The Case of the Somerville Secret

by Robert Newman

  “I see. Do you know why he closed Greyhurst and moved in to London?”

  “I think I have some idea. It’s a sad story. And what makes it worse is that we always thought of the Randalls as a lucky family.”

  “The Randalls?” said Sara.

  “Randall is the family name,” explained Wyatt. “Somerville is the title.”

  “It’s Lord Somerville of Greyhurst,” said Lowrie. “As I said, we always thought of them as lucky. The present Lord Somerville’s father died peacefully at a good age, and he himself had a very good marriage. Then suddenly everything changed.”

  “How?”

  “He married Lord Barham’s daughter. After the marriage, he made only one trip to Mesopotamia or wherever he goes and her ladyship went with him. When they came back, it was clear that she was going to have a child.”

  “When was this?”

  “Oh, fifteen, sixteen years ago, the year we had that terrible winter. In February, during the worst storm of the year, she had the child. By all reports, she had a very hard time of it. His Lordship had gone into London, couldn’t get back, and Dr. Roberts, who had been taking care of her, had a great deal of trouble getting to Greyhurst. By the time he did, the child had been born, and shortly after that, right after Lord Somerville got home, her ladyship died.”

  “I see. That is sad. Was the child all right?”

  “Why, yes. So far as I know. It was a boy, and they named him Alfred, his grandfather’s name. Abby Severn took care of him.”

  “Is that Mrs. Severn?”

  “Yes. She was a local girl, Abby Diggs she was till she got married. She’d come to Greyhurst early on to help out because she was having a child, too. But her child died, and so she stayed on and nursed the boy, Alfred.”

  “She must have done more than act as nurse,” said Wyatt. “She’s still with Somerville in London, acting as his housekeeper.”

  “I’m not surprised. His lordship thought a great deal of her, pretty well left her in charge when he went away. And he was away most of the time from then on.”

  “Where’s the boy now?” asked Andrew. “Somerville’s son?”

  “At a school in Switzerland. At least, that’s what I heard. And I believe that’s why he closed Greyhurst. He got rid of most of the staff here after her ladyship died—I guess he couldn’t bear to stay here—or even in England, for that matter. And then, about five years ago, when the boy went to Switzerland, he took a place in London.”

  “And now he’s about to move to Paris,” said Wyatt.

  “Well, he would be closer to Switzerland there than in London,” said Andrew.

  “That’s true,” said Wyatt. “And he also claimed he had been doing a good deal of work with a French Assyriologist. But …”

  They had been driving along a lane since shortly after they left the station, a narrow lane lined with hedges that were just beginning to bud. Now they came out of the lane, and there was a wall to their right, meadows to their left. Sara had been strangely silent during the drive and, looking at her, Andrew realized that though she may have been listening to everything that was said—city girl that she was—she had also been fascinated by her surroundings; the hedges alive with nesting birds and now the green fields with the cattle in them. Then, as a lark flew up and burst into song, “Coo!” she said. “What’s that?”

  “Skylark,” said Andrew. “Isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” said Lowrie. “Some think they’ve got the prettiest song of any bird. Myself, I’ve always been partial to blackbirds.”

  He drew up in front of a pair of closed iron gates. There was a stone lodge just inside them.

  “If you don’t mind waiting a minute, I’ll go have a word with old Duncan.”

  He handed Wyatt the reins, got down from the trap and went over to the gate. A white-haired man with chin whiskers came out of the lodge and nodded to Lowrie.

  “What’s that?” asked Sara, pointing to a shield-shaped carving cut into the wall to the right of the gate.

  “The Somerville coat of arms,” said Wyatt. “Azure, three acorns gold and two rondels in the chief.”

  “But azure’s blue, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. A coat of arms is meant to be painted on a shield. If it were painted, the background would be blue and the three acorns below and the two circles above would be gold.”

  “You do know a lot, don’t you?”

  “Not really. I’ve just been doing a little research on the Randalls. They’re an old and quite famous family.”

