“All right,” he said. “I’ll come back with you. And, if we can manage it, I’d like to see him.”
Cortland’s face lit up.
“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you very much.”
Though ordinarily they would both have been happy to spend not just the afternoon but all day at the zoo, they left immediately and walked back to Sherburne Square the way they had come. Cortland had a key, but as he started to use it, Hodge opened the door.
“Oh, hello, Hodge. We’re back a bit early. Is my mother home?”
“In the drawing room.”
“How’s my grandfather?”
“So far as I know, there’s been no change. But when Dr. Thurlow arrives, perhaps he’ll have something to say.”
“Right. We’re going upstairs. I want to show Tillett my butterfly collection.”
“Yes, Master Benedict.”
He closed the door, and Cortland led Andrew up the stairs. A hall ran from the back of the house to the front, and several doors opened off it.
“This is my room,” said Cortland, pointing to one to the left near the top of the stairs. “And that’s Grandfather’s,” he whispered, nodding to the one opposite. Glancing around, he opened it, beckoned Andrew in and closed the door after him.
They were in a good-sized, high-ceilinged room with windows overlooking the square. There was a bed, a chest and several chairs in it. And in the bed, lying as still as a statue, was a striking-looking man. He was probably in his seventies, with a high-bridged aquiline nose and dark blue eyes. His hair was silvery white, worn rather long, and his face, once apparently ruddy, now looked waxen. He was breathing slowly and with a certain amount of difficulty. And though he was clearly very ill and could not seem to move anything else, his eyes were clear and alive and—in a way Andrew could not identify—indomitable. They went to Cortland’s face as soon as he came within their field of vision, went from there to Andrew’s face, and remained there.
“Hello, Grandfather,” said Cortland. “How are you this afternoon?”
The old man closed his eyes, then opened them again.
“This is a friend of mine from school, Andrew Tillett.”
“How do you do, sir?” said Andrew. “Cortland has told me a great deal about you. I was sorry to hear about your illness.”
Again the old man closed and then opened his eyes, not once but twice. His eyes remained fixed on Andrew’s face, and Andrew not only sensed a keen intelligence behind them but had a sudden feeling that the old man was trying to communicate with him. On an impulse, he closed and then opened his eyes three times. Immediately the old man blinked three times. He was trying to communicate with him! He was!
Andrew knew about the Morse code, the system of dots and dashes that telegraphers used to send their messages. But even if Cortland’s grandfather knew it, he—Andrew—didn’t, so that was no good. But there must be something he could do.
He looked at the night table next to the old man’s bed. There was a glass and carafe of water on it, some bottles of medicine and a thermometer. Behind the night table, in the wall, was a brass-rimmed opening like the mouthpiece of the speaking tube one used to call down to the kitchen. And of course, if you could speak through it, that meant you could hear through it too—hear most of what went on in the room.
It was then, when he realized that if something was wrong he’d have to be careful, that he thought of what he could do.
“He seems to be having trouble breathing,” he said to Cortland. “I think we should raise him up a little.”
Cortland looked puzzled but, gathering that Andrew had some reason for it, said, “All right.”
“You take that side, and I’ll take this,” said Andrew, going to the side away from where the speaking tube was. Bending down as if he were about to lift the old man, he whispered in his ear, “Blink once for yes, twice for no. Can you hear me?”
The old man blinked once.
“Were you trying to send us a message?”
One blink. Yes.
“Do you need help?”
One blink. Yes.
What form should that help take? How could he phrase the question so that it could be answered with a yes or no? He’d have to take a chance on it.
“Do you want us to get you away from here?”
As the old man again blinked once for yes, there were footsteps on the stairs, and Andrew only had time enough to straighten up and step back away from the bed when the door opened and Dr. Thurlow came in, followed by Cortland’s stepmother.
“What are you doing in here, Benedict?” she asked severely.
“I wanted to see how Grandfather was, and since I’d been talking about him to Tillett, I thought I’d bring him in with me to meet him.”
“You should know he’s not well enough for that,” said the doctor reasonably. “We don’t mind your coming in. As we told you, we think that’s a very good idea. I gather your grandfather is fonder of you than he is of anyone else, and it’s good for him to see you and know that you’re concerned about him. But I don’t think you should bring anyone else in.”
“I should have known better,” said Andrew. “I’m sorry.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” said Cortland.
“Yes, it was. I think I’d better run along. Goodbye, Mrs. Cortland. Goodbye, doctor. Perhaps we can spend another afternoon together one of these days, Cortland.”
“That would be very nice,” said Cortland. And it was clear from his looks as well as the way he said it that he wasn’t sure whether Andrew meant it or not.
“Well, what do you expect me to do about it?” asked Wyatt.
It was about an hour later, and Andrew had just finished his account of what had happened.
“I don’t know. You told me to try to see Cortland again, and I did, and it’s obvious that something is wrong there—very wrong!”
“Am I supposed to take your word for that?”
“Are you saying you don’t believe what I told you?”
“No. I think you’re telling me the truth about what you believe happened. I’m just wondering if there may not be some other explanation for it.”
