“For instance?”
“Thinking it would be safer to take something valuable to Dover by carriage than by train.”
“Somerville admitted that might have been a mistake.”
“Yes, I know. But if he was worried, why did he travel at night?”
“He explained that, claimed he wasn’t worried about anything happening at this end, but didn’t want to arrive at Dover after dark.”
“I know. But I still think it was very strange.”
“You think he was lying?”
Tucker was silent for a moment. “I wouldn’t say that, sir. I think he was very upset at what happened—about both Polk’s death and the chest that was stolen—perhaps even more upset than he let on. But, at the same time, I don’t believe he told us everything he knows.”
“I agree with you. What about Mrs. Severn?”
“There again I had a strange feeling. I wonder if she would have told you about that no-good husband of hers coming to see her if you hadn’t known about him, asked her about him.”
“Well, it’s not easy for a woman to admit she was foolish enough to marry a man who turned out to be a criminal. However, I agree with you again. Do you think she was lying when she said she didn’t know where we could find him?”
“No, I don’t. I don’t think she was trying to protect him, if that’s what you mean. Because one of the things I’m sure about is that she hates him.”
“I don’t think there’s any doubt about that. And though she said she didn’t know who attacked her and Polk, I’d like to have a few words with Tom Severn, find out where he was last night.”
“Do you have any idea of where you might find him, sir?”
“No. But I know someone who might know.”
“Your friend Beasley?”
“Yes. If you’ll go back to the Yard when you’ve finished your lunch and check central records for anything they have on Severn, I’ll go to Portobello Road and see what Beasley has to say.”
Sara hadn’t said a word during the discussion between Wyatt and the sergeant, but this was too much for her.
“Can we go with you?” she asked.
Wyatt looked at her with pretended surprise.
“Are you still here?”
“Yes. I asked if we could go with you.”
“Why?”
“Because we like the Baron. He’s almost as much of a friend as you are, and we haven’t seen him for a long time.”
“And that’s the only reason?”
“No. We could understand a little of what happened from things you and the sergeant said. But if we go to Portobello Road with you, you’ll have a chance to tell us more.”
“And of course it’s very important that you know everything that the sergeant and I know.”
“Why, yes,” said Sara with wide-eyed innocence. “Because, if we don’t, how are we going to help you?”
Wyatt looked at her intently, then turned to Tucker.
“You see what I’m up against? What I’ve been up against?”
“Yes, sir,” said Tucker smiling. “But it didn’t do any harm in the Denham diamond case. Maybe it won’t in this one either.”
“We’ll see.”
4
Severn Found
Though Fred was available and would have been happy to drive them anywhere they wanted to go, Wyatt hailed a hansom and told the cabby to take them to Portobello Road. The reason for that was that Fred would not only have listened to everything Wyatt said, but would have commented on it as well. Without these interruptions, by the time they reached Portobello Road, Wyatt had told them everything that had happened at Lord Somerville’s and had even had time to answer a few of their questions.
This was not one of Portobello Road’s busy days, and the street was almost deserted as they walked up it to Beasley’s shop. The window contained the same oddments it had when they visited before—a brass samovar, some glass paperweights and a marble head of Napoleon. Beasley, a large, babyfaced man in a bottle green velvet jacket, looked at them coldly as they came in.
“So we’re in trouble again, eh?” he said in his whispery, wheezing voice.
“Is that an editorial we or a royal we?” asked Wyatt.
“I don’t know what that means. I’m referring to you and these two creatures, whoever they are.”
“But you know who we are,” said Sara. “At least, you ought to.”
“If I do, it’s because I’ve got a memory like an elephant. How long is it since you’ve been here?”
“A long time,” said Andrew. “But I’ve been away at school.”
“Excuses, excuses. What about you?” he asked Sara. “Have you been away at school, too?”
“No, but I didn’t think I should come here by myself.”
“Of course not! You can do anything you feel like doing—hooking midnight rides on criminal’s wagons, for instance. But you can’t come across London to see the man who helped you solve one of the century’s most famous cases.”
“It wasn’t because I was afraid to come here by myself. It’s because Andrew would have been furious at me. Because he would have wanted to come, too. We both missed you. And when the inspector said he was going to come and see you, we told him he just had to let us come, too.”
“Sounds like a lot of Betty Martin to me. Howsomever … here.” He produced a block of something wrapped in paper. “Have some halvah.”
“What’s halvah?” asked Sara as he unwrapped a white substance, took out a clasp knife and cut a slice.
“What’s halvah?” he repeated unhappily. “Am I the only one who’s interested in your education? First taste it and see if you like it.”
He cut the slice into quarters and gave Sara and Andrew each one. It was sticky and very sweet, but very good.
“Yes,” said Sara. “It’s like … I don’t know what it’s like. What’s it made of?”
“Crushed nuts and honey. It’s Middle Eastern.” He popped one of the two remaining pieces in his mouth, held the other out to Wyatt.
“Thanks,” said Wyatt, taking it. “I happen to like halvah. And while I’m usually more concerned about my weight and my teeth than you are, I’ll ignore that for the moment.”