  The white-haired man had been looking at them through the fretted ironwork of the gates. Finally he nodded, took a large key out of his pocket, unlocked the gates and pulled them open.

  “I was right,” said Lowrie, climbing back into the trap. “He says he can’t let us into the house without instructions from his lordship, but that it’s all right if we drive around the grounds. Will that be of any help?”

  “It’s better than nothing,” said Wyatt. “If I feel it’s necessary, I’ll come back with a letter from Somerville.”

  Lowrie shook the reins and sent the horse trotting past the gate house and up the drive, which was lined with huge trees—elms and oaks and beeches. Though there was no longer any resident staff, arrangements must have been made for workmen to come in and tend the grounds, for the underbrush had been cut and in general what they could see looked cared for. This was not true of the house when they finally reached it. It was a huge building, built of grey stone with deep-set windows and a heavy wooden door studded and reinforced with iron bands. Its shutters were closed, and the ivy that covered most of the walls was beginning to spread over the windows. The grounds that they had come through had not only been cared for but were very much alive; rabbits had run across the drive in front of them, squirrels chattered in the trees and birds flew overhead. But there was no sound or sense of life in the house. Still and brooding, it was like a place under a spell.

  “I’m glad we can’t get in,” said Sara. “It would scare the wits out of me.”

  “I’m not sure I’d like it much myself,” said Lowrie.

  Wyatt got out of the trap and walked away from the building, looking up at the facade from the far side of the driveway.

  “Do you know the place well?” he asked Lowrie.

  “Well, no. I’ve only been in it a few times, and I’ve never been all through it. Why?”

  “What are those rooms up there?” he asked, pointing to some windows at the left-hand side of an upper story.

  “Let’s see,” said Lowrie. “The kitchen’s on that side, in the back. The next floor’s bedrooms. I think those were Master Alfred’s quarters, the nursery and school room.”

  “Then why are there bars on the windows?”

  “Bars? Where?” Lowrie joined Wyatt on the far side of the driveway. “Strange. I never noticed them before. They were probably put there to keep the children from falling out. After all, the windows are up pretty high.”

  “Yes, they are,” said Wyatt. He looked at the building again, then said, “I think I’ve seen enough for the time being. If there’s anything else I want to look at, I’ll come back.”

  “Righto,” said Lowrie.

  They got back into the trap, Lowrie shook the reins and the horse trotted on along the driveway, circling around and going out toward the gate.

  “You said Mrs. Severn was a local woman,” said Wyatt. “Was her husband local, too?”

  “Sixty? Yes, he was.”

  “Was that his name, Sixty? I thought it was Tom.”

  “His proper name was Tom, but he was known as Sixty—don’t ask me why, because I don’t know.”

  “What kind of person was he?”

  “What kind? The kind we can do without!”

  “You knew him well?”

  “The only ones who knew him better were our magistrates and the wardens at various clinks. My father had him up for poaching when he was sixteen. He was sent away twice after that, and of course he en
ded up at Dartmoor after he’d been found guilty of robbery and assault.”

  “Yes, I know about that. But then why did Abby Diggs marry him?”

  “Well, he was a good looking man in his own gypsy way and, in the beginning, she must have thought he was just wild, not bad. Like most women, she must have thought she could get him to change, reform. By the time she found out the truth, she had to marry him. Not that he ever saw his child. It was born after Sixty was sent away.”

  “What happened to the child?”

  “He died just before the Somerville child was born. That was one of the reasons Abby was able to nurse young Alfred. Not that she wouldn’t have been able to nurse both of them if her own child had lived. A strong young woman she was.”

  “And still is.”

  “Has any of this been of any help to you?”

  “I’m not sure, but I think perhaps it has. There’s one more thing I’d like to do while I’m down here and that’s talk to the doctor who attended Lady Somerville. You said his name was Roberts?”

  “Yes. But I’m afraid you won’t be able to. He’s not here anymore.”

  “Oh? Where is he?”