“What, for instance?”
“I don’t know. Do you want to take a walk with me while I think about it?”
“Where are you going?”
“To the Strand.”
“The theatre?”
“Near there. If you want, you can go on, watch some of the rehearsal and go home with your mother and Sara.”
“All right. I’ll walk with you anyway.”
They went out the rear entrance of the Yard, past the Foreign Office and along Whitehall to the Strand. They were about a half-block from the theatre when Sergeant Tucker came out of Bedford Street, nodded to Andrew and saluted Wyatt.
“Anything?” asked Wyatt. He sighed when Tucker shook his head. “There are days when you just can’t make tuppence,” he said. Then, turning to Andrew, “I’m sorry. There’s something else I have to take care of right now. But I think that what you told me warrants looking into, and we’ll do that tomorrow.”
What does a policeman mean when he says there’s something he has to take care of? Clearly Wyatt and Tucker were on a case and one that had something to do with this part of London, since they both seemed to be spending a good deal of time here.
But the Cortlands—young Cortland and his grandfather—were much more on Andrew’s mind as he walked up the Strand than Wyatt’s case, whatever it was. Which brought up the question of how much he should tell Sara of what had been happening.
It was something that had never arisen before. Whenever they had become involved in anything, they had both been in it and each of them knew everything the other knew. But with Sara in the play, everything was different. However, Andrew could not help feeling that there was so much to the Cortland case that he’d better let her know about it because he had a feeling that before it was all over she might have to become involved, too.
&n
bsp; And so, sitting in the back of the darkened theatre with her while the director rehearsed one of the many scenes in which she did not appear, he did tell her. He had already mentioned Cortland to her, told her that they had come down from school together. That Cortland had seemed worried and upset and that he’d probably see him sometime during the holidays. Now he told her what had happened that afternoon and what Wyatt had said.
She was silent for several moments when he had finished. Silent for so long, in fact, that he finally asked her what she was thinking about.
“I don’t know if you can call it thinking,” she said. “I was wondering if I’m not a little sorry that I’m in the play. Because, if I wasn’t, I’d be in this other thing with you.”
“The play’s much more important,” he said.
“It is to me. But in other ways, this other thing could be much more important. Of course, it sounds as if you’ve got Peter interested in it now—and you couldn’t have anyone better than that.”
“What about you?” he said, smiling.
“Don’t joke about it. I’m serious. But will you keep on letting me know what happens? Not only because I want to know, but because—if there’s anything I can do—I’d like to do it.”
“Of course I’ll let you know.”
“Starting with tomorrow?”
“Why tomorrow?”
“Didn’t Peter say he was really going to look into the whole thing tomorrow?”
“Yes, he did. And I’ll tell you everything that happens, everything we find out, if we do find out anything.”
4
The Stricken Grandfather
About ten o’clock the next morning, a gleaming black brougham drawn by a handsome bay drew up before the Cortland house. The uniformed coachman jumped down from the box, opened the door and stood there holding it while a gentleman got out of the carriage. He was every bit as imposing as the brougham, which an informed observer would have recognized as one of Mulliner of Liverpool’s best. He was in his middle forties, with just a touch of grey in his mustache and carefully trimmed beard. He wore a frock coat, striped trousers, and his gleaming top hat was cocked forward over his right eye. He was of little more than average height, but the way he carried himself made him seem much taller. He went up the steps and rang the bell. Hodge, who had seen Mrs. Cortland out only a few minutes before, opened the door almost immediately.
“The name’s Reeves,” said the man in a clipped and authoritative voice. “I understand my old friend Cortland’s back in London.”
“He is, sir,” said Hodge. “But unfortunately, he’s ill.”
“Ill? Ill how?”
“He’s had a stroke. Quite a severe one, I’m sorry to say, and …”
“What? All the more reason why I must see him!” and he pushed the door open all the way.
“I’m sorry, sir, but that’s impossible.”
“Impossible?” Reeves’ tone made it clear who and what he considered impossible.
“As I said, he’s quite ill. The doctor has forbidden any visitors. Mrs. Cortland, his daughter-in-law, is out at the moment, but if you came back when she is at home—”
“I don’t want to see her. I want to see him. And I’m not a visitor. I’m a friend.” As he spoke, he pushed past Hodge and went up the stairs. Staring after him helplessly, Hodge noted that he seemed to know exactly where to go. Opening the door of old Mr. Cortland’s room, he went in and closed it behind him.
When he came downstairs about ten minutes later, Reeves’ face was grave. He walked past Hodge without saying anything to him—without even looking at him—went down the steps and got into the brougham.
“Hospital,” he said to the coachman, who saluted, closed the door and climbed back into the box.
“Well done,” said Wyatt as the carriage started.
“Wasn’t very difficult. Though I suppose it might have been if the lady had been there.”
“Which is why we waited. I gather you saw him?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“There’s something very odd about his condition. Thurlow’s a good man—very good—but I don’t think it’s a stroke.”
“What do you think it is?”
