The backstage was lit by unshaded gas jets, whose yellow fan-shaped flames did little to relieve the darkness. They walked past a row of ropes that raised and lowered the heavy curtains and the sets that had been pulled up to the flies overhead. The footlights had not been lit, and the bare, dusty stage was illuminated by a pair of Veritas oil lamps—one on each side of the proscenium—whose circular wicks gave off almost as much light as limelights.
“Oh, Andrew,” called Verna from somewhere in the shadowy auditorium. “And Peter. Come on down here.”
They could not see her till they had crossed the stage and gone down the temporary steps that led to the orchestra. She was sitting just off the central aisle with Sara, Mr. Harrison and several men and women Andrew did not know.
Andrew did know Mr. Harrison, the manager, and apparently Wyatt did, too, for they greeted one another and Verna introduced both of them to Richards, the director, and to the other members of the company who were there.
“Sara’s about to read for the part of Adele,” said Verna. “You can stay and hear her if you like.”
“Read?” said Andrew quietly. “I thought it was all settled.”
“Not quite. I thought she was very good and so did Richards, but Mr. Harrison hasn’t had a chance to hear her yet, and we all thought he should.”
“I see. Would you mind if we stayed?” Andrew asked Sara.
Though she was suddenly quite pale, Sara shook her head. Andrew and Wyatt sat down with the others, and Verna and Sara went up the steps on to the stage. Since Verna had been in the play in New York, she did not need a script. And while Sara had one in her hand, she apparently already knew most of the part by heart, for she almost never referred to it.
The scene they were doing was one near the opening of the play where Verna, as Jane Eyre, meets Adele, the young French girl who is Rochester’s ward and whom she is to take care of. Andrew remembered how jealous Sara had been of the girl who had played the part in New York, and they had not done more than a few minutes of the scene before it was obvious to him that Sara was much better than the other girl. He didn’t know where she had gotten the slight touch of French accent, but it was exactly right, and so was the mixture of enthusiasm and shyness with which she spoke, the awkwardness with which she moved. He knew then, as he had always suspected, that she was a born actress.
They finished the scene, the manager and director exchanged glances, and apparently there was no need for them to say anything to each other.
“All right, Sara, that’s fine,” said Richards. “Everyone on stage, and we’ll start a reading from the very beginning.”
“You mean I’ve got the part?” asked Sara uncertainly.
“Of course you have, darling,” said Verna. “You were splendid.”
“You were indeed,” said Harrison. “We’re delighted to have you with us. Are you staying?” he asked Wyatt.
“No. I only stopped by with Andrew to say hello. I’ll be running along now.”
“So will I,” said Andrew.
He went up on to the stage with Wyatt and Harrison. Sara, flushed now instead of pale, was in such a happy daze that she was hardly aware of it when Andrew congratulated her, said goodbye to her and Verna, and told them he’d see them that evening.
He, Wyatt and Harrison went out and up the alley to the Strand. They stood there for a few minutes talking about Sara, Verna and the play, then Harrison went off up the Strand to his office, and Wyatt went the other way toward Scotland Yard.
Andrew glanced at his watch. It was a little before three. There was no need for him to go home for quite a while yet. Should he take a walk along the Embankment or perhaps over to Soho? Then he remembered what Wyatt had said about Cortland. Why not try to see him again now?
Walking back to Charing Cross, he caught a green City Atlas bus, and about a half-hour later got off again just before Regent’s Park and walked over to Sherburne Square.
For the second time that day, he tugged at the bell-pull and, after a moment, the odd-looking butler, Hodge, opened the door.
“Good afternoon. Is Cortland here now?”
“I’ll inquire. The name’s Tillett?”
“Yes.”
Almost reluctantly he admitted Andrew to the entrance hall, knocked at a closed door to the right of it, then went in, closing the door behind him.
The entrance hall was dark, the only light a fanlight over the door, but Andrew could see one door to the right, one to the left and a flight of stairs ahead of him. The door to the right opened, and Mrs. Cortland came out followed by a distinguished-looking man with greying hair and a short, square-cut beard.
“I’m very glad you stopped in again,” she said. “Benedict came home shortly after you left. This is Dr. Thurlow. Andrew Tillett.”
“How do you do, sir?”
“Hello,” said the doctor, studying him with a pair of very sharp eyes. “You’re a friend of Benedict’s?”
“Yes, sir. At least, we’re at school together.”
“You’re older than he is, aren’t you?”
“A year or so. But we like many of the same things.”
“What sort of things?”
“Oh, walking, birds, flowers.”