  “I don’t know. I said it was a sad story as far as the Randalls were concerned. But I’m afraid it was sad for the doctor, too. Not that he hadn’t been having a certain amount of trouble anyway. His wife ran off and left him—they say she found the life out here too lonely—and that was a bad blow to him. He was a bit queer after that, and people thought maybe he was taking laudanum—not that there was ever a sign of it in his work: he was still a very good doctor, the best around here. But right after the Randall baby was born, he had a bad accident—as I said, it was one of the worst winters anyone remembers, lots of snow and ice. His carriage turned over and hurt his legs so that he could hardly walk after that. That made it difficult for him to carry on a country practice, so he sold out and left.”

  “And went where?”

  “I’m not really sure—either Canada or South Africa. Out of the country anyway.”

  “I see. Too bad. Then I guess that’s that. The next item on the agenda is lunch. Is there any place near here that you’d recommend?”

  “Well, The Barley Mow near the station does one pretty well.”

  “Good. You’ll join us of course.”

  “That’s kind of you, Inspector. Thank you.”

  Lowrie drove them to the inn, which was just a short distance from the station, and had lunch with them. It was a very good lunch; veal and ham pies all around, with ale for Wyatt and Lowrie and ginger beer for Sara and Andrew. Wyatt kept Lowrie talking all through lunch—about the Randalls and the area around Ansley Cross in general—and Sara and Andrew kept discreetly silent. It was only after Lowrie had driven them to the station, had been thanked and left, that Wyatt turned to them and said, “Well, chums, any thoughts?”

  “A few,” said Sara.

  “For instance?”

  “Those bars on the windows of young Alfred’s rooms. When you want to make sure that a child won’t fall out, don’t you run the bars across—and then only part way up—instead of all the way up and down?”

  “Usually. There’s a curious parallel between those windows and the ones Andrew reported seeing in the small house inside the grounds on Alder Road.”

  “That’s what I thought,” said Andrew. “Does all that make things any clearer to you?”

  “Let’s say it’s given me a good deal more to think about—which is sometimes a help. I think I should have another talk with Mrs. Severn. And perhaps with the injured Sixty, too.”

  “It just occurred to me that someone else it might be interesting to talk to is Pierre.”

  “Who’s Pierre?”

  Andrew told him. Wyatt vaguely remembered seeing a chimney sweep and his boy when they left the pub after their meeting with Polk, but he had not seen them join Severn. He was quite interested in that, and even more interested in what had happened the next morning, the fact that the chimney sweep had been in the crowd when Polk had talked to the constable about the dog that had been killed.

  “How do you know that the boy’s name is Pierre?” he asked.

  Sara told that part of it; of how the butcher’s boy and the others had been baiting Pierre and Andrew had intervened, talked to him and learned that he was French.

  “What’s he doing here?” asked Wyatt. “How did he get here?”

  “We don’t know,” said Andrew. “The sweep came along and took him away before he could tell us.”

  “I see. Yes, it would be interesting to talk to him. I don’t suppose you know where we can get hold of him.”

  “No. He knows where we live, but …”

  “How does he know that?”

  Sara told him about the stable boy who had recognized them, mentioned where they lived, and how Pierre had repeated it as he was leaving.

  “Well, it’s not likely that he’ll come looking for you,” said Wyatt. “But after what you’ve told me about him, it might be worth while trying to find him.”

  6

  Looking for Pierre

  “I’ve been thinking,” said Sara.

  “About what?”

  “About Pierre. Why was the inspector so anxious to find him?”

  “Because, if that scarecrow of a chimney sweep he works for is a friend of Severn’s, Pierre just might know something that could be useful.”

  “That’s what I thought,” said Sara. “And I’ve an idea about how I might find him. Pierre, I mean.”

  Andrew looked at her. It was early afternoon on the day after their trip down to Ansley Cross, and they were out on the lawn in back of the house playing badminton.

  “Just you?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’ll try and talk me out of it.”

  “I’d only do that if what you were going to do was dangerous.”

  “It’s not. But you might not like it for other reasons.”