“There’s nothing wrong with either my teeth or my weight,” said Beasley. “All right. What’s your problem?”
“I’m trying to find a cove named Severn. Tom Severn. Have you heard of him?”
“Not by that name. Tell me more about him.”
“Well, he’s an old lag, did ten years at hard, probably at Dartmoor, then went to Australia and came back fairly recently. He’s in his late thirties but looks older; tall, well set up, dark hair and rather good looking in a gypsyish way.” He glanced at Andrew. “Anything to add to that?”
“He has yellow, tigerish eyes and a bad cut on his cheek, a biggish slash.”
Beasley shook his head. “No. Haven’t seen him. What do you want him for?”
“I’d like to ask him a few questions about a murder and robbery that took place last night on Alder Road.”
“Well, I’ll pass the word, but it will probably take a little time before I can get anything for you.”
“I don’t have the time. It’s an important case and he’s the only lead I’ve got. Is there anyone who might know more about him than you?”
“I can’t think of anyone at the moment—at least anyone who’d talk to you. But … you said he had a cut on his cheek,” he said to Andrew. “Was it a new one?”
“I think so. It was still pretty red and angry looking.”
“Well, if he had someone take care of it, sew it up and all that … maybe you should talk to Doc Owen.”
“Who’s Doc Owen?”
“What kind of a copper are you? I thought you knew your London.”
“Not every part of London. Is he around here?”
“Yes.”
“I count on you to let me know about that. Tell me about him.”
“We
ll, he’s a real and rorty gent, been around here for years. He’s got a dicky leg, walks with a stick, but he’s a top-hole doc. I don’t know why he’s here instead of over on Harley or Wimpole Streets, but this is where he is, has his surgery and dispensary just a few blocks from here, up and over toward Westbourne Park.”
“Why should he know about Severn?”
“I told you why. If you go to hospital or almost any doctor with a bad cut, they’ll ask you questions about it. But not Owen. He says it’s none of his business and none of the police’s business either. He’s gotten them angry more than once for not reporting things, but they know how the people around here feel about him—if you’ve no money he doesn’t charge you, no matter what he has to do—so they leave him alone.”
“Maybe we should talk to him. He’s up the road, you say?”
“Up a few blocks, then east. Ask anyone for Doc Owen, and they’ll direct you.”
“Right. In the meantime, you’ll spread the word and let me know if you hear anything?”
“I will.”
They followed Beasley’s directions; and the change in the surroundings as they went, though gradual, was dramatic. London is made up of a whole series of small villages that are quite different from one another. Portobello Road, for instance, was very different from the respectability of St. John’s Wood; the buildings were quite shabby, the shops crowded close to one another and the street not very clean. But Portobello Road was elegant compared to the area through which they soon walked. Even Sara, who had grown up in two tiny rooms over a livery stable off Edgeware Road, was sobered by what she saw; houses, not merely dilapidated, but in the last stages of decay, with broken windows and no doors. The children who played in the street were ragged and dirty; half of them were barefoot, and all of them looked, not only hungry, but as if they had always been hungry.
At one point, unsure of the way, Wyatt asked a thin, grey-haired woman in a shawl where they could find Dr. Owen.
“Well, one day it’ll be in heaven, at the right hand of the Savior,” she said with a touch of brogue, “for it’s a saint he is, a blessed saint. But now he’s right there, in that building straight ahead.”
Though the building she pointed to needed painting, it was sounder than any around it. The three low steps had been swept, the door was solid, and next to it was a sign that said, Bruce Owen, M.D.
They went in and found themselves in a small waiting room. An old man and old woman and a young mother with an infant in her arms sat on benches against the wall. They all stared at Wyatt, Sara and Andrew.
“Were you wanting the doctor?” asked the young mother.
“Yes,” said Wyatt.
“Sister Rose’ll be out in a minute. You’ll have to talk to her first.”
“Thank you,” said Wyatt. As they started to sit down, a door opened and an elderly woman wearing rimless glasses, a grey uniform, white cap and apron came out.
“Yes?”
“I’d like to see Dr. Owen if I may,” said Wyatt.
“Morning office hours are over,” she said firmly. “Unless it’s an emergency.”
“It isn’t an emergency, but it is rather important,” said Wyatt patiently. “I don’t want to see him professionally. I merely want to talk to him for a moment.”
“About what?”
Wyatt took out a card and gave it to her.
“Scotland Yard,” she said, reading it. “The doctor doesn’t like the police much.”
“So I’ve heard. But I’d still like to talk to him.”
She looked at him sharply.
“Wait here,” she said, and went back through the door. She came out again almost immediately.
“All right. In here,” she said. Then, ironically, as Sara and Andrew started to follow him, “Are they from Scotland Yard, too?”
“No. They just came here with me. Would you rather they waited outside?”
“It doesn’t matter.” She led them down a hall, paused in front of an open door. “Inspector Wyatt,” she said, then went back to the waiting room.
A man, sitting at a desk with his back to them, turned around. He was in his late fifties, his hair was grey, and his face was lined, but he seemed alert and vigorous. Instead of the dark coat and striped trousers that were virtually a doctor’s uniform, he had on a suit of rather worn tweeds.