The doctor continued looking at him for a moment, then he nodded.
“Why don’t you get Benedict for his friend, Hodge?”
“Yes, doctor,” said Hodge, and as if this was what he had been waiting for, he turned and went up the stairs.
“Won’t you come into the drawing room?” asked Mrs. Cortland.
“Thank you,” said Andrew, and he followed her and the doctor into a room that was rather dark, for the heavy drapes were half drawn.
“Tillett’s an unusual name,” said Mrs. Cortland, sitting down on a settee.
“Is it? I never thought that it was particularly.”
“Where
do you live?” asked the doctor with what was apparently his habitual directness.
“Rysdale Road in St. John’s Wood.”
“So it really was on your way when you dropped Benedict off here last night.”
“Yes, it was.”
“Very nice out in St. John’s Wood,” said the doctor. Then, as something came to him. “Tillett. Any relation to Verna Tillett?”
“She’s my mother.”
“Is she someone I should know?” asked Mrs. Cortland.
“She’s an actress,” said the doctor. “And a very good one. Isn’t she doing a play soon?”
“Yes. Jane Eyre. She played in it in New York, and she’s just started rehearsing it here.”
Cortland appeared in the doorway, stood there as if waiting to be invited in.
“Come in, Benedict,” said Mrs. Cortland. “Here’s your friend, Andrew Tillett.”
“Hello, Cortland,” said Andrew.
“Hello,” said Cortland, coming into the room and somehow looking even younger than he did at school; younger and more lost.
“I stopped by this morning, but you were out.”
“Yes. Hodge told me that you’d been here.”
“I thought, if you liked, perhaps we could do something together.”
“When?”
“Well, what about tomorrow?”
Cortland looked at his stepmother who, in turn, looked at Dr. Thurlow, then smiled.
“That sounds like a very nice idea. Would you like to come for lunch, Andrew?”
Andrew hesitated a moment. If he was going to see Cortland, he wanted to see him alone.
“I’m afraid I can’t make it for lunch. Why don’t we make it after that, say around two o’clock?”
Again Cortland looked at his stepmother.
“That will be fine,” he said. “See you then.”
Andrew said goodbye to Mrs. Cortland and the doctor and went out. Hodge closed the door after him, and he went down the steps. He was glad he had followed Wyatt’s suggestion, for he had seen Cortland. But he felt more decidedly than ever that something was wrong, and he hoped Cortland would tell him what it was when he next saw him.
3
Cortland’s Problem
The next day was one of those early spring days that are so unexpectedly pleasant that you feel it would be a crime to spend any part of it indoors. Andrew walked to the Cortland house. This time Hodge let him in without any hesitation, called Cortland, and a few minutes after Andrew had rung the bell, they were outside and having a discussion as to what they should do. Though there was, in fact, very little discussion. For when Andrew suggested that they go to the zoo in Regent’s Park, Cortland agreed immediately, and that was that.
They entered the zoo by the south entrance. The animals seemed to be enjoying the fine day as much as the humans: the lions pacing their cage and giving their muttering roar; the gibbons whooping; and the seals and sea lions splashing as they dived into their pools, chased one another, then climbed out only to dive in again.
They walked past the southern ponds, past the bustard, crane and stork enclosure to the Great Western Aviary, where even more colorful birds like flamingoes, ibises and herons flew, stood or stalked. Because they were both interested in birds, they had gravitated toward them naturally. And even before they got to the Great Aviary, it was clear to Andrew that Cortland knew considerably more about them—especially the rarer, more exotic birds—than he did. When he said something about this, Cortland shrugged.
“I should know something about them,” he said. “I’ve been here quite a few times with my grandfather. He’s a bit of a naturalist.”
“What’s his name?”
“Benedict Cortland.”
“Then your father’s Benedict Cortland, Junior.”
“He was. He’s dead.”
“Oh. Let’s sit down.” He led Cortland to a bench on the far side of the aviary. “You’ve been on my mind a good deal since we came down from school.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No need to be sorry, but I wish you’d tell me why you said what you did when I dropped you off at your house.”
“I’m not sure I know why.”
“Don’t do that, Cortland. We don’t know each other well, but I know you well enough to be sure you didn’t do it for effect. That there was some reason for it. And I wish you’d tell me what it was.”
Cortland took so long to answer that Andrew began to think he wasn’t going to. But finally he said, “You’re right. I did have my reasons. And to be honest, I think this is exactly what I hoped might happen. That you’d ask me about it. But now that you have—” He paused again, then said somewhat awkwardly, “I’m afraid I’ll have to give you some background.”