  “What other reasons?”

  “I’m not going to say because then you’d probably guess, and I don’t care if you like it or not because I think I should do it and, with Mum and Fred both going to be away, this is the perfect time for it.”

  “Well, I don’t know if that’s what you intended, but you’ve certainly got me intrigued.”

  “That’s good. Then you won’t try to stop me?”

  “Could I?”

  “Well, you could kind of spoil things by insisting on coming along.”

  “You mean it’s something you’ve got to do alone?”

  “Yes. But I’ll make a deal with you. You can come along if you keep far enough away so that no one’ll know you’re with me.”

  Andrew hesitated, bouncing the shuttlecock on his racket.

  “All right. Sold to the lady in blue. When do we start?”

  “As soon as Mum and Fred go. In the meantime, let’s play. What’s the score?”

  “Eleven to nine. I’m serving.”

  He stepped back, batted the shuttlecock over the high net, and she hit it back, placing it so that he had to race to get it. She may not have played cricket or rugger—no girls did—but anything she did play, like badminton, she played hard and well. He had lost the serve, and they were ten to eleven when Fred drove the landau out of the stable and around to the front of the house.

  They followed and were standing there when Mrs. Wiggins came out. She was going to Peter Robinson’s on Oxford Street to buy linens for the house. They were badly needed but, even though Andrew’s mother had been urging her to get them for some time, she had insisted on waiting until they were on sale. This of course was one of the reasons she was such a splendid housekeeper, something everyone knew she was except Mrs. Wiggins herself.

  “How do I look?” she asked.

  She was wearing her best dress and a hat and coat that Andrew’s mother had given her and looked,
not just respectable, but quite distinguished.

  “You look fine, Mum.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “You do, Mrs. Wiggins,” said Andrew. “You look really handsome.”

  “I don’t want to look handsome. I just want to look all right. But if you think I do …” She got into the landau; Fred closed the door and climbed up to the box. “I’ll see you at about tea time.”

  “Yes, mum. Goodbye.”

  They watched the carriage go down the driveway and turn right toward Wellington Road.

  “Now what?” asked Andrew.

  “I have to get some things from the house. Wait for me in the stable.”

  Andrew stopped in the kitchen, got some carrots and was feeding them to the grey hunter that shared the stable with the carriage horses when Sara entered.

  “What have you got there?” Andrew asked, looking at the bundle she was carrying.

  “Clothes. I didn’t want to change in the house because I didn’t want anyone asking me questions. But if you’ll wait out in the mews, I’ll be with you in a couple of minutes.”

  “Right.”

  “And remember, you can follow me if you like, but don’t talk to me or do anything that will let anyone know you know me.”

  “Right,” he said again and went through the stable and out the back way that led to the mews. He walked up the alley toward Alder Road and paused at the entrance to the last stable, the one that belonged to the Marchioness of Medford. Her coachman was sitting just inside the door mending a harness strap. He was a friend of Fred’s and a cricket buff, and he and Andrew immediately got into an argument about England’s chances against the visiting Australian team. Andrew was baiting him into offering fairly long odds on the Australians, and had gotten him to three-to-one, when someone walked by behind him. He looked over his shoulder, saw that it was a dirty-faced ragamuffin of a girl and was going on with his discussion when something about her caught his attention, he looked again and saw that it was Sara.

  Closing the bet with the coachman, Andrew excused himself and went after her. She turned left on Alder Road, walking toward the Somerville house, and he followed some distance behind her. Even studying her closely, he found it difficult to tell what she had done to make herself look so different. Granted that her dress was old and torn, in much worse condition than the one she had worn when he had first met her. And granted that the shoes she was wearing were not her own—they were much too large—and that her face was dirty and her hair unkempt, there was still something else. And it was only when she rang the bell of the service door at the Somerville house that he realized what it was. It was the way she walked and carried herself; half awkward and defensive, and half impudent and ready to battle against any slight or slur. Like a first-rate actress, she had completely become the character she was playing; in this case, a slovenly street urchin.