“Good morning, Inspector,” he said pleasantly. “What can I do for you?”
“There’s someone I’m trying to find, someone I’d like to ask a few questions, and I thought perhaps you might be able to help me.”
“Who is this person?”
“His name is Severn.”
“Tom Severn?”
“Why, yes. Do you know him?”
“Yes.”
“Would you also know where I can find him?”
“Of course. He’s here.”
“Here?”
“Yes. I’ll take you to him.” A heavy cane was hooked over the end of the desk, and the doctor used it to get to his feet, leaned on it as he limped toward the door. Sara and Andrew, self-conscious after Sister Rose’s remark, had hung back, and Dr. Owen glanced at them curiously.
“Are these young people with you?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“It’s an interesting gambit, disarming and distracting. It could make people forget who you are and what you’re after.”
“It’s not a gambit. We just happened to be visiting someone, a friend, and he suggested that you might be able to help me find Severn.”
“Really? Right.” He stumped on down the corridor. “Besides my surgery, I have a few beds here for patients who, for one reason or another, can’t go to a hospital.”
He opened a door that led into a room larger than either the waiting room or the surgery. There were half a dozen beds in it. Three were empty. An old man lay in one of the others, a three or four year old boy in a second, and in the last, the one nearest the door, was the gypsyish looking man with the yellow eyes and the slash on his cheek. His right leg was in a bulky cast that extended from the sole of his foot to his hip, all of which was raised and supported by a system of ropes and pulleys that hung from hooks in the ceiling.
“Someone here to see you, Tom,” said Dr. Owen.
“Oh? Who?
“My name’s Wyatt. I’m an inspector with the Metropolitan Police.”
“A busy, eh?” Severn looked at him more closely. “I’ve seen you before.”
“Yes. At The Red Lion in St. John’s Wood.”
“That’s right. You were with the pukka sergeant with the ramrod up his back. What’s his name—Polk?”
“Yes.”
“How is the old blodger?”
“He’s dead.”
“What?” Severn stiffened, looked sharply at Wyatt, at the doctor, then turned back to Wyatt. “Is that what you want to talk to me about?”
“One of the things, yes.”
“When did he die? And how?”
“I’ve answered quite a few of your questions. Do you mind if I ask you a few?”
“No.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Broken leg. Right, Doc?”
Owen, leaning on his stick in the doorway, nodded. “Compound fractures of both the tibia and the fibula.”
“How did it happen?”
“I was kicked by a horse.”
“Where was this?”
“Over near Paddington.”
“How did it happen?”
“I was pegging a hack when the horse started limping. I got down to see if he’d picked up a stone and he lashed out at me.”
“Are you a licensed cab driver?”
“No. I’m a buck.”
“How did you get here?”
“One of the cabbies on the line brought me. He wanted to take me to St. Mary’s, but I don’t like hospitals so I said no. I knew Doc Owen—he’d stitched my face up—so I told him to bring me here.”
“When was this?”
“You mean, when did it happen? Oh, about nine-thirty last night.”
Wyatt turned to Owen. “Is that true, Doctor?”
“I don’t know precisely when it happened, but … Sister Rose,” he called. “Will you bring me the admissions register?”
“Yes, Doctor.” She came down the hall carrying a large book bound in grey cloth. Owen took it and, leaning against the door jamb, began turning the pages. He did it rather awkwardly, and Andrew noticed that he was left-handed.
“Here we are,” said Owen. “He was admitted at ten minutes after ten.”
He handed the book to Wyatt, who looked at the entry he pointed to, then at the entries before and after it, then gave it back.
“Do you usually see patients that late, Doctor?”
“It’s well after my regular office hours, but I live upstairs so that, in an emergency, I can be reached at any time.”
“I see. Well, thank you very much, Doctor. I’m sorry to have troubled you.” If Wyatt was disappointed, there was no sign of it in his manner. “You too, Severn.”
“That’s all right,” said Severn. “Now will you tell me what happened to old Polk? And when?”
“He was struck on the head and killed a little after three o’clock in the morning.”
“You mean this morning?”
“Yes.”
Severn whistled softly. “I never expected I’d think breaking a leg was lucky, but maybe it was.”
“Yes, maybe. Thank you again, Doctor.”
“Not at all.”
Sara and Andrew, who had been waiting just outside the open door, followed Wyatt down the corridor and through the waiting room. It was only when they were outside that the inspector’s feelings became evident in his scowl and the way he walked.
“Then that’s that,” said Sara. “He couldn’t have done it.”
“Not with a double compound fracture of the leg, no.”
“What’s a buck?” asked Andrew.
“An unlicensed cab driver. Licensed cab drivers are allowed to hire them as substitutes for up to twenty-four hours. He can’t be a licensed cabby because he’s been in jail.”
“Oh. What are you going to do now?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you must know,” said Sara.
“Do you really think that’s the way it happens?” he asked, smiling painfully. “That when a lead ends nowhere, we immediately pick up another one and go off like a pack of hounds? It isn’t. All you can do, when you’re on a case, is list all the things you want to know and start trying to find out what you can about each of them.”
The Case of the Somerville Secret Page 4