“Go ahead. We’ve got all afternoon.”
“All right. My mother died about five years ago, when I was seven. My father was away at the time—he was in the navy—and that’s when I got to know grandfather. He’d just got back from one of his trips. He moved into the house and stayed with me until my father came back. Shortly after that my father gave up active sea duty and became naval attaché, first at our embassy in Copenhagen and then in Berlin. About two years ago, just before he left Denmark, he married a Danish countess.”
“Your stepmother?”
“Yes.”
“I thought she had a slight accent, but I couldn’t place it. Go on.”
“Well, about six months ago—shortly after I came up to school—my father died.”
“As recently as that?”
“Yes.”
“Hard lines.”
“Yes. I liked him—liked him a lot. We used to sail together, swim, fish. My grandfather was away at the time—in Africa—and while my stepmother tried to do something about the way I felt, it wasn’t any good. I’d only been with her during holidays and hardly knew her, and besides I had a feeling that she didn’t really care about me.”
Andrew nodded. He had sensed that himself.
“I’d been at school, and I went back up there after the funeral,” Cortland continued. “About two months ago, when my grandfather got back, he came up to see me. He had quite a few things to say about what a good man my father had been, a fine naval officer and all that, and about how he—my grandfather—would be around for a while yet and look out for me and help take care of me. But all the while I had the feeling that there was something on his mind, something worrying and upsetting him, that he wasn’t telling me about.”
“Did you say anything to him about it?”
“As a matter of fact, I did. And he looked at me strangely and said I was more like my father than he’d realized and maybe he did have something on his mind. But he didn’t want to talk about it—not then. He said he was going away again for a while—there was something he had to take care of—and when he came back, maybe he would tell me what it was all about.”
“Has he come back?”
“Yes. Just the other day.”
“And has he told you what he said he would?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“When the headmaster told me he’d gotten a telegram saying that something had happened and asking that I be sent home immediately, I sensed that something had happened to Grandfather. And I was right. When I got home, I discovered that he’d come back the day before and that he’d had a stroke. He’s in his old room, just across the hall from mine, completely paralyzed and unable to move or even speak.”
Andrew cleared his throat. “I don’t know what to say. I don’t think there’s anything I can say.”
“No.”
“Is all this why you said what you did to me?”
“Yes. I had a feeling that after what had happened to my father and now to my grandfather—though I didn’t know what it was yet—that something might very well happen to me. Because I had this feeling that something was very, very wrong. And now that I’ve seen Grandfather, I’m more convinced of it than ever.”
&
nbsp; “Why do you say that?”
“I don’t know. It’s just a feeling I have. And that’s why I’d like you to come and see him.”
“Your grandfather?”
“Yes.”
“But why? I’m not a doctor.”
“He’s got a doctor. Dr. Thurlow. You met him yesterday. But I don’t think that’s what he needs.”
“What then?”
“He needs what I talked to you about the other day: someone who’ll look into the whole thing, really look into it.”
“You mean the way Inspector Wyatt would?”
“Yes.”
“But that’s ridiculous! I’m not a detective either.”
“No, but you know someone at Scotland Yard. And if you think something’s wrong, you’d know what to do about it.”
“I suppose I could talk to the inspector. I said something to him about you yesterday. And it’s true your butler acted very strangely when I stopped by yesterday morning.”
“How?”
“He said you were still at school. And when I said I’d come down with you the night before, your stepmother came out and said he meant that you weren’t home at the moment.”
“But I was home. This is the first time I’ve been out since I came down from school. Hodge must have had orders not to let anyone see me.”
“Then why did your stepmother tell me to come back?”
“Once she knew you knew I was there, she must have realized you’d be suspicious if you couldn’t see me.” Then, as Andrew nodded, “Will you come back to the house with me, come up and see my grandfather?”
“If there is something wrong, will they let me see him?”
“If they won’t, won’t that be proof that there is something wrong?”
“Not necessarily. If he’s had a stroke and is as ill as you say, he’s probably not supposed to have visitors—certainly not someone who’s not even a member of his family.”
“Well, will you at least try it?” His eyes were on Andrew’s face. “I told you about my father. He must have been very brave. But I’m not. I keep trying to be, but … Well, I can’t help it. I’m frightened. I’m very frightened.”
Andrew looked at him. He wasn’t as sure as Cortland was that he’d be able to tell if something was wrong, but it was clear that it was very important to Cortland that he do something.
The Case of the Frightened Friend (Andrew Tillet, Sara Wiggins & Inspector Wyatt Book 6) Page 2