“I’m not sure. I have a few ideas, but I want to go over some material I have in my library before I say.” He looked at Andrew who sat next to Wyatt. “Was there a nurse there when you saw him?”
“No, doctor.”
“Wasn’t one there now either. Which is something else that struck me as curious. Your friend never mentioned one?”
“No, doctor. I don’t suppose you saw him. Young Cortland, I mean.”
“A boy stuck his head out of the room opposite just as I was leaving, but I didn’t say anything to him.” He turned back to Wyatt. “I should like to get him to St. Mary’s where I could give him a proper examination. And of course he should have much more care than he’s getting now.”
“I know.”
“Will you be able to do anything about it?”
“I don’t know. This was a first step, getting your opinion. For which I’m very grateful, by the way.”
“Nonsense. Glad to do it. Never met the old gentleman myself, but my father knew him, and of course I’ve heard of him. Can I take you anywhere?”
“I don’t think so. Andrew and I are going the other way. Drop us anywhere along here, and we’ll get a hansom.”
“Very well.” Dr. Reeves rapped on the roof, and the carriage stopped. “I’ll hear from you then?”
“I hope so,” said Wyatt, getting out.
Andrew followed him, and by the time he had closed the door, Wyatt had flagged a hansom.
“Where to, sir?” asked the cabby.
“The Admiralty,” said Wyatt, getting in and moving over so as to leave room for Andrew.
5
The Admiralty
“What do you know about the Admiralty?” asked Wyatt as the hansom turned off Marylebone Road into Portland Place.
“Well, I know what it does. That it’s responsible for the administration of the navy,” said Andrew.
“Do you think that’s important?”
“Why, yes. I’d say it was quite important.”
“I’d advise you not to be so tentative there, at the Admiralty. It’s their contention that we couldn’t exist without a navy. And they have a point. Since this is an island, we do need a navy, not only to protect us here at home, but to protect the shipping that brings us all the food and other things we need.”
Andrew nodded. That was clear enough. “Who are we seeing there?” he asked.
“Do you know what the structure of the Admiralty is, how it’s run?”
“I know that it’s very complicated, with a board that includes a first lord and naval lords and a civil lord and I don’t know what else.”
“Included in the what else is the permanent secretary, who is a very important member of that very important body. The present one is Sir Arthur Barry, and that’s who we’re going to see.”
“Just like that? I mean, can you see someone that important any time you want?”
“Certainly not. I sent him a note yesterday, and he made an appointment with me for eleven-thirty.”
“That’s what I wanted to know.”
“Why?”
“Because, when I saw you yesterday afternoon, you claimed you weren’t sure that something was wrong with Cortland’s grandfather. But if you sent a note to Sir Arthur, you must have been sure that something was wrong even before you brought Dr. Reeves there this morning.”
“Are you trying to evaluate your judgment or mine?”
“Either or both,” said Andrew with a grin.
They came down the Haymarket, through Trafalgar Square, and the hansom drew up in front of the colonnade on Whitehall. Wyatt paid the cabby, and they entered the dark brick building. Wyatt gave his card to a uniformed commissionaire who sat at a large circular desk. He checked the name against an appointment list, s
ummoned a page, who led them up a stair and along a corridor to an elaborately carved door with a large brass knob. He knocked, then opened the door.
Several clerks worked at desks set against the walls, but standing in the center of the room and waiting for them was a soberly dressed man in his late forties. He was lean and erect and reminded Andrew of an elegant and expertly furled umbrella.
“Inspector Wyatt? I’m Dixon. Sir Arthur is expecting you. Will you come this way?”
He opened another door, stood aside and let them precede him into another, larger room with a high ceiling and a handsome marble mantle. Sitting at a large mahogany desk near the windows was a sturdy, white-haired man, whose ruddy complexion and blue eyes spelled sea as clearly as if he’d been wearing a uniform rather than an old-fashioned double-breasted frock coat.
“Delighted to meet you, Inspector,” he said, smiling and holding out his hand. “I’ve heard a great deal about you from Sir Roger and from other friends of mine.”
“You’re very kind, Sir Arthur,” said Wyatt, bowing. “As you gathered from my note, I wanted to talk to you about Captain Benedict Cortland, Junior, and his father. Since this was so, I hoped you would not mind if I brought along a young friend of mine, Andrew Tillett, who is also a friend of Benedict Cortland, Third.”
“Not at all. I know better than to question any of the mysterious things the Yard does its wonders to perform. By the same token, I think we should keep Dixon here. You’ve met?”
“Yes,” said Wyatt.
“Good. Many people are under the illusion that I run this department. But those who really know are aware that it’s run by the permanent secretary of the permanent secretary. In other words, by Dixon.”
“As you’ve probably heard, Inspector,” said Dixon in his quiet, cultivated voice, “Sir Arthur is as well known for his sense of humor as for his intelligence, his organizing ability and his diplomatic skill.”
“There he goes again. Nothing I can do about the fellow. Now tell us exactly what we can do for you, Inspector.”
The Case of the Frightened Friend (Andrew Tillet, Sara Wiggins & Inspector Wyatt Book 6) Page 3